Don't Take Gardening Tips From Herb

Slim Randles is here again as Wednesday's Guest. I am still busy with the Kidzz on Stage Drama Camp, and I am so glad that Slim is willing to be my guest and keep you entertained while I am basically absent from the cyber world. In honor of Herb, I thought we could all start out with a glass of papaya juice. Enjoy....

 
Like a doctor removing something important, Herb Collins gently peeled the wrapper back from the root ball and tenderly placed the baby tree in the hole. Then he stood and walked around it to see which way he should align it. Actually, looks pretty good just the way it is.

So he took his bucket of mixed sand and compost and began sprinkling it down onto the roots and then packing it in gently with his fist.

Every few minutes he’d stop and read the directions again. When he ordered the tree, the nurseryman had written back “Are you sure?” Well, that made ol’ Herb laugh. Yes, he was sure. He’s always sure this time of year.

He was still chuckling to himself when Janice Thomas walked along the sidewalk.

“Hi Herb,” said the high school art teacher. “What is it this year?”

“Papaya, Janice. Nice healthy one, don’t you think?”

Janice took a close look at the little dark green tree.

Papaya.

“Isn’t that a tropical tree?”

“Sure is,” he said, tucking more dirt around the roots. “I have to read the instructions carefully to get this right.”

Janice thought carefully before speaking. “Papayas sure taste good, Herb.”

“Sure do. Wouldn’t it be nice if this lives long enough to produce fruit?”

“But you’re not expecting …”

“Of course not. The first nippy day in autumn will turn this little guy belly up.”

He looked up and smiled at Janice’s consternation.

“You know that banana tree almost made it to Christmas last year. That was my best so far. We’ll see how this little guy makes out.”

Each year Herb plants something in the front yard that has no chance at all of being there the following spring. He’s done it for years. It gives the neighborhood something to look at and talk about, and it’s fun.

“You know, Herb, if you’re looking for fruit, a cherry tree will produce …”

 “I’m not looking for fruit, Janice,” he said, gently. “I’m looking for glory. Glory!”

He laughed. “Where’s the glory in planting something that will grow here? Anyone can do that. But a papaya? Ha! There’s glory in that.”

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Brought to you by The Home Country Hour podcast. Check it out at    www.themorningbrewpodcast.com.  

Friday's Odds and Ends

So Herman Cain is out, and now Newt Gingrich is taking the lead in the list of candidates for the Republican nomination for president. Some pundits consider him the strongest candidate, despite his past with Freddie Mac and the fact that he is less than honorable when it comes to bedding women. He has been divorced twice, leaving his first wife after her treatment for cancer, and leaving his second wife for a woman on his staff. I doubt they waited until after the divorce to jump into bed.

Other than the color of his skin, I don't see a whole lot of difference between these two men. They both make terrible choices in their personal lives, yet Cain seems to be paying a higher price for his indiscretions. Could it be because he is black?

Just asking....

I just read a review of a new gardening book, Gardening for a Lifetime: How to Garden Wiser as You Grow Older by Sydney Eddison,  and I loved the fact that is is geared toward those of us of a certain age who find the heavy work of slogging manure and compost in a wheelbarrow and digging rows and rows for planting a bit daunting of late. It was only a few years ago I could do all that with no sweat... well, actually a lot of sweat, but minimal pain and exhaustion. Now as arthritis and years progress, the chores are getting harder and harder.

According to the review, the book is part memoir, with "beautiful vignettes of life, with story arcs and graceful prose..."  I think I'd like to read it just for that. There's nothing I love more than graceful prose.

This is the last weekend of our Christmas show, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" with performances tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday. As a show winds down there is always a mix of relief and sadness. Relief that the intense schedule of rehearsals and all the other demands is all ending, yet sadness that this little family is breaking up. Anyone who does theatre knows how the cast and crew bonds as they all work to make the story come alive, and it is hard to just have it all stop.

The good thing for this troupe is that most of us have worked together on past productions and will work again on our spring show. So it is not like we are losing friends forever.

