The Summer That Wasn't

No one is happy this summer except the slugs.

We just broke two records in our Connecticut garden: hottest and wettest July. When I say hot, I mean it – four heat waves. I read in the Connecticut Post that “July’s temperatures have been about four degrees above average and thunderstorms have dropped nearly a month’s worth of rain in a few hours.”

When I say wettest, I mean nearly 14 inches of rain in July. But context is everything: the average July rainfall is 4.17 inches. By July 21, 11.39 inches of rain had fallen at Bradley Airport. That broke the previous record for wettest July, set back in 1938. But July still had 10 more days left and that brought – you guessed it – more rain.

That’s more rain than my mother receives in one random year out in Willa Cather country on the Great Plains of Nebraska. They have been in an extreme drought for years. You want to grow anything out there you need water, and the Ogallala Aquifer (below their acreage) is being sucked dry. At their second property in Genoa, Nebraska, she said mature trees are dying.

 Even marigolds have not been spared. These stalwart companion plants are supposed to deter slugs and instead they’ve been eaten and slimed to death by slugs. One neighbor asked, “What on earth eats marigolds?”

That led to a conversation about how to combat the slugs. She admitted that she gave up beer traps because the slugs were getting more beer than she was. I told her slugs hate diatomaceous earth (DE) – because these soft-bodied mollusks hate to slither across sharp things. Even better, DE won’t harm the good bugs. Beneficial nematodes work well too, but my favorite product is Escar-Go®. The small pellet is a blend of iron phosphate (an active ingredient, originating in the soil) and a snail bait additive. It lures slugs in, they eat it and die within six days. Granted, six days can feel like an eternity when you see plants disappearing before your eyes. Don’t worry, Escar-Go won’t hurt wildlife, pets, birds or earthworms.

Astrantia (masterwort) gives off a scent that repels slugs. Time to add more Astrantia.

As I walked through garden this morning, I saw a grey catbird tossing something in the air and then on to the sidewalk. Then he/she ate it. Was it a caterpillar? Can catbirds acquire a taste for slugs? I hope they are flexible eaters.

On the plus side (which I am becoming with all the ice cream I’m eating) the corn has been some of the best we’ve ever eaten. It loves the high heat.

And with the high humidity my curls are holding their own.

My favorite slug bait:
https://www.gardensalive.com/product/escar-go-slug-snail-control

Two Master Gardeners Walk Into a Bar . . .

One says to the other, “What’s the weirdest garden question you’ve ever been asked?”

The second master gardener (that would be me) says, “I got a call from a woman who said her Thanksgiving centerpiece – a wooden goose – had bugs crawling out of it. She had bought the hand-carved goose at a local craft fair last fall. It promptly found a prominent place on the dining room table. But at Thanksgiving, several guests were “grossed out” when they noticed bugs crawling out of it. She loved the goose but loved her guests more. What could she do to save the goose, but rid it of bugs?”

Master Gardener #1: “You’ve got me beat. That’s a doozy. What did you do?”

Me: “After I scratched my head and rubbed my newly sprouted chin whiskers, I thought the wooden goose might harbor wood borers? Wood-boring beetles, maybe? Or wood mites? I asked her to drop off the goose so I could examine the bugs under the microscope, but she declined, fearing the bugs might infest her new car.”

I asked her a few questions:

Question 1: Do you have any firewood stored inside or outside your home?

“No,” she said.

I figured the bugs came with the goose (no extra charge) rather than any firewood stored on her property.

Question 2: Will the goose fit in your oven?”

“What?” she asked.

Question 2 again: “Will the goose fit in your oven?”

I could hear quick footsteps, her oven door open and the oven racks being removed.

“Yes,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, “wrap your goose in aluminum foil and bake at 425 degrees for two hours.”

 Once her goose was cooked so were the bugs.

How to Talk to a Plant: What Every Sedum Longs to Hear

“Darling, Sedum Autumn Joy,” you are a bit leggier this year than last, but no less lovely.”

Never chastise your sedums if they don’t have the shape you desire. Take full responsibility for not pinching them back earlier in the spring. After all, this is a cooperative arrangement. You pinch; they grow thicker and bushier.

On to a conversation with your Agastache. It’s such a flexible plant that you can pronounce its name any way you want. Here’s one variation. And another. That tall, withered plant before you is your Agastache “Tutti Frutti,” about to bite the dust despite its drought-tolerant abilities. Address it thus:

 “Thank you for your short (one season) and somewhat beautiful life. Farewell, I must move on to Agastache “blue fortune.” It will withstand our New England winters better. No hard feelings, love.” Onward to my roses.

 “Dear geriatric rose ‘New Dawn,’ what is it you crave?” A breakfast of Espoma Rose-Tone 4-3-2? Coming right up.”

 See, there’s nothing to it. Don’t be shy. If Joe Pye weed swaying in the autumn breeze inspires you to sing, go for it. You sing off-key? Who cares? The singing will do you both good.

