Fall Already?

Wow, what's with this cold weather. Today, the sky is gray. Really, it feels like fall. When I first moved to the PNW someone told me that you never took the winter quilt off your bed. This is an exaggeration, as there are plenty of hot nights where the air is so still that the house doesn't cool down. Living around water, though, there is usually a breeze. And when it's hot for a long period, the heat, or high pressures systems bring in the cool marine air. I always like to say that, cool marine air. When I was growing up in Spokane, we never said, cool marine air, we said things like muggy, heat lightning, triple digits. We had to stay indoors when it was too hot and take our salt pills. The vegetables, as long as they were watered, grew like maniacs. Here, I can go without watering, because there might be a sprinkling of rain, like last night, and then today, I can let it go. Conservation.

Today, it feels like fall, sweatshirt weather this morning, rain coming in later tonight. I won't water today. This is the kind of weather that makes the powdery mildew grow, the plants that are susceptible to blight and rot, will succumb. Maybe the tomatoes won't make it, although at the farmers's market yesterday, there was a whole table of brandywines. So lucky. How do they do it. Ho hum, what a poor gardener I've turned out to be.

Next week I will sign the divorce papers. I guess that's been more on my mind than getting a fabulous garden growing. I should give myself some credit, there's plenty of spinach and some very nice lettuce that will be ready soon. Oh, I almost forgot, zucchini is on it's way.
Ciao!

Indian Paintbrush

In the mountains, the meadows are awash with Indian paintbrush. I remember as a young woman wandering the woods at Priest Lake, and stopping to marvel over this plant. Why, I'm not certain. I think my mother liked it, too. Perhaps that was the connection, as my mother wasn't much of an outdoorsy person. So to have her like a wild flower was interesting. Maybe it was on a trip to Yellowstone, while she sat in the car smoking. As we ate our baloney sandwiches at a picnic table, hurrying to finish before the marauding bears came and stole our lunch, mother looked out the window and pointed with her cigarette at the Indian Paintbrush, saying, "Those are my favorite." Even if this isn't how it went, I find it is an interesting plant, because the flower looks to be an extension of the leaves. Some are larger than others==perhaps different types. And I swore I saw yellow Indian paintbrush on the drive down from Sauk Mountain. I will look that one up and report back.

In the mountains around Priest Lake we heard stories of intentionally set forest fires. Fires were good money for crews of folks living on the fringe. When they could get out and dig fire trenches and back burn clear-cuts, they could make enough money to get through the winter. One such burn produced a lush expanse of fireweed, bear grass, Indian paintbrush and of course morel mushrooms. My first husband and I used to wander around in the mountains when we weren't working at the resort—him pumping gas and raking the forest, me waiting tables and cleaning cabins. It was a good summer job, although the pay was below minimal—the owners depended on tips to fill in the void, still we were in the woods and by the lake.

The lake became a nightly hangout for the crew, skinny-dipping in the cool water under the blackness of night. The stars overhead where brilliant, swaths of galaxies, sometime faint waves of aurora borealis. Even though the lake is far north, the heat could remain extreme, drying the forest and forcing the bear down to the lowlands, the resort, the garbage and eventually into our truck/camper to drink the dirty dish water. More than once we returned home to find the camper ransacked.

Ah, the olden days. I really have fond memories of living in the mountains and intend to get to them regularly now. Perhaps not with such climbing exuberance, but definitely with picnic lunches and a sketchbook and camera. And perhaps I'll take Newcomb's Wildflower Guide

Peace, Flower

PS Yes, there are red, orange, yellow, and white paintbrushes. See this site for more pictures.http://www.intangibility.com/inw/Wildflowers/Indian-Paintbrush.html

False Solomon’s Seal

I love the biblical name of this plant and it's cousin, Solomon's Seal. It makes me think of a robed character standing in some huge hall stamping edicts with a huge seal. And when this plant is made into an essence and drops are taken, perhaps it quiets the mind, like lavender quiets the mind. When there is so much to do, and many of us feel overly burdened, an essence could help prevent you from taking on too many other people's requests. When life is narrowed to one's own choices, ah, much better. Now that I'm single I don't know how I did everything for him and everything for me too. Actually, I didn't. I set my own things aside. Now, that it's just me, I've had to figure out what it is I love the most and do those things. Really, I'd lost myself for awhile, and now I am found. Isn't that a song? Oh yes, Amazing Grace.

If you like plant essences, you can make your own. A good book is Flower Essence Repertory It explains the emotional qualities the different essenses help to balance and how you can use and make them. I have never made any myself—instead I buy Bach Flower Remedies from the health food store. But I have friends who garden and then from their garden they begin to make essences. It's not a difficult project, but it takes some time. The weaker the solution the stronger the essence becomes. The strongest remedies have no plant cells in them, they are just the plant's essence. It's spirit, you might say.

I believe the plants in the garden come in the same way that essences help a person. They do nothing if there isn't anything to be done. Imagine only what grows well in the garden is what the gardener needs. The plants take on more of the other person's request. Is this too wooie? Well, it's just a thought. There are nature spirits lurking about, well lurking isn't a good word, makes them sound like their loitering. They are probably just standing next to the plum or by the water spigot, watching. They are helpers, I think, so they have to wait to see what needs to be done. Too bad they can't cultivate. Or shoo off the deer.

Did I tell you we saw a herd of elk on the way back from Saulk Mountain. 60 elk. That's life affirming, and much different then overwhelm from too much to do. I was over at the garden yesterday, and most everyone's looking great. The pigweed is still in my garden. And it grows heartily. I must look it up and find out its cure. I'll pass that on soon. And today, it's raining. Can you imagine that? The first day of rain we've had in some time. Hopefully it will wash the rest of the seagull do off my car.

Okay now, must ready myself for writing practice.

Warm regards,
Grace Flower

Johnny Jump-up

In the early 70s I wanted to write an herb book. I lived at Priest Lake, Idaho at Hill's Resort for two summers and wintesr. The summers were fun, swimming, water skiing, drinking Coors around campfires. The winters brought feet and feet of snow. One winter so much snow, the berms were 20' deep. There wasn't much happening after the crew went home. Of course it was dark early and Jack and would sit around reading--no TV--or I would knit and he'd play the guitar. We had a cat named Jude who was in the middle of everything, knitting, sewing, eating, always.

Priest Lake and later on Corral Hill in the Clearwater Ranger District is where I began my photography of herbs and the studio--Edgar Casey and herbalists, of the medicinal value of herbs. There a peach leaves to comfort an upset stomach, ferns for nettle bites, nettles for vitality in the spring. I don't remember what Johnny Jump-up is for. But it is sweet, and a cousin of the viola, the violet, the pansy.

My sister and I press flowers. It's something we learned from a great aunt. She pressed flowers in a dusty old year book from Anapolis where her husband went to college. Everyone has a nick-name in this book. Someone is probably called Johnny Jump-up. She used her pressed flowers to make framed pictures, groupings of panseys and coral bells, ferns, yarrow leaves, etc. Both my sister and I have pictures she made, and the frames, OMB, so ornate.