Starting next week and through the end of December, I will be resurrecting some older blog posts as I plan to take a couple of weeks off to enjoy my company that is coming for Christmas. I'll pick some from the earliest years of this blog - hard to believe I've been writing this blog for almost six years - and hope you will find the look back worth your time.

Monday Morning Musings

It is hot here in Texas. Blistering, mind-numbing hot with a wind that is leeching any drop of moisture from the soil and driving dust through any crevice in the house.

And we haven't had any rain in forever.

Every morning, I go out in the mornings to give my animals fresh water and hay - forget about the summer pasture for my horse. It has burned up and is literally blowing away. Then I water a few flowers in pots that have managed to survive.

Last week, I watched my vegetable garden burn up - some of the tomatoes actually started cooking on the vines - and I thought about how much harder it was for the early settlers of Texas to deal with drought that would wipe out their livelihood for an entire year.

We will survive without the garden. Sure it's nice to have the fresh produce, and when I fix a meal that is comprised primarily of items I have grown, there is a great sense of satisfaction. But even if I can't pick a fresh tomato, we will still eat. We have a grocery store and some money. The early settlers had no such recourse.  When they lost their crops, they lost everything.

When sweat is pouring off me after working outside in the heat, I can go inside where there is air-conditioning. And a shower with two speeds. Just a few generations ago there was no air-conditioning and people bathed in a wooden tub.

The only good thing about the heat and drought is that there are no mosquitoes and I haven't had to mow or clear brush in weeks, but I would gladly take the mosquitoes and work a little harder for a good, hard, rain that lasts for a week or so. We call those a gully-washer.

Bring it on....

Friday's Odds and Ends

Before we get to the regularly scheduled program, I have a guest piece on Elizabeth Spann Craig's Mystery Writing is Murder blog. We are talking about jigsaw puzzles and writing and what they have in common. Stop on by if you have a minute.

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Dennis Montgomery, who owns a California computer company, sold fake technology that was supposed to assist in tracking terrorists to the military. It took two years for the Air Force to cancel the contract after the fraud was brought to light. The extent of the fraud may never be known because the Justice Department believes that releasing the details would be a threat to national security. More details HERE

What is wrong with that picture? Is the bureaucracy of the military so over loaded that someone could not have pulled the plug in, say, a week and saved millions?  Do we have a right to know the details of this fraud?

Obama's 2012 budget cuts calls for reduction of the charitable donation tax deduction. Rick Dunham, CEO of a company that assists non-profits wrote and op-ed piece in which he stated, "Our charitable deduction ensures that the wealthy have an incentive to share their financial blessings with the less fortunate."

While I agree that the deduction should stay in place, the idealist in me wishes the wealthy could donate because it is a good thing to do. Why does everything have to include a personal benefit? Have we totally succumbed to the the "What's in it for me?" mentality?

The latest trend in gardening for the busy family. There are now expert gardeners, who, for a fee, will come to your home and create a garden. They bring tools, compost, mulch, hoses, seeds and starter plants and will build raised beds, then plant your garden. If you are too busy to tend to the garden, they will come out regularly to pull weeds and take care of any other gardening chores. They'll even come out and harvest. According to an article in The Dallas Morning News, this approach to gardening has become popular in Dallas, Austin, and Seattle, but I wouldn't be surprised if it is not springing up in other places.

I'll admit that I have been tempted in recent years to hire someone to dig my garden, I don't think I would go so far as to hire a company to do it all. Some of the physiological benefits of gardening are lost if you are not putting your own hands in the dirt to plant the seeds and nurturing the plants until you are ready to pick that first juicy tomato.

What about you? Would you hire folks to do a garden?

Gardening is good for your soul

Here in Texas the gardening season is just beginning. It's time to plant early spring crops such as peas and spinach and carrots and onions. I'm late getting mine planted, but I have been digging a few rows a day for the past month - except when it turned bitter cold - and I will be ready to plant this weekend.

Gardening is in my blood. My paternal grandmother had a huge garden that stretched up the hill behind her house in West Virginia. When we visited in the summer, we could always find grandma halfway up the hill, weeding, picking, or cultivating. She would sqaut, sitting on her heels, and shuffle down the rows of beans, then stand and stretch at the end of each row. How she did that, I'll never know.