 How do you talk to a plant? Lovingly. Tenderly. The same way you talk to family members, friends and strangers at the airport. We’re all in this together – every living thing.

Cooperation: left and right

The right to bare arms: I support it in the garden and that’s how I get poison ivy right above where my garden glove ends – just above the elbow. I need a full body glove or a hazmat suit.

I was weeding with my friend Nancy the other day: she’s a right-handed weeder, and I am a left-handed weeder. We work well together. She looked up from her weeding and said, “You must wear out a lot of left-handed gloves.”

“I do,” I said. “Do you go through a lot of right-handed gloves?”

“I do,” she said. “Hey,” she said. “I have all these left-handed gloves that are not worn out and now I know what to do with them.”

 Hand them over,” I said.

 Talk about cooperation.

How about we start a glove bank? Donate your unused left or right-handed glove, and we will pair you up with an opposite-handed weeder.

The alternative? Become an ambidextrous weeder.

I just bought a new pair of garden gloves and the tag touted “touchscreen compatible fingertips.” Hmm, I don’t need that because I don’t bring my phone to my garden. I have few rules in life, but no electronic devices in the garden is one.

Nancy on the other hand (in this case the right hand) always brings her phone to her garden. Last week she accidentally lost her phone in the weed pile. That took some digging – with both hands – fully gloved.

Losing the Bad Boy of Trees - Part 1

Nothing is more painful than losing an old tree in spring, loaded with blossoms. In a split-second, robins become refugees and shade-loving plants are cooked.

No, there is something equally painful. Making a bad investment in the bad boy of trees: an ornamental pear—the Bradford pear. Twenty-five years ago, I made the mistake of letting not one, but three of these bad boys into my life. I was dumb and desperate. When we bought our home there wasn’t a single tree on the south side, and we felt exposed. A local landscaper who had planted hundreds of Bradford pears all over town offered me three large ones. He promised they grew “fast.” I was impatient. In no time they topped 60 feet and gave us the privacy and cover we craved.

The wind rarely let up this spring and some days it came close to hurricane force. That’s when we heard the bang. The wind felled the last of the Bradford pear trees. Spring cleanup of that tree has been slow.

Every perennial I planted under those trees loves shade and they are now cooking in the full sun: the bleeding hearts are drooping, the Persicaria “Red Dragon” (knotweed) is having hot flashes, the Kirengeshoma palmata (wax bells) fainted and the monkshood is fried.

I’m in the middle of a plant relocation party. Consider this your invitation to come and save a plant from heatstroke and give this formerly shady lady a hand.

But who knew you could miss a bad boy tree so much? It’s like a fast, charming lover you know is no good and one day you must leave, but you just can’t seem to break it off. And you remember only the good times. How they shaded the house and reduced our air conditioning, sucked up carbon dioxide from the nearby street, reduced noise and air pollution, acted as water filters absorbing dirty surface water, lessened flooding by capturing water that would run off into the nearby Farmington River, and the list goes on… You remember fondly how they were the first to bloom every spring.

Even a not-so-good tree is better than no tree.

Then I remembered their bad habits. Bad habit number one: Bradford pears are known for their weak branching and a structure that’s prone to split. All three Bradford pears were overachievers in that department. We had them pruned, cabled, pruned again. And again. They were so late in dropping their leaves that Thanksgiving turned into a raking party.

But then I reminisce—in spring they were a halo of white blossoms, beckoning bees, and Baltimore orioles.

Losing the Bad Boy of Trees - Part 2

Then, one by one, those three bad boys split. This last one went out with a bang, followed by a thud. It took down the power and cable lines and crushed two newly planted trees. Its full weight lay on top of a Japanese Stewartia for days. Who invests and plants an elegant Japanese Stewartia under a big old bad boy Bradford pear? Don’t answer that.

But on those glorious spring days when all three were in bloom, walkers would stop and ask, “What kind of tree is this?” When I told them a Bradford pear, they asked when do the pears arrive? I’d explain that they don’t bear fruit due to the lack of cross pollination. You need two different varieties of pear to bear fruit. We had no fruit because we had nothing but Bradford pears. You can get fruit with a mixture of other ornamental pear varieties, but you need two different varieties, and they need to bloom at the same time. Oh, and they must be planted close enough so bees can pollinate them. Got that? Because I’m not sure my long explanation could get any longer.

Their second bad habit. Birds spread their small fruit everywhere, mostly where you don’t want them. They’re so aggressive that they choke out native shrubs and trees. You’ve seen them all over roadways and in highway ditches. Avert your eyes, cover your ears. Do not be lured in by their siren song. These bad habits have landed Bradford pears on the most wanted list — the invasive plant list— in many states. In North Carolina, I’m told that if you bring in a photo of your fallen Bradford pear tree, they’ll give you a native tree to replace it.