My sister now makes her pressed flowers into cards. One of these days I'll get some of her cards on this site so folks can purchase them. They are wonderful. Gardening cards. Perfect. Well now I'm off for a walk with my daughter and grandbaby. We walk three miles twice a week. It's good, the grandbaby in the stroller, mother and daughter huffy away--oh yes, and as only in the PNW, we stop halfway for a cup of joe.

Peace!

Sauk Mountain

Well, an amazing thing. I was just talking about tiger lilies and then I saw fields of wild tiger lilies on the hike up Sauk Mountain. Also Indian paintbrush, purple bells, johnny jump-up, yellow shooting stars, buttercup, and more. Our spring was longer than usual this year, and the mountains had record snowfall. There were snow fields at the top of the mountain, 5,000+ feet—I believe. Don't quote me on this, and the hike, with a number of switchbacks, was a little strenuous. Not for my friend, Peter, as he hikes all the time. But me, I'm a walk about girl. I usually do around 3 miles a day. Or perhaps more, with side trips to the store, the garden, the coffee shop. It all adds up, but in the end, I'm not much of a hiker these days. But I did fine. 2.5 miles up and 2.5 back. A nice little snack at the top--nuts and apple and Cliff bar. There was even a chipmunk that ate out of my hand. I know, I know, black plague, but there hasn't been any in our neck of the woods since…

With a long spring and berry bushes not blooming in the higher country the animals have come down lower to look for food. Lots of deer and bear, even in areas that are residential. I saw plenty of bear in the woods in Idaho, and recently in Joseph, a small black bear came walking up the road near the cabin. I'm only relaying the story, as I didn't see it with my own eyes, but from what everyone said, I'd just missed running into it by a few seconds. The bear can be dangerous, they do bite. They are looking for food, not trouble, however. If you see one, of course, make yourself big and growl or shout. With grizzles, you're supposed to play dead. And there are always trees to climb. Me, I just go the other way.

As for the garden, tomorrow I will tell you how it's going. Tonight I need some sleep, so later alligators.

Flower

Lilies

My mother loved tiger lilies. Yes she grew petunias, I've mentioned that before. She was one of those ladies that had basket after basket of petunias growing on her porch. That was the only annual she grew, at least that I can remember. As far as perennials go, she loved the aster, the mum, and the tiger lily. She was a proper lady, hardly went farther than the front porch or the car to go shopping. The great out-of-doors was too wild, too vast for her, and too dirty, sweaty. Interestingly enough, her daughters and granddaughters became avid gardeners, and generally speaking, athletic women. Mama is long in her grave now, and I miss her dearly. And really, even though she said to me once, My God, you work like a man, I still learned how to be gentle, feminine, and proper.

As far as tiger lilies go, they are usually spotted orange lilies. In Kingston the slugs ate the heck out of them. I don't grow any in my garden now, but there are many folks in the community garden who do. See Lilies: A Guide to Choosing and Growing Lilies Just two garden plots over there are tiger lilies and other lilies, white ones, perhaps Easter lilies. I love the smell of a lily. It's very sweet and intense scent fills a whole room with intensely sweet scent. When using them as cut flowers, pick off the pollen. It slips off each stamen easily. Just toss the orange pod of pollen in the trash, for if it falls on you carpet or table cloth, it will stain it. Plants are used for fabric dye. And although I haven't studied this much, I do believe pollen is one of the natural substances that is rich in pigment for dying wool and cloth.

Well enough about gardening. Today I will hike to the top of Sauk Mountain with a good friend. He is quite the trekker—long treks in foreign countries, as well as strenuous local treks. He's interesting to chat with and a good listener. When I was married, I was the main chatter, although frequently my ex and I would have evocative conversations about spiritual matters. We also liked to work in the garden together, although he took over everything. Sort of like a noxious weed. He, he. That's exactly it. Pervasive, invading, chokes out other plants.

Speaking of, the morning glory that tangles around the blackberries and butterfly bushes—guess what? All noxious weeds. Obnoxious too. Don't you love the blackberries though, and really the butterfly bush is lovely. You can keep them if you pick off their flowers and toss them out. That way they don't spread seeds.

Back to the hike. Sauk Mtn. is south in Skagit county. I'm not big on knowing the hikes in the area because I'm a transplant. Growing up in Spokane, I know the rivers and the mountains there and north into Idaho. I also know some of the land around Yakima, since I lived there for four years. I do know Mt Rainier and the Pacific Crest Trail. I know snow and mountain lakes and scree fields. I know horse flies and no-see-ums. Sauk mountain actually looks like the cuff of a sock. It's not a long climb, I'm told, but steep with switchbacks. The view is supposed to be splendid. I'll take my camera so I can pass on some pictures.

The rain is coming in today. It's been feeling cool, almost fall like. Very disappointing spring and summer. I've heard that east of the mountains it's a blast furnace. I'll be there in a couple of weeks, get my good dose of heat-to-the-bones before fall comes.

Happy Gardening, Flower

Deer me!

Well, the deer have really been at it, even biting off limbs of my Green Zebra Tomato plant, which was doing pretty well. Now it is pruned quite significantly. Since it is nearly the end of July, perhaps it won't matter. We don't have that much more tomato growing season here in the PNW.

The garden was beautiful yesterday evening, and I have many finger-sized zucchini on the vine. The lettuce and spinach and chard doing well. I planted the broccoli-raab and some parsley. I weeded a bit and finally found my trowel. Another gardener said, nothing gets stolen here, just ends up in someone else's garden. So there is was, just a bit of the blade picking up the evening light. I'd just hung up a sign for whomever had it to return it. How it got back in my garden, mostly buried, I don't know.

One thing I noticed yesterday that I hadn't before, is the abundance of plums on the plum trees edging the garden. There will be a good crop, perhaps enough to dry some. I have a dryer, a five-stacked layers of black plastic trays with a little heater fan at the bottom. I've dried a lot of cherries and tomatoes and pears and peaches on the thing. The house always smells so sweet and fruity when I prepare the crop this way. It's been years since I did it, so it will be interesting to have a go at it.

Today the grandbaby comes. He has a little cold so we may not get to the garden. We're still going for our morning walk, and perhaps we'll see the train. He has a love/hate relationship with it, as I do. It wakes me several times every night. For him, it's how loud the whistle is. It passes while we're on the board walk that meanders over Bellingham Bay. We're quite lucky here in Bellingham to have so many trails. I'll be going to one this Saturday with a kind man I've met. He isn't a love interest, as my heart isn't ready for that, but he's made a good companion the few times I've spent with him.

All for now. Happy Gardening,

Flower

Zamboni

Sounds like an African greeting, Hello there,my friend, but what it really is is Broccoli-Raab. I planted it earlier this summer and it did little. That and the bok choi, only produced a couple of small plants. But it can be sown again in late summer, so I'll replant. The seed packet, which my cat thinks is a new cat toy, it's the shaker sound that intrigues him, says it is best planted in a sunny location in "fairly rich well drained soil." This is the problem, I'm betting, the lack of "fairly rich well drained soil" in my garden. For those who don't know, Broccoli-raab (Rapini) Zamboni has small flowerbuds and leaves that spice up salads and can be steamed as greens. I thought that it would taste like broccoli, but it tastes a little more cabbage and mustard-like. It's good and grows quickly.

