Amaryllis. With a name like that, I should have known she was destined for stardom — but who could have anticipated any such thing on the Christmas morning that she arrived on my doorstep?
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man
When Winter White Goes Green
As the February snow melts and re-freezes, taking on the look and sound of carved Styrofoam, Long Island elected officials are scrambling to come up with answers for how municipalities so badly handled snow removal. There is talk of contracts, lack of direction, an overwhelming amount of snow, and the resignation of one highway supervisor — so much talk, in fact, that it’s all starting to sound like a snow job as historical as the blizzard itself.
If only they had paid more attention to “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” There always seemed to be snow falling on the other side of the massive window in Mary’s adorable apartment — you know, the one on the top floor of Phyllis’s house. I often dreamt that I would like to live in Mary’s apartment — if only to have Rhoda as a friend.
Walking In A Winter Blunderland
The same bench from previous post.
Yesterday, I was humming Christmas carols. Today, my lyrics sound more like this:
“There’s got to be a morning after, if we can hold on through the night
We have a chance to find the sunshine; let’s keep on looking for the light.
Oh, can’t you see the morning after? It’s waiting right outside the storm.
Why don’t we cross the bridge together and find a place that’s safe and warm?”
Snow Falling On . . . Well . . . Everything!
Snow falling on the bench.
I arrived home from work today, just in time for the opening volley of a February blizzard. Like a good blogger, I grabbed the camera, ventured out into the 1″ of snow, took some photos, and hummed a few songs to myself — songs better suited for Christmas.
Wish I Was There . . . Again (Part 2)
A few posts ago, I shared some garden travel photos that I had found in a box in the attic. They were from a time when photos were developed on film, the sort of pictures you could touch and flip through to relive the moments caught.
Today, however, I’m doing some digital cleaning. There may not be any flipping through pictures, but there is clicking through snapshots of vacations gone by.
While I certainly love the hefty feel of an open photo album across my lap, any kind of photo can re-ignite the senses from a captured piece of time. A picture is worth a thousand words, but so too is a pixel.
Like the photo above, for example, which was taken at the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. Each time I see this photo, I can imagine trysts and stolen kisses, plots and deceit — all hidden from view by the thick greenery . . .
But I’m jumping ahead. I wanted to save the Spain photos for the end of this post.
Our first stop, then, is a brief stop in the southern United States.
The Giveaway Goes To . . .
At last, we have arrived at the big reveal — the announcement of the winner of Margaret Roach’s most excellent book, The Backyard Parables. So without any further delay, the book goes to . . .
Now did you really think I would jump right in with the winner’s name? Not only am I nitty and gritty, I’m also wordy — and a post just wouldn’t be complete unless I added a few hundred words of my own (as well as a few photos, each one dedicated to a season in my garden in honor of the chapters in Parables).
Book Review & Giveaway: The Backyard Parables
Parable is one of those Old — no, make that Ancient World words. Just saying it conjures up an image of a toga-ed philosopher sitting on the steps of the Parthenon, eager and inquisitive students kneeling and sitting and catching each one of his words.
That’s kind of how I felt as I read Margaret Roach’s newest book, The Backyard Parables. Okay, it wasn’t a toga party, but I could certainly imagine gardeners arriving from far and wide to her rural New York State garden — gathering about her as she shares the wit and wisdom of her words. (Note to self: find out Margaret’s Open Garden Day schedule.)
Margaret & Me & A Cup Of Tea
Margaret Roach. For years it was just a name, one that I had seen in the masthead or the editorial pages of Martha Stewart Living. Occasionally, it appeared at the bottom of the television as I watched Martha’s show, an identifier of the woman sitting next to the host.
Yes, Margaret Roach was just a name.
When I started this blog, I also learned of the top gardening blog in America, A Way to Garden — and once again, I was staring at that same name: Margaret Roach. Maybe, I thought, there was a reason her name kept entering my world — and maybe, it was time to discover if there was more to Margaret than a name.
Margaret Roach: My New BFF (If Only In My Mind)
When I was in high school and sitting in math class, I noticed that someone who had class in the same room during another period — most likely a girl because of the large rounded, bubbly print — had written two letters on the desk: Hi. So I wrote back — and soon, our shared desktop was covered with a conversation. Then, one day, she wrote her name: Kim.
My friends, adolescent testosterone and nerd-ness surging through their bodies, were jealous and full of fantastical ideas. “What do you mean you don’t know who Kim is?” one of them asked — and he then proceeded to fill me in on the deeds, the actions, the beauty, and the popularity of the notorious Kim.
At the end of the school year, as I was unpacking my locker, Kim passed by and I said, “Um, Kim? Hi. I’m Kevin, the guy from the desk in math class.”
Wish I Was There . . . Again (Part 1)
There was a time when cameras used film, and that film had to be brought to a photo developing retail outlet, and that outlet would print your photos and supply a free second set. One set for the photo album; another set for . . . well, I guess, a box.
That’s the box I recently came across while in the attic — for Joe and me, that’s 25 years of negatives and photos of vacations gone by, and so many “ahhhhh” moments captured — the sort of moments that begin with a single picture and then goes something like this, “Remember when we. . . and that’s when . . . and we saw . . . “
Soon, the moments are stitched together, like a verbal photo album.
In the photo above, Joe and I were driving through the heart of Sicily in search of the village from where my maternal great-grandfather began his journey to America. At one point, there was a curve in the road and a view of the valley, orderly rows of olive trees caught in a game of hide-and-seek sunlight.
Join me as I take a walk down memory lane, or, rather, down the global garden path . . .
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 