I was bemoaning my fate to my mother who lives out on the Nebraska prairie in Willa Cather country. Her problem is far more serious and not of her own making. Grass fires. The drought has made everything “like tinder,” she says. High winds are fueling those fires. One nearby farm was destroyed. My mother has reason to worry – the fires are burning close to home.

Right after the tree fell, I saw a robin with a beak full of nesting material looking like her future had been blown off course. I know the feeling.

Every day I walk by the gaping hole and ponder the possibilities.

 Replacement tree contenders – all natives:

http://www.ladybug.uconn.edu/FactSheets/trees-and-shrubs--suggested-native-species-for-pollinators.php

Learn why Bradford Pears became popular:

https://www.cincinnati.com/story/news/2018/04/25/bradford-callery-cleveland-tree-invasive-blooming/535378002/

Tried and True Perennials: Old Farm Nursery

Plan a spring trip to Old Farm Nursery, just up the road from the Lime Rock racetrack in Lakeville, Conn. Landscape architect Judy Murphy has created elegance and beauty with her creative pairings amid 25 acres. Many of my perennials come from this nursery. My husband loves to visit this nursery, too, even though he doesn’t garden. He takes photos for reference for his paintings. He marvels at her use of color. He gets so captivated by the setting and plantings that he gets lost. We usually reunite as I am loading the car with perennial plants and shrubs that have been truly tested by this talented landscape architect.

Wander through her display gardens. https://www.oldfarmnursery.com/nursery-and-gardens. There is wonder and whimsy to be found in her white, woodland, herb and kitchen gardens.

I put her on the spot and asked her for a few of her tried and true perennials. Here are a few of her favorites and why. She warned me that there were many more, that this was only a start.

Rozanne Geranium, which has a long bloom time, is easy to grow and works well in most soils and sun exposure. 

Nepeta species, like Dropmore, Walker’s Low and Six Hills Giant, are sun-loving, deer-resistant, long-blooming and hardy. 

Iris ensata species are reliable, deer-resistant, hardy and bloom in July, which is a plus for iris lovers. They are also good in the sun, part shade, and even wet spots.

Peonies are not long-blooming, but deer-resistant, sun-loving, tough as nails, with voluptuous flowers that are hard not to adore. 

Helenium autumnale is a deep persimmon-colored flower for late summer – long-blooming and hardy, though the orange is not to everyone’s taste.  

Hellebores are fantastic shade-loving flowers, deer-resistant, blooming from March with flower bracts that persist and give the impression of blooming into the summer. 

 Astrantia is another deer-resistant perennial that can take shade or sun, blooming from late spring into the fall. Species range from white to deep burgundy. 

Astilbe species are also deer-resistant, have wonderful ferny foliage and lovely plumelike blooms. They are good in sun or part shade and particularly effective in drifts of white to pink, lavender, coral to deep red. 

Yarrows are deer-resistant, sun-loving, hardy, easy to grow and come in white, yellow and shades of pink, coral to burgundy. 

Learn more about Old Farm Nursery in a recent profile in Garden Design

https://www.gardendesign.com/connecticut/lakeville-farm-nursery.html

Plant Porn

For gardeners, ’tis the season for temptation. Willpower wanes as my mailboxes, electronic and otherwise, fill up with the newest varieties of plants – all promising to be spring sensations. I fall for this every winter. Marketers know how to exploit my dormant desires for the smell of new life, for color, for something new that promises to outperform the old.

I’m a sucker for the copywriter’s claims. I forget to consider whether these plants want more than I am willing to give: Are they deer-resistant? Hardy in my zone? Not too thirsty for water? Need deadheading? Require heavy fertilizing? Staking? These are all things I am not willing to do anymore, but I don’t remember that until the plant arrives. Slick, glossy catalogues confuse.

I could learn from my mistakes, but if history is any guide, I won’t.

I fell head over heels for the Bloomerang® lilac when that debuted as the must-have lilac. Its claim to fame – it bloomed all summer and into fall. The copy said, “this prolific rebloomer needs a little deadheading.” I was hyperventilating, horticulturally speaking, when I first saw it in a catalog, but it turned out to be like a high-maintenance date – all that deadheading. It needed lots of fertilizer, too. It took a summer rest before reblooming – a long rest. And while the copy claim, “the smell of lilacs all season,” sounded like heaven, I was discombobulated by their smell in October. Lilacs are the smell of spring, and it felt strange to smell them in autumn. My olfactory glands never made the adjustment.

One of the things I love about lilacs is that they’re no work. That Bloomerang was more work than I was willing to put in. This wasn’t the fault of the lilac, but my own failure to set realistic expectations. I had to admit this: When I bought it, I was all set to fall in love. No facts would deter me.

Some variegated plants require more upkeep than I can manage, too. They keep reverting to their non-variegated origins. To get them to fulfill their promise, I pinch them back. There’s a limit to the amount of pinching I have time for these days, and every time I pinched them back my husband noticed I made a pinching and pursing expression with my lips. It was a full-body experience that was leaving me with some unattractive lines.

If I could be satisfied just to look, and not be so impulsive, I wouldn’t have this problem.