The other plant I'll sow is Italian Parsley. This one is nice, in that it is flat-leafed. The curly parsley is harder to clean. The flat only takes a quick rinse, then chop and throw in with the zucchini and onions and tomatoes and sauce, and viola, spaghetti sauce. I made this type of sauce frequently when the kids were little. They loved it. I seasoned it up with fresh basil and parsley and garlic, salt and pepper and oregano, and it was the most delicious sauce one could ever wish for, chunky with fresh vegetables and delicious.

The other great dish I've been meaning to tell you about comes from a great cookbook called Recipes from an Ecological Kitchen Saute a bunch of kale in olive oil with three cloves garlic. Add water, raisins, cinnamon, and toasted pine nuts. Season with tamari. This one is so delicious that even someone who says they don't eat greens will yum it up.

Everyday, I eat greens at three meals. Greens are higher in calcium than milk products, and as I am dairy intolerant, they are a good bet for me. At breakfast I make an omelet with spinach or broccoli, at lunch a salad and protein, at dinner, steamed vegetables and chicken or fish or beef. My naturopath says that eating carbs between meals will lower cholesterol. I've been doing this for over six months now. The next time I get my cholesterol checked, I'll let you know if it works or not.

Okay, onto my editing group. Happy gardening and enjoy midsummer.

Ciao!

Everything New

When I first started gardening, everything about it was new. I was on NW Boulevard with my mother, shopping not far from our home across from Audubon Park. She was in Herbeson's Pharmacy, picking up sundries. I had wandered across the street to the hardware store. This was long before Rite-Aid and Home Depot, when most everything you needed you could buy at a reasonable price close to home—including plants for the garden. There I was standing before the rack of plants, taking in the tomato plants, dark green plants with tiny star-shaped flowers. I can remember the excitement I felt—the idea of growing something—having a plant of my own in the yard, troweling the dirt around it's sturdy stem—and then my mother crossed the street, a cigarette in one hand, a package in the other. She seemed happy to see me standing there with the plants.

It's funny how some memories stand out, little snipets so alive in the mind. This one is very clear, me asking for the tomato plant, and mother responding happily, laughing easily—you want to grow tomatoes? Of course, you can. And I went home with my first plant, a tiny thing that I dug in the ground between her pink petunias, right next to the pool. And they flourished there. It was hot and moist and when company came over to swim and eat burgers, the folks would comment on the large tomatoes ripening on a vine that curled on the ground. Many gave me advice. You should stake the plant, you can pull it in the fall and hang it in the garage, you can pick the green tomatoes and make relish, you can make green tomato pie, you can wrap the green tomatoes and put them in a dark place, use newspaper and they'll ripen. You'll have tomatoes for long into the fall.

Come fall, I pulled the tomato plant and hung it in the garage. It frosts early in Spokane, sometimes September. And tomatoes don't last, kale does, cabbage does, chard does, but tomatoes don't, it's hard, but the plant has to be pulled. Ah, the smell of a tomato vine. So sour and robust. I good thing to have on the hands, along with smears of green—what is that potent green—chlorophyll? And of course, like the potato, the tomato family, being a member of the nightshade family, has poisonous leaves. And the first that big limp vine hung there in the garage, a shrine of tomatoes ripening, it was a sight to see, but then they started to rot and fall onto the garage floor and it wasn't long before I had to Get rid of that thing.

All in all, my early inoculation into growing tomatoes went well. It was a happy experience and every year after that I grew tomatoes, I think until I was in high school and my younger sister became the vegetable gardener in the family, that and mother's petunias were what our family did for gardening.

In the photo, the little sprout that grows where the stems branches from the main stem can be removed. Do this on all stems leading off from the main one, this way you will have less energy going into greenery and more into fruit.

Ciao!

G. G.

Guilty Gardener. Yes, I was leaving the garden yesterday, feeling good that I'd strung the string and bad that my garden isn't as lovely as the others. I was pushing the grandbaby up 10^th street in the stroller, when I ran into my neighbor and her friend from Victoria. We stopped and chatted, again she commented on my pigweed and lambsquarters and I think convinced me not to worry about the letter and the man, the one who comes with a clip board to record the behavior of community gardeners, giving us grades, A, A, A+, D- --the last one's me, because of the weeds, but my friend was saying again, about the studies the Japanese Doctor who wrote the book One-Straw Revolution, philosophy on gardening with weeds. That in the garden, the exact weeds the soil needs will grow. If the soil is too acid, it will draw weeds that like acid soil, which will use up the bite, if it's too alkaline…etc. And he only weeded small patches around the plants.

Now I think this has other benefits—the deer can't see the plants they want to eat because the weeds are in the way, and so they eat weeds instead. Last year I planted the beans inside the row of Cosmos. I'm doing the same this year. It worked last year, so unless the deer have turned sneaky, then.... Deer don't eat Cosmos. But weirdly, they do eat tomato plants, which I've never seen them do before. My Zebra Stripped Tomato is missing a limb. Aurgh!

Well, well, what else to tell you. I've realized that women, well this one anyway, has much to give to the world and the man who's being such a @$%! to her, is nuts. That's a good realization in the scheme of things. Heartbreak is so hard to get over. I left my boyfriend in high school after he moved to Alaska. I was a bit Lazafaire about it, and my sister, four years younger, was pissed, what did she know? She was mad at me for being mean to Bill. But how could we date, with him in Alaska and me in Washington, and was I to wait until after I graduated to have a boyfriend? No, as it went, I met my high school sweetheart that later became my daughter's father, and my drunken husband. Fate? Who knows these things. But there is a book I'm going to read called SaddleUp Your Own White Horse that I think will be interesting in teaching me how to come back to myself always, to trust my decisions, to not defer to others, etc. So I will quit sulking around the garden being the G.G. thinking someone will come over to me and laugh and say, "So many weeds!"

Ciao!

Putting Food By

There is this great book, Putting Food By that will help you with stocking your larder with a cornucopia of garden delights. From this book you will learn how to pickle and can and dry and salt, etc. It’s a must for anyone who wants a kitchen that feeds the family all winter long. When I lived in Yakima there was such an abundance of fruit from roadside stands, seconds that were cheap. Big old peaches with lumpy spines, misshapen tomatoes, gangly cukes, and cherries that are usually only processed for ice cream (nearly as large as plums and sweeter than any cherry you’ve ever eaten), all for ridiculously low prices. I canned rack after rack of sparkling jars, brilliant peaches soaked in brandy, beets pickled in brine and sugar, pears, prunes, & dill pickles. All of the jars were stowed away in the cupboard next to the stove, a lovely sight to see.
Feeding the family in the 70s tailed the back-to-the land movement, brown rice and hand ground wheat berries, home grown vegetables and chickens in the yard. Wheat bread rising in a bowl on the counter and trays of cherries and tomatoes drying on screens in the sun. It wasn’t easy work. There was the goat to milk first—just after Jack went off to the golf course to tend the greens and the baby was still asleep—irrigation systems whooshing across the valley while I nuzzled my face into my Nubian’s wide side, smelling her lovely goatiness. She gave a gallon of milk a day, milk both my daughter and husband drank. I wasn’t fond of it, and it hasn’t been until lately that I’ve been willing to explore the creamy goat cheeses on the market. Pretty good.
Putting Food By became my summer Bible. I combed through that book daily during the growing season. It is still part of my collection—stained and spine-broken—although it has been a long time since I’ve canned. I may never can again, as it does take strength to lift boxes of fruit and racks of hot canning jars. And it takes time, all the boiling of jars, paring fruit, boiling syrup and brine. It’s worth it for many folks. Me, I’ll just buy fresh fruit year around at the co-op.
Ciao!

