My small hibiscus bloomed in time for the New Year.
Such a simple sentence to start this convoluted story of a shrub.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man
My Nativity Story
Despite the hectic pace of the holiday season — and the to-do lists that seem to grow with each passing day — there is one Christmas tradition that I eagerly anticipate: becoming re-acquainted with the decorations.
A White Christmas — Sort Of
I’d like to say that I sprang from my bed and that away to the window I flew like a flash. Springing from my bed hardly happens these days. There’s a lot of stretching and cracks and creaks that must happen before I can even think of springing.
Repost: And So This Is Christmas
In the wake of the Paris shooting, I posted about not wanting to leave my garden. And now, with the shooting massacre in San Bernardino, CA, I may never want to leave my garden. Ever.
We’ll Always Have Paris
These days, I find that I need a garden more than ever. It’s the one place that makes sense to me on days that no longer make sense. It’s the one place where I can find comfort on those days when I’m overwhelmingly sad — and these are those days.
Paris. Mali. Beirut. Kenya. Syria. A barren stretch of the Egyptian desert.
These days, there is so much sadness — and I find myself wondering: what is it with humans? I mean, I understand my plants, but I really don’t get people.
When Life Gives You Coconuts. . .
If it’s one thing I have plenty of, it’s coconuts. In my tiny yard, there are 12 coconut-producing palms — and because coconut palms are always producing coconuts, you could say that I have a lovely and large bunch of them.
But when is a coconut not a coconut?
Falling On My Head Like A Memory
My grandmother hated Florida — and she had no problem saying so. Just mention the Sunshine State and she’d routinely offer, without any coaxing, the following words.
“I hate Florida,” she’d say. “It rains on one side of the street, but not the other.”
My grandmother, by the way, never traveled to Florida. Never. Ever. All my she knew came courtesy of my grandfather, who did some basic training there before shipping off to Europe during World War II.
The Art Of Fern Dancing
Simply put, I’m a fern fan.
I love the way their fiddleheads appear in spring, the graceful uncurling, and the slow, almost teasing reveal of the finely cut fronds. Let’s face it: ferns are the dancers of the garden, ballet and burlesque all at once.
Wordless Wednesday: The Visitor
A few words for Wordless Wednesday. . .
It always amazes me how wildlife finds a garden. It’s kind of like Field of Dreams — if you plant it, they will come.
We Are A Part Of A Hyphen Nation
This is one of those posts written at 3:00 am. I have a head cold and I’m awake. I couldn’t breathe — the congestion tide rolled back up into my sinuses and the only cure for me at the moment was gravity. So, I’m sitting up and thinking — and these are the middle-of-the-night ramblings of a stuffy, sleepy me.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 