I swore off Bloomerangs, and I returned to the old-fashioned lilacs that asked nothing of me. And every year I return to some of the best-performing and low-maintenance plants. Like long happy unions, they perform well no matter what comes along. They ask so little, year after year: the sedums and the nepetas. If you have a problem area, plant them and they’ll thrive.

I’ve been seduced by so many new varieties. One year I fell hard for Agastache Tutti Frutti and planted it in waves. In my smitten state I overlooked that not all Agastache are as hardy in my zone as I thought. This wave died. I returned to the more tolerant Agastache ‘Blue Fortune.” Other new loves of my life might as well have been planted with a flashing neon sign that read, “salad bar open.” The deer have cleaned me out more times than I want to admit. But just like my multiple mistakes in marriage, I’ve gotten better, horticulturally speaking. After learning the hard way, I am doing more research, and I ask the pros.

And so once more I renew my New Year’s vow: corral my desires during this fallow season.

But who doesn’t want to fall in love one more time?

Dreams Deferred

I thought I would be further along by now. I thought the dreams of my youth would be fulfilled.

My dreams were lofty: I wanted to understand the internal combustion engine. I used to change the oil and filter on my car, but things have gotten crowded and complicated under the hood. I just learned how to fold in both side mirrors. You’re probably thinking that’s happened to you with your new car? My car is a 2013. It’s loaded with “city driving” features that allow the driver to rein in those mirrors while squeezing into a tight city parking spot. I used it once, while driving through a flock of slow-moving turkey buzzards.

Then there was my lifelong dream of finding 10 women that loved themselves just the way they were — no ifs, ands, or buts. I think I was inspired while listening to that Billy Joel song, Just The Way You Are. One of those songs that sticks in your head because it’s so bad.

 “Don't go trying some new fashion
Don't change the color of your hair, mmm
You always have my unspoken passion
Although I might not seem to care

I don't want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard, mmm
I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.”

What a load of hooey. 

I came close to fulfilling this dream when I met Marge, but then she said, “But I need to lose six and half pounds.” Cindy came even closer, but she found her loathing for her large ears disqualified her from true self-love. I was in the running, but there was that glaring deficit: I didn’t understand the internal combustion engine. 

But perhaps my biggest letdown was not fulfilling my most fervent dream.

I wanted to learn to dance the paso doble. That sexy Spanish or Latin American dance, with its hand gestures, was so seductive. It sure beat the polka that I saw danced to or stomped to at the polka festivals in New Ulm, Minnesota. Those annual festivals were held right up the road from the Schmidt Brewing company. Where I grew up, polka bands were prolific, and few were more prolific than Whoopee John Wilfahrt and his band. At the start of every Polka fest the MC would announce: “Whoopee John Wilfahrt and his band will play.” The crowd laughed  between bites of sauerkraut. 

But I was drawn to a dance that originated in the bull ring, not the beer hall. I believed Latin, not German, blood ran through my veins. I dreamed of flicking my hands and skirt to the dramatic paso doble. I tried a few moves with a college friend, and we nearly knocked each other out. We probably should have worn safety glasses, since I poked her in the eye twice. 

I confessed these dashed dreams to my husband. He pointed out that I was doing a lot of confessing for someone who wasn’t Catholic. I suggested he might be the man to fulfill my dreams; together we might learn the paso doble? He’s very competitive so I tried another angle: We might win a contest and earn a title? He reminded me that he’s “rhythm-impaired.” It’s not an official diagnostic code, but the inability to feel the rhythm. Any rhythm. Even in a polka. He claims to be German, but I wonder. I offered a cure: “Darling, practice the paso doble with me.” He refused.

I’ll have to settle for the Dutch Hop, the dance my German-Russian ancestors brought here from the Volga. It’s in my DNA. Dutch is a mispronunciation of the German word “Deutsch.” The German brand had taken a beating after two world wars, and my exacting ancestors took advantage of this mispronunciation and let it slide. That may be the only time in history that my German ancestors let anything slide.

When I shared my dreams with a much younger friend, she seemed surprised that those of us on Medicare still strive to understand complicated mechanical things, still yearn to bust some new moves, still work daily to love ourselves just the way we are.

I release myself from the strain of trying to fulfill all my dreams. Maybe in another life I’ll dance the paso doble? Maybe at 80? For now, I’ll settle for this title: Perfecter of the Dutch Hop.

Adventures in Communication. And Tax Returns in the Tub

Photo of snow geese by Richard Bristol

Communicating is hard.

After 30 years together, couples fall into some bad habits when they’re trying to communicate. I have no idea why I wrote that last sentence in the third person. Let me start over. After 30 years together, my husband and I have fallen into some bad habits while trying to talk to each other. I’ll be the second to admit I’m wrong; I often talk to him when he’s in another room. He catches every other word. Surprise.