The Touch of Fall

Here in the PNW, fall touches us at night soon before it rests it's fingers on other parts of Washington. In Spokane, my home town, it is in the upper 90s right now, probably will be in the 100s when I visit the second week of August. There is no cool air blowing at night there, no extra wrap is needed on an evening walk. Here, I put the quilt back on the bed the other day--will it stay there? I'm not sure. Since I keep the windows open at night, I smell the sea air, feel the chill that seems to rest on the surface of the heat. Fall, it says to me and I'm thinking I better get the kale in, better get more bok choy planted, and broccoli raab.

There are summer plantings one can do to reap fall crops and wintering-over crops. I like the Russian Kale, which I can grow all winter, even if there is some frost or snow. It is hearty. Also, like I said before, carrots, if covered with leaves will winter over in colder climates. Because the ground freezes, leaves are a necessary warm blanket. Even here, though I haven't tried it, but I imagine covering them would be a good idea. And of course, cabbage lasts if it doesn't bolt and the cabbage worms don't get it.

When I lived in Kingston, my crop of kale grew larger and larger until it was taller than me. In the very early spring it would bloom yellow flowers, and against the purplish green leaves and stems, a vibrancy exuded that lit up the sideyard closest to the path to the water. The deer came up that path from the beach. Usually two fawns and their mother to nibble the crop. It was sweet to see them grazing in the yard. I loved them and at the same time scowled when I saw them helping themselves to my garden.

A neighbor once said he loved the wildlife in the neighborhood: bear, deer, raccoons, opossums, squirrel, rats--I nodded thinking, I could do without the cat and raccoon fights that happened through the glass kitchen door around midnight. Raccoon families always coming to raid the food bucket, scraps for the garden, that I kept on the porch in a dish detergent bucket. It had a tight lid they couldn't be peeled open by little raccoon hands, but they still tried and my cat, Scooter, pummeled the door with his body, yowling like the tough guy he isn't. In fact, he's the least touch cat I know. Just look at him wrong and he runs and hides under the bed.

Anyway, saving food scrapes and digging them into the garden improves the soil. I don't do this here in my community garden, because it would mean hauling a bucket three blocks to the garden, did I just exaggerate the distance? Well they are long blocks, and some trail, to reach the garden. I could haul them in the car, but I don't. And the city may have a rule against such things. One problem with the food scraps dug into the garden is they bring pests to dig up the goods. Raccoons will dig and perhaps rats do too. You don't want rats around your house, I promise you that.

Okay, today I will tie up the beans. And listen to some music with Brenda at the sculpture park. Even with the chill in the air, it is still summer.

Ciao!

Mulch Better Now

To keep the soil moist and to discourage the weeds, mulch between the rows. Use newspaper, burlap bags, grocery sacks, your exhusband's favorite silk ties—oops did I say that aloud? No really, mulch is important in the conservation of water and also, so you don't have to work your hoeing muscles too strenuously, it keeps the weeds down. I like to use grass clippings from the unfertilized and pesticided lawn. I have also been known to use heaps of fallen maple leaves between rows, especially in the fall when I cover the row of carrots. They winter over beautifully—did I already tell you this? Well, ignore this if I did. Cover your carrots with leaves and then when the snow comes, you can go to the garden and shovel aside the mound of snow and the leaves, and beneath, rich brown soil full of orange carrots will reveal itself. What a midwinter treat, and what's really amazing, they are sweeter and crisper than ever, almost like apples.

I talked to my neighbor, Paul, and he said when he got his garden spot, it was full of wood and burlap and glass. My spot has chips of glass in it and some small pieces of wood, but no burlap. Burlap will decompose eventually. The train is passing at this very moment, which is part of the ambience of the neighborhood, blasting whistles that scare the bejesus out of everyone, especially at 3 a.m. when I'm soundly asleep.

Where do you get burlap bags these days? I remember as a kid they were easy to come by. Potatoes came in them. Burlap was used for things other than its original purpose—for instance, when the shift—a straight dress--became popular, my mother made a shift out of a burlap bag. She modeled the garment, complete with fake roses attached to the neck and hem, her funny statement as to the frumpiness of the new style. She also hated Capri, which she called pedal-pushers and swore she'd never be caught dead in them.

Well I was told that nothing ever got stolen from the garden plots, but things did walk away. Yesterday my hoe was missing. I will go on a hunt for it tomorrow and when I find it, I'll feel mulch better.

Ciao!

Peaceful Bugs

You know how they say if you plant right, you won't have bug infestations. Well, I've had few bug infestations as an organic gardener and many of them are predictable. Like the aphids on the broccoli and the cabbage worms on the cabbage—and broccoli—and cauliflower. I just hose off the aphids or keep an infested plant as bait—hopefully it's growing far enough away from the other plants that it will be a bug magnet and not spread to the other clean plants. Soap spray also works, and I think the netting will keep cabbage worms eggs from being laid those fluttering white cabbage moths.

Organic gardening takes a little extra effort. Rich soil and lots of water, so the plants stay healthy, helps to keep bugs away. Also companion planting. The neighbor says she has onions growing around her garden and when a flock of black flies infested her tomatoes and she draped oniontops over them, which didn't work, but the wind came up a few days later, which did hlep. So perhaps a fan in the garden could be another deterrent to bug infestations.

I've heard that letting chickens wander through the garden rows will take care of many bugs, just make sure your plants are fairly mature first—as our little feathered friends are energetic with their scratching. Also geese are useful in mint fields. Dogs catch flies. Cats scratch up the newly upturned soil, so don't count on them for debugging your field.

When I lived in Yakima, I had an infestation of potato bugs—not the rolly-polly bugs, also known as sow bugs, but the bugs that are designed especially for potato plants. They are a shiny beetle larger than a ladybug and are easily picked off the plant and fed to chickens or just destroyed (crushing). If you are one of those angels that can't destroy a bug, then I don't know what to tell you. Put them in the garbage can—and turn your back. And certainly don't try the blended-bug cocktail as a garden spray--you'll be too squemish I'm sure.

The weather was cooler today and the grandbaby and I were going to hop over to the garden and fix the string on the bean pole, but alas, I was pooped and he was taking a nap, so I joined forces. He did carry his duck watering can around the house later and said, "Water, water, water." Which is astute of him, since I decided I'm too cinchy with the water. I'll do better, promise.

