inspiration

Nana’s Tree, 1966 – 2013

/ Kevin / 34 Comments

Joe's Mom waters Nana's tree when it was a baby.

Joe’s Mom waters Nana’s tree when it was a baby.

Nana’s tree, a blue spruce, was brought down this past weekend after a life that was long and well-lived, a life that provided shade and shelter to family and countless birds and squirrels.

These were the words that started to come to mind as I watched the men of the cutting crew strategize how to remove something in less than an hour, something that took Nature nearly 50 years to grow, something that was selected by Joe’s grandmother when his family first moved to Long Island and which remained after Joe and I purchased the house.  I was reminded of my mother’s annual Thanksgiving comment: “It takes so long to prepare everything, but it’s over so quickly.”

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So That’s Where Baby Hydrangeas Come From!

/ Kevin / 40 Comments

Bee 4

I remember the day I first learned about the birds and the bees, which — surprise — really had nothing to do with birds and bees.

I was watching an afternoon rerun of “Marcus Welby, M.D.” with my mother, and the episode focused on a patient with an STD, only it was called VD at the time.  My father walked in at that moment and asked if I knew what that meant.

“Um, yeah?” I said, unsure if the question mark at the end of my response gave me an air of authority or uncertainty.

And then came my father’s response, “Let’s go for a drive.”  Uncertainty it was.

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My Top 3 Questions About 50

/ Kevin / 63 Comments

BirthdayIt’s official, and now that the rollercoaster that was this week is over, I can share this bit of news with all of you.  In the midst of the madness, I celebrated my 50th birthday. Yes, I am now a half-century old.

I think I’m supposed to feel different because friends and colleagues keep asking me, “How do you feel?”  Is 50 supposed to feel different than 49?  Am I supposed to be sad?  Contemplative?  Excited?

What I can say, having survived a head injury, the result of a car accident, and then 13 coronary stents, is, “I’m very happy to be here.”  Is that enough?  Should there be more?  According to celebrities who reach an insert-age-here milestone and then write a book and go on talk shows to shout how wonderful it is to be said age, I should be glowing — but the only thing that appears to be glowing is the fifty shades of gray in my hair.

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How Bagpipes Changed My Life

/ Kevin / 49 Comments

Bagpipes

March is an interesting time for gardeners.  It’s the month when the first warm breezes begin to melt winter’s icy grip, when the garden begins to stir, when hints of green suddenly appear, when it’s time to get outside and get things ready for the gift that is spring.

At least that’s how my March used to be until about five years ago, when my March literally became MARCH — as in parade.  I’m a bagpiper and March is piping season, with each weekend devoted to at least two to three St. Patrick’s Day parades — making this St. Patrick’s Month.

But as the first of the parades gets underway, March is also the time that I reflect on how I came to be a piper and how thankful I am that bagpipes entered my life.  This post is that story.

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My Miracle Before Christmas

/ Kevin / 30 Comments

Miracle

Miracle.  It’s one of those words that’s often tossed about, especially at this time of year.  Just Google the phrase “Christmas miracle” and see what comes up — miracles, it seems, are no longer just on 34th Street.  They are, in fact, everywhere — and on this particular day, they make up a large part of my life.

Today, is my 15th birthday.  Geez, it was only a few days ago I was 12 — or, rather, being an uncle and having to purchase a Christmas gift for my 12-year-old niece.

Never mind, though — today I am celebrating the miracle of being 15.

December 12, 1997, was like many of those Long Island winter days — not sure if it wanted to be cold enough to snow or warm enough to rain.  The result was a gray, damp, slushy mix that left a coating of black ice on the pavement — and this was my commute home.

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The Road To Reinvention

/ Kevin / 37 Comments

Terracotta Sahrds

Lately, this is how I envision my brain: shards of broken terracotta strewn across the potting bench.  Where I once had a clear vision and firm ideas, I now feel a bit scattered and disorganized.  My struggle is to figure out why — why I can’t seem to focus; can’t seem to be motivated; can’t seem to get back to my two posts a week schedule.

My first thought is that I have stumbled into a very bad case of bloggers’ block.  Perhaps I’ve overextended myself — time needed for work and time dedicated to writing seem to be at odds with each other.  Perhaps the freshest ideas have all been used in the first year of this blog — after all, once you write a piece on the joys of raking, how many more autumns can you possibly write the same thing?

Then, just as I try to make sense of all these thoughts and worries, stacking them just so — one piece falls from the pile and I soon find myself once again in the throes of worry.

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Looking Up Before Leaves Fall

/ Kevin / 33 Comments

Dogwood.

What has happened to raking?

I always remember raking as a communal event, one that involved most neighbors and all members of the family in some capacity.  Give the neighbors a perfect autumn day, and they’ll give you one universal thought: “It’s cool and crisp and there isn’t a breeze – this is a perfect day for raking.”

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Bloomin’ Update 34: Everybody’s Talkin’ ‘Bout Miss Thing

/ Kevin / 30 Comments

There is a certain sadness when I look about the waning October garden.  So many blooms have faded and turned to seed; so many leaves have dulled.

And then there are the red hot flowers, looking a bit out of place and overly made-up amid the first flush of autumn’s golds and yellows and rusts.

Celosia — a few plants from last summer reseeded themselves for this year’s garden. Surprise!

And that’s when my imagination takes hold.

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A Time Capsule To Call My Own (Part 2)

/ Kevin / 34 Comments

Clearly, I was mad about Madonna — but mad enough to save an issue of People?

In the previous post, I opened up what can only be considered my personal time capsule, a set of crates that held objects from my past.  The last post ended with a reference to a list of songs scribbled on a piece of paper . . .

Some of the song names had been crossed out, so I think I must have been able to record them from the radio and onto a cassette — remember those?  The photos on this post should give you an idea of what I listened to, but if you’d like more – here we go: Soft Cell, The Clash, The Ramones, Depeche Mode, Spandau Ballet, Romeo Void,  Stray Cats, Adam & the Ants, Joan Jett, Duran Duran, Lene Lovich, Bananarama, Fun Boy 3 — and so many more.  I walked a fine line between the New Wave and Punk genres, with a definite leaning toward all bands British.

Then there were the letters and cards – so many written words from a time when people actually wrote and mailed letters.  I had to wonder what would possess me to hold on to all of this correspondence and as I reread them, I was struck by the energy and passion of the writers as they – we – were all on the verge of stepping into adulthood, all eager to make a difference, to have an impact on the world.

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A Time Capsule To Call My Own

/ Kevin / 21 Comments

I know.  This is a gardening blog and this post will not exactly be a gardening one – but I will try and find a connection.  It may be a stretch, but it will be a gardening connection of sorts.  Besides, how often can anyone say that they’ve had the chance to meet themselves – or at least their 20-year-old self?

In past posts, I’ve explained that there is a cement crawlspace behind a closet in my house.  It’s my winter storage bunker for elephant ears and canna.  What I never told you is that my perfectly dry and evenly cool space also holds some boxes and crates filled with my past.

I’ve always thought about cleaning things out, but whenever I’m in the bunker, I’m either loading or unloading plant materials – and gardening, like time and tides, waits for none.  So, my past has remained undisturbed for the 25 years that I have lived with Joe.

Until the other day, that is, when a local cable guy arrived to rewire the house and I had to empty out the bunker – without the excuse of elephant ears and canna.  My personal time capsule would, at last, be opened.

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