Here’s what I mean. Yesterday, he got out the bucket (or as he calls it, the pail) and the mop, and mopped the kitchen floor. God loves a man that mops, and so do I. As I was heading out the front door to get our mail, I said, I’m going to get the mail.”

He replied, “I didn’t leave out the pail.” 

Confession: I was in the living room and he was in the kitchen.

I did some research on active listening, which said: “Active listening is the process of listening attentively while someone else speaks, paraphrasing and reflecting back what is said, and withholding judgment and advice.”

In the spirit of active listening and togetherness, I thought it best to talk to him in the same room and within a few feet of each other. While eating lunch, I asked him to paraphrase this: “What do you think of the photos my dad sent of snow geese?”

His paraphrase: “You want to know if I like that fleece you bought me for Christmas.  I do.” 

See a pattern? 

One-sided, you say? Well, I’m the writer and I’m not going to squander an opportunity to communicate with you, dear reader, and not come out smelling like a rose. Am I not the hero of my own destiny? Maybe not while eating lunch and trying to communicate with my husband, but I am, at least at the keyboard.

My husband is chattiest in the evening, usually when I am in the bathtub washing my hair. That’s when he decided last year to tell me how much we owed in taxes. Between the suds and the water in my alimentary canal, I missed the word “thousand” that came after the number five. 

The best communicator in the family is our cat, Van Gogh. He’s suffering from cabin fever in this pandemic, too. This former outdoor adventurer sleeps most of the day. We have to wake him up just to get him outside for some exercise. If he hears us walk by while he’s napping, he yowls for love. And if you don’t scratch his ear he yowls some more. Then he turns his other ear toward your hand and presses it hard to make sure you even out the love. After he’s satisfied with our symmetrical ear-rubbing, he lifts his chin like a supplicant at communion and demands a chin rub. 

When we move near the cupboard where the tuna is kept, he plants himself at our feet and lets loose unrelenting cries. He doesn’t give up until the tuna appears in his bowl.

He’s trained his pet humans in record time.

I have no idea what people are talking about when they say they miss communicating and that they’re bored. They can’t get together with family and talk, go to the gym, a restaurant, you name it. They talk on Zoom, and they text and email, but it’s not the same. 

Adventures in communication overflow in your own home. And they’re anything but boring. 

Early Winter Deep Cleaning

Time to clean out those songs stuck in my subconscious. I can’t remember where I put my keys, but I remember ...

 … And that’s Uncle Joe, he’s a-moving kinda slow at the Junction – Petticoat Junction.

“Love, exciting and new, come aboard, we're expecting you.”

Well, you came. And you gave without taking.
But I sent you away. Oh, Mandy
Well, you kissed me. And stopped me from shaking. 
And I need you today. Oh Mandy.

Green Acres is the place to be
Farm livin' is the life for me.
Land spreadin' out so far and wide. 
Keep Manhattan, just give me that countryside.

Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen
Thank you for all the joy and pain (the Wayne Newton version)

The candy man can
The candy man can
The candy man makes everything he bakes
Satisfying and delicious
Talk about your childhood wishes
You can even eat the dishes 

It was an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini
That she wore for the first time today.
An itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot bikini
So in the locker she wanted to stay.
Two, three, four, stick around we'll tell you more!

Tiny bubbles (tiny bubbles)
In the wine (in the wine)
Make me happy (make me happy)
Make me feel fine (make me feel fine)

Moving On

It has been the most prized and well-used present that my husband ever gave me. He knows I love beautiful, practical things. Things that last.

 But he had one question, “What color should it be?”

“Red,” I answered, as I recited the poem, The Red Wheelbarrow.

“so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.”

 —   William Carlos Williams

That was 25 years ago. And so much has depended on that hardworking wheelbarrow. Grandchildren were ferried around the yard, plants run up the back slope to their new planting grounds, loads of rocks and weeds added and subtracted, along with mulch, manure and an occasional snoozing cat.

But it’s time to let go of that red wheelbarrow.

For months I asked: When will it be time to retire it? And the answer came: When you spend more time patching and repairing the wheelbarrow than using it.

Time to move on. It’s been a long and happy collaboration – my wheelbarrow and me. I still have many collaborators in the garden: weather, plants, soil, worms, insects, fungus and hummingbirds. And there’s that dozing cat supervising it all. But I’m trying to let go of the old and embrace the new.

The new wheelbarrow will take some getting used to. It’s not as nimble as the old one. Instead of one small wheel in the front, it has two large wheels centered over a rustproof aluminum body. I can no longer squeeze into the tight spaces in my tightly packed perennial garden and dump mulch like I used to. But those two large wheels give it greater stability. On the steep slopes in our backyard, I can park it sideways with a full load of mulch and not worry that it will tip over. It’s also “flat tire-free.” The old wheelbarrow tipped over on uneven ground. Flat tires were common. The rusted metal bottom had so many holes in it that mulch fell through, leaving a fine trail of mulch wherever I went. It was ideal only for sifting mulch.