Ciao!

Heydi-Ho Neighbor

My first (and only) father-in-law taught me, well rather, insisted I keep my garden weeded. He bought me a hoe that was easy to use, just push it back and forth across the ground like a vacuum cleaner and presto-magno, no weeds.

While his garden was immaculate, I was out squatting in my weedy garden, thinning the carrots, and having contractions every five minutes or so. I'd stand up again and my pregnant belly would relax. I told the doctor about it and he wasn't worried, but I wasn't that far along, so it frightened me. And I'd lost the first baby--so you can imagine. As it turned out, everything went fine with the new one, except that she was posterior and I had to be turn her, which exhausted me, all the pushing that is, way worse than weeding.

Back to the garden, that first garden had rich dark soil, soil that had been worked by hearty European hands for a lifetime. Get this, the house cost eight thousand dollars, two bedrooms, one bath, large yard. The elderly gentleman just wanted enough money to go back to the old country. This was in 1975—prior to the oil embargo and rising interest rates.

This rich dark soil grew everything well, weeds, weed, and peas. Yes, my first husband dabbled in the proliferation of the hemp plant. Yes, I didn't like it and tried to stop him, but then the plant—there was just one—got stolen out of my garden. One day, while the pregant lady worked on the nursary, a car stopped on the street. A guy ran through the neighbors yard, hopped the fence, pulled the plant, and then raced back to the car and sped away. I was relieved. What pregnant lady wants to go to jail—of course, it would have been him not me. Or would it?

Interesting, there isn't much else I remember about that vegetable garden. Oh yes, my brother came for a visit and picked my first ripe tomato while I was inside cleaning the bathroom (that bothered me). Oh and digging a potato so large, it only took one to feed my husband, brother, his friend, and me. I was the only one home at the time with that huge thing, and when it came out of the ground, I probably ran in circles, praising the potato gods. But because I was an efficient wife, I started dinner. Before I cut the thing up though, I drew a line around it on a piece of paper, like a child draws a line around her hand. "Look at this," I said when they finally arrived. (Probably been out smoking the weed) "Have you ever seen a larger potato?"

They laughed. (See what I'm saying.) "Where is it?"

"Why , in the pot. Supper is on."

Ciao!

Full Moon and Dear Deer

Some folks plant by the moon—or they fish by the moon, or cut hair by the moon. Things started during the new moon, or the beginning of a cycle, should be fully actualized by the full moon. That's when the energy moves begins to move back toward darkness, or the balsamic moon, no moon. Some compare the balsamic moon to the seed resting beneath the soil, just waiting for a little light and moisture and heat to sprout and then the cycle begins again.

Tomorrow is the full moon. As far as my garden goes, I think there is no evidence that what I have been doing corresponds to the moon cycle. One thing I did do because the rules say to it, is weeded around the spinach. And yes, the dear deer came and helped herself. See what I'm saying here? If I'd left the pigweed, I would have fooled that deer. No going back now, once a weed is picked, vamoose, gone. And so is the spinach. While I weeded there was a large discussion about artichokes, which you can see are doing very well. So are the blackberries--it's all the water we've had this year. Lush or luscious. Good for jelly this fall. And pies.

People bring lots of pies when someone dies. It's kind of them. There is always plenty to eat. And then later, say today, which is the anniversary of my nephew's death, there is no pie, and no one saying, how are you doing? Life goes on, and it does. I once read that Freud said anyone can get over the loss of a loved one. But then he lost his daughter. Then he changed his mind. He said, we never get over the loss of a loved one. When I was two, my father went away. I never saw him again. I believe Freud is right, that pain is alive in me and wakes on occasion, calling out for people not to go. It's interesting that this full moon is Cancer/Capricorn (my ex) and also the opposition in my chart that represents my sense of home and my sense of authority. I'm feeling the meaning of both of those qualities heightened in myself today.

In the garden, there is freedom. Maybe the largest sense of freedom—all these plants doing their own thing. They sprout or don't'. They bolt or don't. It's up to them. Well, and my care. Or if it is like the doctor who wrote One-Straw Revolution, maybe it isn't up to us. Maybe all of this is designed by a larger force. All of this growth or no growth, construed by a big hand who knows more than all of us do, individually and collectively.

I'm lying in bed writing this and a cool breeze Is blowing across my skin. It feels delicious. It wasn't a good night for me last night, as my divorce is close and there are still details to work out, and really I still love my ex. That makes it the hardest thing of all. I must either keep my heart open, or close it down and be cold. Which in the long run will serve me the most. Keeping it open, I think, despite the pain it is causing me. Then the grief will completely move through me and be gone. Then perhaps I can think of Freud as wrong, we can get over a loss.

I have a confession. I still haven't planted the beets. I can't believe it is so far into the summer and my garden is so puny. Fertilizer. I will take care of it eventually. Right now I will indulge my heart—for the good of my future. Having no divorce leftovers will be good, because eventually I will love and be loved by a partner again. Hopeful. Maybe I'll eat artichoke hearts today.

Ciao!

Are We Really The Gardener?

When reading about The One-Straw Revolution, I got to thinking about how I have viewed gardening all these years. Even with my houseplants, I feel as if I'm living more side-to-side with these beings rather than mastering them; however, I do have to care for them—at least at home. In the wild, the trees grow or not, the weeds grow, and wild flowers, etc. And ecosystem, which maybe is like a home and family. You all work together and the ones that work the best together thrive, the others fail or fall away.

In my garden, I prefer to have the weeds assisting. I don't mind pigweed, although I don't like it going to seed. I believe it is edible too. As a young woman I studied edible plants. Lambs quarters doesn't grow in this garden, and it's a good edible plant. Right now the fireweed is sprouting; I've never eaten the shoots, but they're supposed to be as tasty as asparagus. Of course, there are many berries to eat, and I saw a lot of wild strawberries when I was in the Oregon mountains.

When I lived in the Idaho mountains as a young married woman, my husband and I collected mushrooms and fried them in butter, our favorite being the morel, but the shaggy main was tasty and so was the puff ball. Once I ate too many coral mushrooms and felt a little weird. Some mushrooms have a chemical that is slightly toxic if consumed in any quantity. I've given up mushroom hunting, but would love to participate again. Recently a friend said his mother discovered a bunch of morels and I asked where and he said he couldn't say. That's the way it is with prize mushroom places.

Today I will plant those beets, promise. And perhaps pick some spinach for my dinner. I have some tomatoes coming on. The Green Zebra is very cute.
Ciao!

One Straw, One Camel

Remember that one straw that broke the camel's back, or the one little thing that pushed you over the edge. Well, I think gardens are like that. There are things that work out and there are things that don't. Some of the plants do well, and then a stressor comes along, and everything goes south.

My neighbor said she thought my spinach was doing better than any of the other gardeners's spinach--which is bolting. And she said she thought it was because it was growing in the weeds. She had a look on her face like she was telling a secret on me. Yes, my weeds are growing just fine, thank you very much. And they shade the other plants, and draw up nutrients from deep in the ground. They also do good for the plants that the deer seem to like the best, they are hidden from view.

