Humor

Lily’s Grand Opening

/ Kevin / 4 Comments

"The stars are ageless, aren't they?"

Let me first begin by saying that this is not the post that I had planned — but some plants tend to be divas.  My initial idea was to give you a “Bloomin’ Update,” with a series of photos documenting the opening of a lily.  My one and only lily that hasn’t been seen in years.  To use a film reference, this lily is my very own Norma Desmond of Sunset Boulevard fame. 

This post actually began long ago, well before there was a blog.  I had planted three lilies in what I will call the perennial garden.  In fact, the perennial garden was really my first attempt at gardening, and I felt the need to fill it with as many flowers as I could order, purchase, find, borrow, root.  There was really no rhyme or reason.  Regardless, the lilies bloomed beautifully, but their perfume was overpowering.  At times, I wasn’t sure if I was smelling my yard or the funeral home that backs against the woods behind my property. 

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Moss Rose, By Any Other Name . . .

/ Kevin / 8 Comments

Unplanned Portulaca crowds out the planned Geranium.

A few posts ago, I wrote about gardening as a natural surprise party and my belief that my plants actually get together and come up with creative ways to entertain me and, well, surprise me — popping up in places where they had not been planted, blooming in different colors than were purchased or planned. But if I had to pick one plant as the organizer of all this guerilla gardening, it would have to be Moss Rose, or as I love to say, Portulaca.

It’s actually a fun name to say, like Dahlia or Liriope. Pour-tchew-lack-uh. Sometimes I think it could be the name of a Native American guide leading early explorers westward or a wife of Caesar. Maybe it’s a resort, kind of like, “We’re taking a ride up to Lake Portulaca for the weekend.” Or maybe it’s the closest I come to referring to any of my plants by its proper Latin name.

No matter what it’s called, though, Portulaca has been very, very good to me.

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Bloomin’ Update 4: Surprise!

/ Kevin / 2 Comments

Generally speaking, I don’t like surprises.  I tend to get embarrassed by the effort that people put forth, not to mention having to be the center of attention.  As a kid, I would duck under the kitchen table when my family sang “Happy Birthday” to me — a moment my family will still remind me of no matter whose birthday it happens to be.

There are, though, only two surprises that I can take.  The first is a Joe surprise, one where he plans out a day-long adventure.  I am only told to be ready to leave by a certain time, and then off we go to our destination.  I think Joe has as much fun giving me clues as I have trying to guess the destination.

The second surprise comes from my plants.  I imagine them putting their colorful heads together and coming up with creative ways to entertain me and keep me on my toes.  

A few posts ago about gardening quotes, I credited my friend and co-worker, Alisa, with this one: “Gardening is like a natural suprise party.”  Although we laughed when she uttered this about 15 years ago, I catch myself saying it over and over, sometimes weekly, sometimes daily.  It has become a mantra of sorts, something to keep me from stressing out when I spot something growing that I never planned.

If you would like to see a few pictures from this year’s surprise party, just click on the “Continue Reading” link.

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Bloomin’ Update 2: Delightful Daylilies Dazzle Daily

/ Kevin / 6 Comments

A few years ago, I purchased Little Grapette. This one bloomed and it's clearly not a Little Grapette, but who cares?

A few years ago, I began to toy with daylilies — or rather, daylilies began to toy with me.

As a child, I remember seeing orange daylilies everywhere.  Yard after yard was filled with their stalks and their orange gift at the end.  After the bloom, it was nothing but blades of foliage.  In my mind, they were ordinary.

About 17 years ago, I happened to be watching Martha Stewart’s original television show and on it, she profiled Sydney Eddison.  My memory of that segment is of the two women — Martha

At last, Little Grapette makes an appearance.

towering above the older Ms. Eddison — walking through the guest’s daylily border.  I believe the segment was timed quite nicely with a daylily spread in Martha’s magazine.  I remember being stunned by the variety of color, heights, and bloom times.  These were not  your grandmother’s daylilies.  I was sold. Continue reading →

Do You Suffer From G-SAD?

/ Kevin / 18 Comments

I have done what every therapist and doctor advises people not to do.  I have self-diagnosed, but let me first explain.

It’s summertime, and Joe and I are going on vacation for a few days.  It’s a chance to relax, to get away from everything, to reconnect, to breathe.  In actuality, though, the days leading up to departure mean a growing sense of unease and worry.  I become consumed with obsessive thoughts, anxiety, and stress — and none of it comes from the what-to-pack, what-not-to-pack scenario, nor from the airport pat-down, nor from who will mind the dog and the cat, nor from the last-second question, “Did I remember to take my trusted Swiss army knife out of my carry-on?”  No.  For me, the physical-emotional symptoms stem from leaving my garden and entrusting its care to someone other than myself.  I am now calling these symptoms Garden Separation Anxiety Disorder, also known as G-SAD, as in, “Gee, that’s sad.”

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Celebrating The Good Old Summer Time

/ Kevin / 2 Comments

Aaaahhhh.  The Summer Solstice.  For me, it’s a reminder of just how little we are.  Just think about it.  As we go about our ordinary lives, our giant orb revolves and rotates in a celestial dance, rewarding northerners with the longest day and shortest night.  (Of course, the pessimist in me says, “Great, now the days start to get shorter, the nights longer, and winter is just around the corner.”  Quite a jump, I know.) 

The Three Village Garden Club held their judged flower show at the Neighborhood House in Setauket, Long Island.

In any event, it’s no wonder that ancient Druids to modern-day beachgoers celebrate this day.  That’s why I took up my friend Rachel’s invitation to attend a judged flower show, hosted by her Three Village Garden Club on Long Island and scheduled to coincide with the Summer Solstice.