And you know those old rusted wheelbarrows that become planters? That won’t be happening here. But maybe I should keep an open mind? Maybe the poet intended a sequel about how much depends on an old, rusted, red wheelbarrow, loaded with flowers?

I’m on my second wheelbarrow and my second husband. That’s it for both.

Good Clean Fun?

Flight patterns have changed. In the backyard, there are no airplanes overhead. I’ve seen three foxes in the last two months on my back patio. Other wildlife is reclaiming their lost territory.

And the bird bath is busy. The distance between people and birds is short; our habits are not that different.

In many bird species, the male finds possible locations for a home, but the female has the final say. Makes perfect sense to me.

Yesterday, I took a break from gardening, and sat and watched the bird bath that sits atop a stone wall above our patio. Since the nearby stones were covered with water, I figured it must have been used recently. Maybe I had startled a private bather, and maybe if I sat quietly, the bird would return.

I didn’t have to wait long.

A robin landed on the rim of the bird bath, looked around and then took the plunge. She did some vigorous flapping of her wings and then hopped out onto the rim. She flew to a safe, high branch in the lilac bush right above the bird bath and began some serious preening. I looked away for a second, and she was right back in the bird bath. Water flying out onto the patio stones, she hopped up to the rim. Then she went back in the water. This was more than a bath – it looked like frolicking. No one spends more time in a bird bath than a robin. Trust me, I’ve done my research.

A pair of mourning doves stopped by. Their bathing is a bit clumsy, beginning with their entry into the bird bath – they fall into it. Unlike robins, they don’t do a very thorough job of getting water under their wings. It’s more like a short baptism.

Catbirds are elegant and fastidious bathers. One hop brings them into the center of the bird bath, and they manage to get every feather wet right down to their tailfeathers. Then, after four or five headfirst dips and lots of splashing, they lift their wet tailfeathers and show their lovely brownish red rumps.

A male and female cardinal arrived in tandem. He sat on a low lilac branch and let her bathe first. I thought he was going to join her when he hopped to the rim of the bird bath, but he let his lady have a long, luxurious solo bath. Such consideration and devotion are hard to find.

Humans take note.

Twenty Years of Edging: With A Captive Sodbuster

“We should be done some day, right?” my husband asks about the edging. He’s been edging my garden beds for 20 years – not continuously, but maybe it feels that way.

Weekend walkers stop to admire our gardens and ask; “What’s that plant?” His reply: “I don’t know, I just do the low-skilled stuff, like edging and hauling mulch. My wife had the vision and knows the names of all the plants. Just wait, she comes out every three minutes to check on my work.”

Even though he’s a plant illiterate, as a trained artist and painter, he’s my color consultant. He has his own vocabulary. “Put a tall plant in alizarin crimson behind that low cadmium yellow one,” he says. A quick visit to his painting studio and a survey of the paint tubes unravels his meaning.

When we bought this place, I could have held a seminar on invasive plants. The three-quarter-acre parcel was covered with Asiatic bittersweet, Japanese knotweed and stiltgrass. The rest was green, not with grass, but a little grass mixed mostly with weeds. Every weekend my patient husband heard these words, “I’ve another idea for a new perennial bed. Grab your edger and let’s bust some sod.”

We began with 10 yards of composted cow manure from a local farm and I set about amending the soil. There wasn’t an earthworm in sight. My husband hauled hundreds of wheelbarrows of manure up our hilly property. He’s a longtime a runner, and one day he checked his pulse and found it was as high as when he was running.

He soon came to regret sharing this information with me. Whenever he announced he was going for a run, I told him to grab the wheelbarrow instead and move some manure. He finally put me on a daily quota: no more than 10 loads a day. Harsh for a gardener with big visions. Like Penelope, I worked on that proverbial shroud every day, but it was never done. I vowed to commit to my quota once another perennial bed was done.

He’s just finished edging an area that will become a new perennial shade bed. I’ll plant it tomorrow. Then he just needs to load the wheelbarrow with mulch and head up the hill. I think 30 loads should do it. Before he heads out to the mulch pile he says, “Ten loads are all you get. Then I’m going for a run.”

I’ve worn out one wheelbarrow, and I’m on my second. I’m also on my second husband.

The P Years

I told my sister-in-law, someone I can tell anything, that I’ve entered the “P” years. “Are you having urinary tract issues?” she asks. No, not pee, but P, as in I now have a close relationship with a periodontist and a podiatrist. I think I’m too young for either, but my puffy gums and bulging bunions have landed me in with the P specialists. What’s next? Psychiatrist?

I used to hear old folks talk about their visits to the podiatrists and wonder what the hell happened to their feet. Now I practically need a chainsaw to trim my nails; as my bunion bones go east, my toes go west and never the twain shall meet. I don’t like looking at my feet in sandals. I used to enjoy unswaddling my feet after a long winter and exposing them to their first rays of sun in months and going barefoot. The podiatrist says going barefoot is bad for bunions. But it’s bad for my mental health not to go barefoot, I tell him.