She told me about the One-Straw Revolution theory, which keeps weeds and plants together, because that is the way it happens in nature. I'm looking into this, as I've not read about it, but why pull all the weeds and clean the dirt between the rows and then mulch, when the weeds act as mulch anyway. Well, I'm not going to argue the point as somehow I think I will lose. But weed or no weed, I've gardened this way since I was young.

If you look at the pictures you'll see that the spinach and chard is growing and so is the squash. I'm happy, that's what counts.

Ciao!

Beets or Beats?

Mountian High River

A row of beets, nicely spaced and weeded well is a lovely sight to see. A rhythmic beat in a good line of prose is a good ear thing to hear, and it stays with you like an ear worm--not a beet worm--at least, that's what my choir director said to me one day. When you hear that song in your head, "Rocky Mountain High" and it plays over and over, that's an ear worm. Beets, on the other hand, are red things that when sliced and pickled keep for years, or when made into Borscht are delicious beyond belief. My only problem with them, besides being not my favorite thing, is that they are so red. And they stain your fingers, your mouth, the dishes, the counter-top, etc.. That's why I decided to try white beets. But, like I said at the beginning, I'm a bad gardener. I left them there last fall to bolt and turn woody. A bolted beat is an lovely sight...just kidding.

Today I will plant beets for Barb and Mike, because they like them. There's nothing better than a community garden, even if you're the only one gardening. But I had another offer from Peggy , the neighbor who watered for me while I was gone, for a local gardener who wants space. So I think I'll follow through and see if her friend wants some garden space. I'm happy gardening about half of what I have. Mike just wants to paint landscapes, and his face did turn a little ashen when he recounted the story of the deer eating his green beans last year. Just doesn't got the desire for gardening now.

This a.m. I'm having breakfast with my daughter and grandbaby. We will eat at Harris Ave. Café—one of the best places in town for sausage and Americanos. Did I tell you that when I ordered Americano in Italy, they just smiled and said "Ah, American coffee," and sort of shook their heads. Like it was a sin or something.

After breakfast, I'm going to the garden. A report will follow.

Ciao!

Too Beautiful

I can't explain how beautiful it was there in Oregon, and how relaxing and enjoyable to be in the woods and in the heat. I'm back in Bellingham now, and yes it is hot, and a tad humid. It's not bad to be back in the humidity, but I must say, being in that dry heat reminded me of growing up in Spokane, and the smell, sunwarmed pine pitch. Yum! And sweet wildflowers. Ah, I so miss it already.

The river we stayed next to rushed constantly and the sound was lulling. At night, it got very cold--so cold I needed an extra blanket on the bed and the electric heater running. There's something about hot days and cold nights that makes me feel so alive.

Now for a little garden info. Mike is giving up on the garden, which is okay. He is willing to help me weed on occasion. I will be there tomorrow and see what a week has done to my little plot. Being away for a week has helped me to see how much time I waste (re: writing) and how badly I'm in need of more solitude (re:writing). It is interesting that when I returned home, there was a message on my left-behind cell phone from a real estate agent-friend who has a cute little house to show me on a woodsy lot. I was thinking more of a lake place or at least a lake lot. If I could afford it, that would be ideal.

Anyway, love and gardens and reprieves. All the makings of humanity. I don't like the retraction of love and don't really understand it. Perhaps it will come to me over time, how someone can pretend to love another, and then bolt away. This to me is an intimacy problem. My heart doesn't know that. My heart only knows what it feels and it feels like shit right now. The divorce papers will be filed this week. Dang it all.

One more thing before I call it a night. We saw an eagles nest with mom and pop and babies. It was where the river emptied into the lake. Fabulous sight, and thrilling too, as the eagle swept down from a cottonwood tree and appeared to aim for us, landing in a branch overhead and near enough that we weren't positive we wouldn't be shat upon. Abbe was with us, which made us think that the eagle was threatened. Or perhaps just showing off--or maybe it was his/her take-a-picture-it-lasts-longer attitude. By the way, my picture isn't great, but you can see the eagle guarding the nest and a baby. Sweet!

All for now, Flower

Wildflowers

Yesterday, Brenda and I drove up Crow Creek Road, 3 miles north of Joseph, heading north for Buckhorn Springs to a viewpoint overlooking Hell's Canyon. And we got lost. We ended up at a lookout tower overlooking vast timbered land. In the distance, far to the east, there appeared to be a dark area that was most likely the canyon. It was the back windy dirt roads through the state park that were confusing and the map that we had did little good. And the directions (a local) were somewhat vague. By the time we'd driven 35 miles to Red Hill L.O. we were tired and hungry and could see we'd gone the wrong way, for the canyon. But I climbed the tower and reminisced my lookout tower attendant days and Brenda feed and watered Abbe. We ate a snack and headed back.

The good part about the trip: we saw a herd of elk. Man-o-man! And we saw several deer. We saw fields of wildflowers, cattle, horses, and smaller canyons and buttes. It was lovely really, and we traveled with music blaring, like teenagers, only listening to Penguin Café Orchestra. The horns and violins somehow went with the pines and dashing ground squirrels, the magpies, the deer, the broken down barns, and sparsely covered hills in sturdy bull pine, and the herd of elk coming down from the left side of the road and crossing in front of us.

This a.m. I'm back to revision, sitting in Wallowa Lake Lodge, a beautiful lodge with Craftsman wainscoting and boxy chandeliers, wallpaper with graphic linear designs edging the dining room near the ceiling and throw rugs set up in a big open room making private sitting areas decorated with antique furniture and lamps. Lovely a quiet. Outside a vast yard edges Wallowa lake, where yesterday a mother deer and her two fawns crossed the lawn before me as I wrote. There is also an eagles' nest near the mouth of the river to the left of the lawn, where adults feed their children. The mom or pop? eagle dive-bombed us as we peeped on their evening ritual, feeding the children, bringing new sticks to mend the nest, etc. Abbe was with us, so I assumed it was the dog that was the threat, not us. And we did appear to be threatening, as the eagle landed in a tree close to where we stood and tossed things down to the ground just 20 ft. from where we stood next to the river. We left, giving them their peace and quiet, being non-threatening. It's always a good practice.

Another beautiful place to retreat is the Bronze Antler B & B--although we didn't stop in to visit the place, the inn keeper is delightful and knowlegeable about the surroundings. Give her a shout if you want first hand knowlege of the area http://www.bronzeantler.com/

Okay, thanks to this retreat, I'll be working on my revision for the next several hours. I'm thinking of my garden and wishing I could inform you about it, but alas, I will not know how it is doing until Sunday morning. I'm imagining not much different than when I left. Hopefully I'll be happily surprised.

Ciao!

Nancy, aka Flower

Nighty Night, Deer

The deer here look a little mangy and they wander everywhere, sauntering past the writing group at Fishtrap as we sit outside in the crotch of the rocky peaks, eating our pork and applesauce as the sun leaves the area. The thing about meadows nestled between mountain peaks is when the sun goes, it's gone and then it turns cold. The weather is hot, especially noticeable as we hiked into Eagle Cap Wilderness yesterday, and cold by the river at night. Which has made for two good night sleep, cold room, piles of blankets, the river crashing past.

