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

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!