I never paid much attention to my gums; now I’m paying too much attention to them. It’s easy to take your gums for granted. I just had a deep scaling last week. I wish they would come up with better name for this procedure. Deep is not the word I object to, I’m all for going deep, but scaling is not a word I want associated with anything – except maybe the biblical “scales” that should fall from my eyes.

If I could only get these scales to lift from my eyes, my mental outlook would improve. I see the hours spent in these doctor’s offices robbing me of time in the open air among the irises. Irises don’t care if you have puffy gums or bulges on your feet.

The hygienist doing the deep scaling says stress plays a big role in gum health. She recommends that I reduce all the stress in my life. How the heck do I do that? Except maybe in the garden. But I seem to be gifted at carrying stress with me wherever I go – even to the garden.

Do I get a refund if the P doctors cannot reduce my puffy gums or aching bunions? Just asking.

I can hardly wait to see what’s next. The D years? Dermatologists and Drugs (a.k.a., the pharmacist.)

But maybe that belongs in the P years, too?

Comeuppance

I would like to see a few people get their comeuppance. One day a year is all I’m asking. Let’s call it Comeuppance Day.

Okay, so comeuppance is an old-fashioned word that looks funny with two p’s so close together. But it’s a good word. A word my mother still uses and one my grandmother used. I’m not talking about vengeance, that’s too strong a word – just a chance to see the woman who lets her dog poop in my perennial beds slip and fall in her dog’s poop and twist her ankle. Too harsh? I need practice at this.

Or how about her dog gets diarrhea in her car on her way home? Explosive diarrhea. Went too far again?

And the man who speeds by our house and throws his beer cans on our property … He can get strung up by his … Wait, let me back that up again, this takes some discipline. How about, his tire hits the broken glass left in the road by kids who were in the church basement last night?

Our little town put a teen center there many years ago, and since then we’ve had broken glass in our driveway, on the street, our cars scratched or “keyed,” a fire started in our yard … maybe a double comeuppance? He gets a flat tire from the broken glass left by the teens from the teen center and they get? They get, well, they get fined for littering. The broken glass was right under the sign that said, “No littering.”

Irony is not dead in our little town.

Oh, and our Christian brethren across the street at the church? The one that professes to love thy neighbor as thyself? Can they get their comeuppance for not removing the dead trees from their property until they topple over and take the power lines with them, and the whole neighborhood is plunged into darkness?

I’ll have to ponder the church’s comeuppance, but it will be biblical. Something will be smote for sure.

Eat More Fish

I had already resolved to eat more fish, but hearing my doctor recommend it didn’t hurt. “You need those Omega 3s and 6s you get in fish like salmon,” she said.

I’m pretty sure she didn’t mean Swedish fish – the chewy red candy that I’ve been eating by the bagful. But I’ve never been one to ignore healthy advice.

What is it about winter that makes me want to gnaw on something — anything?

I can easily consume a whole bag of Swedish fish while reading Jane Austen. Suddenly my hand is digging around in an empty bag. Hey, what happened? I don’t mean between Darcy and Elizabeth, I mean how did that school of Swedish fish go extinct?

Since I gave up red meat years ago, I miss gnawing. I think we are designed to gnaw on stuff. You get awfully satisfied from chewing.

Now I eat mostly vegetables. And some, like riced cauliflower, are not satisfying to chew. There’s no molar-to-molar contact, and I’m definitely not using my incisors to rip anything. It’s like eating plankton — it doesn’t involve chewing as much as straining. But other vegetables seem to burn more calories to chew than I actually take in – a net loss. Chewing undercooked kale can be exhausting. I’ve been having plant protein shakes lately just because the chewing gets so monotonous. Plus, I needed to gain some weight.

Last week, soon after vacuuming the floor mats of my car, I discovered a Swedish fish stuck in the metal track as I readjusted the seat. I examined it, and turned it over several times. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s circa November 2018. It was as hard as the ice on Lake Michigan this January, for sure.

I dusted it off and placed it on the heated seat. Five minutes later, reheated to its original chewy state, I ate it.

We were meant to gnaw on things. I’m proof that shame takes a back seat to this ancient urge.

Going to Seed

Today I feel 10 years younger than I did last fall.

All that fall planting made my back ache; the raking gave me blisters, my bunions throbbed even as I slept. When my husband saw me struggle to transplant a large hydrangea, he said; “gardening isn’t for sissies.” No kidding. It took me three hours just to dig that shrub up and another hour to dig it in to its new location.

So I decided to make filling the birdfeeders that dangle from a tall pole into a stretching exercise. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder.

I dreamed up a 40-foot privacy hedge that I was going to plant with evergreens, but my body would not cooperate. My imagination just kept inventing projects that my body could not fulfill. Wasn’t that a country and western song, “My mind’s making promises my body just can’t keep?” I would sing more of it, but I’ve forgotten the rest of the words. The memory goes right after the back.

And my attention span  . . .