Abbe, Brenda's dog is happy as a clam, and on our hike yesterday, she lead away, scampering up the horse trail. I was happy as a clam, too, discovering wild strawberry plants and columbine and gooseberries, and a grove of aspen with leaves shivering in the wind. What I discovered about myself up there wandering over the Wallowa River where it crashes between the narrow rock canyon, is I so miss the out of doors. I feel good outside, different than inside my noisy condo. And all the plants brought back my desire to write an herb book when I was in my twenties. Jack and I (first hubby) did a lot of camping in the mountains outside of Priest River. The terrain here reminds me of that area, the pine, the tamarack, the smell of warm pitch, spicey. And the sweet smell of blooming bushes. And a orchard in a meadow that looked like old gnarled fruit trees, they weren't, but what they where escaped my plant identification skill.

Today, we will swim in the Wallowa Lake, which I think is a caldera, but I haven't read up on this area, so I'm not sure. I'm in Joseph right now, named after Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce—the natives that roamed this land. I'll find out more about that on a field trip tomorrow. So for now, that's about all. Happy summer days and gardening. I'll be watching for the wild strawberries and anything else edible in the woods.

Flower

River Garden

A contemplative week in July and we're staying outside Joseph, Oregon at Wallowa Lake Camp. Wallowa Lake is nestled in some pretty dramatic mountains, one particularly large peak rising majestically at the end of the lake and East of the camp. To arrive here on time, we left at six in the morning from Bellingham. We had a few minor setbacks: we got lost on Seattle trying to get onto I-90; we were pulled over for exceeding the speed limit (and let go, phew) and I left my cell phone at home. The cell mystery (I'm never without it) sent me into a tizzy for at least half an hour. Honestly, I felt naked without my modern day connection tool. Once we both recovered, we enjoyed the drive through central Washington and on into Oregon, soaking in the mix of landscape, some more barren and sagey, some lush with orchards and grapes, and some rolling patchwork fields that perhaps influenced the Pendleton textile designs.

As you already know, my garden in Fairhaven is being lovingly tended by my garden neighbor, Peggy, whose garden is looking terrific, I must say. Mike will be back from his trip to California, so he'll be managing the section he's caretaking. He's going to plant beets—did I already say that? I haven't finished my garden room, nor have I strung string for the pole beans. But alas, the garden will be there when I get back. I need a break and a change of heart.

Fishtrap, where I'm not a participant, is a popular conference. Folks sign up before they leave for the following year. Since I'm here as a guest, I'll spend my mornings working on a revision of my novel, "Celia's Heaven". And since I need a vacation—not the sun and tanning and drinking and dining type of vacation, but more of the vision quest "vacation." Perhaps that's not a vacation but rather a vacating of my busy life so I can dive deeper into inhabiting myself. That's what I want, especially after all the disruption of divorce, the dickering with the ex, the meeting with the lawyer, and then the drawing up papers and show-me-the-money-meetings. And now what? That's my question. What do I want to make of my life during the next however many years I'm alive? What laws do I want to lay down for myself?

The tarot card "Command" from the Medicine Woman Deck proclaims me the lawmaker of my life. This is an interesting concept, me being the lawmaker for me. As a woman, I've been taught to think that others are the makers of my life and I'm to wait on them for decisions; I'm to wait to see what is needed of me, what is expected. But I can have a life that I make for myself—this is astounding in some ways. And freeing. I can decide when to sleep, when to eat, when to play, whom to love. I'm not on call 24-7. Sigh.

Back to Fishtrap http://www.fishtrap.org/. Brenda and I are staying next to a river here at Wallowa Lake Camp. It's not a large river, but it is definitely galloping past. I wouldn't want to fall into it, of course, but it a good reminder of what "Command" teaches. The flow is always there, always available for us to join with—or we can step aside and think we're doing this life on our own. Once I was told something similar by a spiritually astute person. "You cannot stop the flow," she said. If I cannot block it, then there is no writers' block, no artist block, no block to the abundance I can experience—and I believe this is apparent in the garden. Everything grows, dies, sprouts and grows again. There is a continuous cyclic pattern to life that never ceases. The secret to happiness then is joining the flow.

The opening talk to the conference included a quote by Rumi. Something about truth, and how only the telling of it will bring joy to one's life. Ah—there is relief in this quote.

Best wishes, Nancy (aka Flower)

Straight Eight

When I was a child my grandparents had a Magic Eight Ball sitting on the mantel in the living room of their green lake place. We, my brother and cousin and I, would ask to see it and Grandma would lift it down. It was a heavy glass thing with floating answers that showed up in the clear bottom when the ball was inverted. I'm a sucker for knowing the answers—in fact a psychic friend told me once that I wanted to know everything. And yes I do, mostly so I know how to plan my counter attack. I'm sure the spies went into enemy territory to gather info that was used for planning their next move. Anyway, knowing what will come next in the garden is tricky. Right now, my best guess is a few beans, a few Straight Eights, and a few tomatoes. I may or may not get many greens or much of anything else. But I haven't consulted the Magic Eight Ball. In fact, I don't have one—they still make them. They're smaller and plastic. Hardly the wonderful psychic ball we referenced as children.

I told you at the beginning that I'm a lazy gardener. And when I went to the garden today, I felt guilty that I didn't haul in chicken manure for those Straight Eights I planted. I just run out of steam, what can I say? I get so excited when it's spring and the weather shows promise. And then all those lovely seed packets filling the racks, how can anyone turn them down. Now I'm remembering the cute child's seed packet I bought for the grandbaby when I bought the rubber duck watering can. It's still in the car. So I'll take him next week to the garden and let him plant seeds. I won't see him this week, as he's out of town with his folks river rafting and generally raising a ruckus. Well, the baby isn't river rafting, I did clear that one up on the phone earlier today. Sheez, I worry about the plants and my child and my grandchild, and…

Gardening is like housecleaning, you just keep straightening and straightening, etc. My neighbor will water my garden for me while I'm out to town, also this week, raising a ruckus in Joseph, Oregon. I'll be with a friend who will be teaching a writing class at Fishtrap Lake. I'll be working on my novel, and getting some swims in and some hearty hikes. Which reminds me, I need to find my bathing suit. When I was a child, and we turned over that magic eight ball, I'm curious what my questions where. One might have been, "Will I ever see my father again?" And the answer would have been no. Or the question might have been, "Do we get to go swimming soon?" or "Do we get ice cream for dessert?" Now I might ask, "Will the tomatoes blight this summer?" Yes or no? No!

Ciao!

Cut Flowers

One of my neighbor gardeners lives across the alley from the community garden. In her front yard, facing the street on the other side of the block away from the garden, she has a wooden slate table with an large umbrella beside it set up next to the fence. On the table sit two vases with bunches of cut flowers, tied with ribbons, cut from her garden plots displayed in them. Mind you, she has several plots and lots of flowers as well as vegetables resulting from her green thumb. Some folks have two plots, others more than two. Some folks have been gardening these plots for years. I have one puny-soiled plot that looks more like a desert than her lush rain forest plots—but I don't want to get into any negative downward spiraling thinking here, so I'll focus on those flowers of hers.