Although I do consider myself a gardener, I am of the backyard variety.  Garden club members, though, are a whole other breed of gardener.  I mean, I like to garden, usually for myself and Joe.  Garden club members take it to a competitive level, and the Three Village Garden Club is no exception.  These gardeners know latin and common names, and they carefully drive their entries, each in small glass vases, to the competition.  I get upset when my grocery bag with the milk falls over when I make a left turn — can you imagine if my hydrangea entry took a spill?

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Here’s One For Dad

/ Kevin / 6 Comments

A few posts ago, I wrote about mowing the lawn and now that it’s Father’s Day, I’d like to revisit it. 

My father is the one who taught me how to mow the lawn.  It was an orange, gas-powered model, and my father taught me how to pull the cord, adjust the throttle, pour the gas, and the all-important mowing pattern.  The idea was to mow the perimeter, and then to continue in smaller and smaller circles until  I reached the middle of the yard.  In reality, it was a rite of passage; a passing of the torch.

My mother and my father had different approaches to gardening.  My mother planted flowers and filled pots and worked at making the yard and home look pretty and appealing.  My father, on the other hand, was the gardener.  He did the digging and turning of soil.  He pruned the trees and shrubs, including the blue hydrangea in the backyard.  This is still a sore point, because it never rebounded.  It may be why I’m hesitant to cut any of my own hydrangeas.  I know there are those that bloom on old wood, and those that bloom on new wood — but for me, there will be no hydrangea pruning, thank you very much.

My father organized and planted the family’s vegetable garden.  It was filled with tomatoes, carrots, pole beans, bush beans and so much more.  What my father didn’t realize is that he planted more than vegetables in that garden.  It was the family garden, our garden, and each one of us participated in the planting and caring of our small home garden.  We weeded and harvested and told Dad of any pests that were getting too comfortable in it.  And although it was small, for us it was “the lower forty.”

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No Sunflowers, Ever!

/ Kevin / 14 Comments

In my last post, I made brief mention of my Mommie Dearest moment — a not-so-proud incident that clearly illustrated the ugly and, yes, comedic side of gardening.  I had asked people to remind me to tell the story, and they have.  So here it is.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, in a backyard not so far away, there lived a young gardener, me.  Joe and I had recently purchased his parents’ home, and the yard presented us with a blank canvas.  I had always enjoyed gardening as a kid, but that was usually relegated to the family’s vegetable plot.  Now, I had a whole yard and a big vision and no money.  The layout in the back was pretty basic.  There was a large built-in pool with red and green patio blocks surrounding it.  To the east, there was an area of pebbles and stones, and this led to a small lawn.  The rocks were held in place by a low wall of cinder blocks, all placed on their sides.

I decided to start small one year, and I planted marigolds in each of the cinder block openings.  They did quite well, thriving on neglect and heat.  The following year, though, I saw on Martha Stewart’s early television show that she grew gigantic sunflowers and would harvest her own home-grown sunflower seeds.  Then, in true Martha-style, she would even hang some of the flower heads in the trees to feed birds and squirrels.  The whole idea sounded like an eco-friendly winner.

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No Plant Left Behind

/ Kevin / 9 Comments

Rudy -- the movie.

I have always been a sucker for the underdog.  In the movies, I love the story where the weakling, the geek, the wallflower, the fill-in-the-blank, comes of age, achieves self-realization, and conquers against all odds.  It’s like in the film Rudy, in which Daniel Ruettiger is told that he is too small to play football for the University of Notre Dame.  Everyone has to root for the guy.  That’s probably part of the reason I chose my profession, school social work.  You really can’t ever give up.  You just have to keep finding new ways to help, so that everyone can have their moment when they can be hoisted onto the team’s shoulders.

The same philosophy has followed me into the garden.  As soon as seeds begin to sprout in the greenhouse or ground, the experts say it’s time to weed out any plants that are not keeping up.  Huh???  Doesn’t everyone need a chance or two or three?  Maybe some plants are slow growers.  Maybe they need some extra time to reach their full potential.  Maybe they could flourish with some differentiated propagation.

Believe me, I am no Mother Teresa of the yard.  I have had my moments when I have lost it with a plant.  Remind me to tell you about the sunflowers and the squirrels — definitely a Mommie Dearest moment.  It’s just that there are times, many times, when I attribute human emotions to plants.  Who wants to have a legacy of never bloomed?

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A Bird In The Head Is Worth. . .

/ Kevin / 25 Comments

A lot has been written here and on other blogs about the peace and tranquility of gardening.   But let me tell you, there’s some stress growing out there.  Am I watering too much or not enough?  Too much sun?  Just how dappled should dappled shade be?  Who will water while I’m away? 

And if that weren’t enough worries to cloud my sunny day, now it’s this.  There is a bird’s nest in one of the white pines that line the back of my property.  Very early in my gardening life, I realized that I was creating my own ecosystem.  As soon as everything bloomed, it seemed my yard became a resort for butterflies and bees and even a praying mantis.

But now there is a bird’s nest.  Blue Jays to be exact.  What’s surprising is that the nest is only about 7 feet off the ground, so Joe and I can get a pretty clear look at the goings on.  And if we can, so too can the local varmints.  Now, I’m on guard for any intruders.  I am like a mother hen, although I haven’t quite perfected the whole regurgitation of food thing.  But when Mom and Dad are away gathering food for the youngins, I feel obligated to bird sit.

I happen to like birds.  I especially like hearing them when I spend some time in the yard in the early morning hours.  But if truth be told, I’m also a little bit edgy around them.  I wouldn’t call it a fear of birds — it’s more like a fear of getting hit in the head with one.  I can hear you saying, “Kevin, how common can that be?”  In my world, it’s pretty common.  My head has been a bird target — not a bird poop target, but an actual bird target — three times!

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