Dragging leaves to my compost pile used to be rewarding. But I think I need to harness more than my own horsepower. My pride has resisted buying those noisy leaf blowers in favor of a good old-fashioned rake, but maybe I should rethink that decision before I break down. Totally.

And last fall I never seemed to have enough gas – I had to be fed every hour. My husband saw me flagging and he ran out with food and water. He would have helped with the heavy lifting, but he was at physical therapy three times a week.

Now ’tis the season for snow. But shoveling causes spasms in my piriformis – that muscle in the butt that runs from the low spine to the femur. Mine are tight, says my physical therapist. How did that happen? While everything else was getting loose, my piriformis got tight? But so far this winter we’ve mainly had rain. Lots of it. I bought a snow blower anyway, and the gas tank is topped off and it’s ready.

Still, for all the pulling, aching, throbbing and spasms, I know that to grow old in a garden that I have made…this is a privilege.

How I Learned to Speak Texan

From northern Minnesota to Iowa to Burkburnett, Texas. From moose and the call of the loons to armadillos, rattlesnakes and horny toads. Talk about culture shock. Well, when you’re a kid and you make a move like that you have to learn a whole new language. It helps if you’re seven and new to everything.

That move gave me an appreciation for language and contrast.

Figuring out what Texans were saying was tricky.

Our new neighbor must have seen the movers carrying in the couch, because a few days later, I heard her ask my mother: “You putting antimacassars on your davenport?”

Come again?

I got some help from my mother. Were we going to place doilies on the couch, was the question. Thanks, mom. One other question, mom: What strange land have you brought us to?”

Still, there are some things you can figure out on your own. When I heard a man at the soda fountain say to another man, “them’s bodacious tatas, “I just followed his eyes to the lady at the end of the counter whose bosom was spilling out into her lemon-lime – another sweet novelty – called lemonade in Minnesota.

“Wanna open the spigot (pronounced spicket) and play on a hot day,” my new playmate advised. Sounds good, but where do I find a spigot? Oh, the faucet. And is there a day that isn’t hot?

Pop or Coke anyone?

I was recounting this period in my childhood to my husband, who moved as much as I did as a kid, and he remembers a few expressions he first heard in Pittsburgh: “Loaf with your friends or lie in.” He liked to do both.

“Rode hard an put up wet,” was something you never did to a horse. I heard that at a few events to describe some shady practices among some shadier people. At least that’s what I thought they were talking about.

I still can’t be sure. I wish I could have said; “This isn’t my first time at the rodeo.” But it was my first time at the dang rodeo.

As I heard in Scotland: “There’s nowt so queer as folk.”

What I Think During Organ Recitals

My life has been ravaged by niceness.

The most recent episode happened last Sunday morning. As I headed to the garden to plant dozens of daffodil, allium and tulip bulbs, I got a phone call from a friend of a friend. I met her once.

Next thing I know, instead of eyeing places to plant those bulbs, I’m listening to an organ recital – a litany of all the things that are wrong with her different organs.

One of these days I’m going to say exactly what I think. Out loud. That’s frowned on where I grew up – Minnesota. You’ve heard of “Minnesota nice?” You’re polite. God forbid you ever disappoint anyone by saying what you really think, even if that means disappointing yourself.

 And while I’m at it, you also don’t make comments about odd behavior. When you see someone in church making change from the collection plate you just say, “Oh.” And you look away.

Or, when that farmer expresses an affection for his sheep that makes you squirm, you say; “How interesting.” See what I am up against with this ruinous background? And believe me, the needy, the chatty, and the bored can spot me. They seek me out and they find me. Even by phone. My husband says; “You’re like a magnet.”

But back to that phone call.

So, I say the nicest thing I can think of and I do mean it. I do.

But this doesn’t stop me from thinking what I might like to say.

What I said: Of course, I don’t mind that your therapist is out of the country. No, it doesn’t matter that you've called six other friends and none of them are home.

Thinking: Do I mind boils on my posterior? Your friends and your therapist must have Caller ID.

What I said: Your bladder collapsed? No, prolapsed? Are you okay?

Thinking: Here comes her organ recital. Which organ comes after her bladder? Kidneys?

What I said: You cancelled your hike up Mount Everest, you say, because you passed a kidney stone? Can I guess the size of your kidney stone?

Thinking: Not knowing is eating me up. Just tell me and I’ll die a happy woman.

What I said: Thank God you didn’t pass that kidney stone on Mount Everest – although you might have broken a world record. (Minnesotans also like to find something positive to say in a bad situation.)

Sixty-seven minutes later she sees a call coming through from someone else and drops me without so much as a goodbye.

Thinking: Sweetie, you’ve got my vote for President of Time Wasters of America (TWA).

Wait, I am off the phone. I can say that out loud. See, old habits die hard when you’ve been schooled in Minnesota.

I’m finally in my garden among the Autumn Joy sedum, planting those bulbs.

And let me tell you what I think. It’s a joy.