These bouquets are similar in size to the large bouquets you see at the grocers, only these fabulous bunches of flowers are far more wild and beautiful than the symmetrical bouquets from Haggen's. They include peonies, roses, grassy blades, Canterbury bells, snap dragon, and lupine. I've found myself standing in front of this funky little flower stand more than once. I've also taken to having fresh flowers adorning my house, and since my garden hasn't gotten dressed yet—lazy thing—I've been purchasing them from others==such as my neighbor. My neighbor gardenist sells her flowers from $3-$5 a bunch. There's a tin for the money. It's the honor system. There is also a plastic stand of cards with garden photos attached, and yesterday, a tiny vase of nosegays of lavender.

This type of life seems quaint to me: children running about, flowers being cut by a young woman wearing a sun hat, cards being made in a breezy evening living room while cookies bake in the kitchen oven. I'm so sentimental. I could live this life, easily. But then I'd have to be the granny knitting in the corner while the rest of this unfolded around me. I'm not ready for that. I'm imagining me fit and tanned, tending a glorious garden that draws crowds of garden lovers—but then I'll need to hire gardeners to keep it, so never mind.

Well, today is the Fourth. It was a quiet night, I know this because I drank too much coffee yesterday afternoon and was up until the wee hours of the morning. Today, I will picnic and watch fireworks—spend time with friends. It'll be swell. Tomorrow—clean house and get ready for a trip to Joseph, Oregon, leaving with my friend, Brenda, early Sunday. Hi Brenda! We'll be taking some fabulous hikes, hopefully one to see Hell's Canyon, grander than Grand Canyon the guide book says. And the weather will be great. Yeah, rest and relaxation.

My neighbor gardenist will water my garden, and all will be well in Fairhaven.

Happy Fourth!

Thunder & Lightning

I dropped by the garden yesterday and while I was watering the tomatoes, the wind came up. In the distance I heard the rumble and could see the cumulus tops of the anvil clouds building just past a patch of thickening clouds. The tops were catching the setting sun and had turned pink. I felt so charged up—like a pacing animal, buy the wind and electricity. And later after I got home, more thunder and then a brilliant light show--flashes of lighting forking out, reaching across the dark night sky. Wow, it was fabulous.

My mother always told me to never leave the windows open during a thunder storm. There is a possibility of lighting coming in an open window. She also said that a ball of lightning rolled through her house once when she was a child growing up in Virginia. Now that would scare the pageebeew out of me and I'm guessing it did her, since she was so afraid of storms. The windows all slammed shut as soon as the wind started; I swear she sat in a corner holding her head.

Anyway, out over the Grangeville prairie along the Clearwater river, a big storm came through when I was a fire tower attendant in the 70s. It pounded the prairie with bolts of lightning and continued moving toward us, up the mountains toward the Corral Hill. I was frightened. The forest was catching fire with each strike and flames were blocking our exit route. Then as it started to pour and it poured all night. All the fires were put out.

A guy got struck in that storm. He came to see us on the tower later, when he'd recovered some. He said he felt like he'd been beaten up in a bar fight. Huh, guess cowboys know that kind of thing. He was walking along a fence line when the strike came up from beneath the ground. I still don't understand how it works; it's a si-fi kind of thing and I like it.

As for the garden, Mike had dug up an area within my plot for beets and it looked better than the rest of the plot. The woman next door was watering and when I said, doesn't it look great, she looked at me and nodded reluctantly. Really, I must get some manure on this garden. I know that will improve the look of my puny plants.

Ciao!

Chilly Today, Hot Tamale

I love tamales and I love to grow corn. However, in the small plot, corn isn't worth planting. It just takes up too much space. When I was a kid I loved how the Hopi's planted corn. They'd use a stick to dig holes in the ground and plant the seed in little mounds. There were always several seeds dropped in the hole together. And there'd be song and dance, too. Some special prayers to encourage a good crop. The planting was special, because it wasn't a given that a good crop would come. Once the crop had grown and the corn harvested, it was ground into flour between rocks and then baked into tortillas. I love this; I don't know why, I guess because it is so reverent. The corn was treated like a special friend.

So when I used to grow corn, I grew Candy Corn. It was very sweet and I loved it. I grew it in long rows. I had a good crop with big ears. Now I'm allergic to corn, well according to my naturopath, that is. I'm not so sure about this, but have been laying low where corn is concerned. I also have a wheat allergy; many folks suffer from these intolerances. I've heard that it is the way wheat is stored that makes it hard on the gut. There are molds that infest the grain as it is stored is silos. Whether or not this is true, I'm not sure. One thing I know for sure is that a lovely slice of homemade bread slathered with fresh strawberry jam is almost worth the reaction. Notice I said almost. Well, one can be satisfied by other things. Like spinach grown in the garden, or happy tomato plants. Or a tuxedo cat curling up next to me as I write in my blog. For more great shots see http://sidthetuxedocat.blogspot.com

All My Relations

In a room of lit sage, we chanted and drummed before our shamanic journies: "All my relations, all my relations, all my relations…" around the circle, on and on. It was an offering at the beginning of the practice, an offering of connection with all our relations, not just people that we've grown up with, grandparents, great-grandparents, but also animals and birds and insects and all others. Friends. Acquaintances. Everyone. We are all connected, right?

Is this sounding a little sappy? After a long hot spell in the PNW, cool marine air comes in and when it does, I get sappy. I feel like I've been through something hard, a marathon of sorts, and having survived it all, turn gushy with feelings of happiness that I'm alive. "I'm alive, I'm alive… " Is that a movie quote? I don't remember.

My tarot card this morning said, "You are beginning to see your relationship to all things," (The Medicine Woman Tarot Deck) This is an interesting thought, because if I'm related to all things, than why is my garden so puny? Is it a reflection of me? As I become stronger, will my garden also thrive? (I forgot to divine for the ley lines. Remind me, okay?) According to New Age thinking, we create our world. This is a hard one for me to swallow completely, in other words, I choke it down. Why? Because I don't want to be so fiercely accountable for all the pain in my life. Yet, as I sit back listening to the trains pass on the bay, I think about all those years I wished to live in a small community where I could walk everywhere. In my wish, I didn't have sound effects playing in the background—train whistles at three in the morning, shouting bar-goers stumbling across the parking lot, cars burning rubber at 1 am—I did, however, have the hoofing it around town feeling good, and to the garden and back, no less.

Yesterday the grandbaby and I didn't go to the garden. We did go to the water, and it was fabulous, glinting with sunlight. Hot. A real summer day, hot enough to grow sweaty and feel spent. The day before I was at the garden and when I looked around for my trowel and couldn't find it. As I hoed with a tool from the garden shed, another gardener said, "I have your trowel, by the way. Nothing gets stolen around here, just moved around." I replied, "Oh, I thought maybe I carried it home. "

"All my relations, all my relations…"

The card says I am not alone…Holy moly, what a relief.

Ciao!