When I'm out working in my garden, which is only a fraction of the size of my grandmothers, I try to hunker down to do the weeding, but am only able to make it a few feet. I'm sure the difference is due to the fact that Grandma spent hours each day working the garden. It was probably a quarter of an acre, and she worked it all with a shovel, a hoe, and a trowel. She also worked it well into her late 80s, and only stopped because she fell and broke her hip.

Thinking about the garden and my grandmother reminded me of this piece I wrote some years ago. It is now part of the memoir I have been working on, A Dead Tomato Plant and  a Paycheck. Most of the memoir is focused on humor, but now and then it takes a serious turn. Enjoy.....


Pretty little flowers all in a row.

Not that year.

That year a few scraggly weeds lived in the spots usually reserved for the pansies that thrived early in the Texas growing season. Normally, when the sun burned too hot, the pansies would be replaced with petunias, then later with periwinkles. Those hardy little flowers can thumb their noses at the worst heat thrown at them.

Attending to this ritual of planting has always been an important part of my existence. Some days I’d rather be out digging in the dirt than doing almost anything else. The process feeds me deep inside in a way that defies articulation. But those who share this passion understand.

When it was time to plant the pansies that year, I was in the hospital after a complicated kidney surgery. The weeks recuperating at home ate up the rest of early spring when cool nights and mild days nurtured the ‘people’ flowers and let them smile to greet a new day.

My heart ached when I was strong enough to walk out to the front porch and sit on the swing. The empty flower beds looked so lost and forgotten, and I yearned to dig my hands into the dirt. I thought of asking my husband to plant something, just a geranium or two for a splash of color, but resisted the urge on two counts. He had enough to do with taking care of the kids, the house, and his job. Plus, it wasn’t the flowers I missed so much as the process. I could wait a few more weeks and still have plenty of growing season left. It lasts forever in Texas.

Petunia season came and went, and still the flowerbeds stood empty.

I’d had a bit of a set-back in my recovery. Some nerves had been damaged during the hours-long surgery and the pain was still incredibly severe. That forced another trip to the hospital to see if anything could be done.

By the time I got home again, we were well into periwinkle season and my flowerbeds had grown lush with weeds. My instinct was to lean forward in the swing and pluck out a clump of clover, but the look from my husband, rich with unsaid words, stilled the impulse.

I’m sure he meant well. Like so many spouses standing on the outside he felt so helpless in the face of my pain and limitations. He only wanted to protect me. But my heart yearned to be digging in the dirt. It was a deep and powerful ache that wouldn’t go away.

During my next visit to the doctor, I asked if he thought it would be okay to do a bit of gardening. “I’ll be careful,” I said. “And I just feel this great need.”

The man could have posed for a Norman Rockwell painting as he sat on his little black stool with one finger tapping his cheek. Then he spoke. “Personally, I think there’s something very healing about dirt. Although I don’t recommend eating it.”

He paused to acknowledge the smile with timing so perfect he could’ve been on the comedy circuit. “But I do recommend filling your hands with it. Smell it. Work it. Let it fall through your fingers. It won’t cure you, but it won’t hurt, either. And maybe it will make you feel better where it matters.”

Several hours later I knelt on the grass. I ignored the pain that ran down my side and into my leg and leaned close to the dirt. The trowel felt good in my hand as I loosened a small section of the flowerbed. Then I picked up clumps of earth and crumbled them, letting the rich black dirt stream through my fingers. I reveled in the cool dampness; the pungent aroma. Then I dug a hole big enough to hold a single Marigold.

“Ah,” my heart said. “Just what you needed."

Friday's Odds and Ends

It might seem a bit odd to be doing this in the dead of winter, but I have been digging in my garden the last few days, turning a few rows a day. I remember when I used to be able to turn the whole plot in an afternoon. That young person is hidden somewhere under these older muscles that don't care for that kind of work anymore. Here in Texas we plant our first garden the end of January.

Republicans made history Thursday by staging the first-ever reading of the entire Constitution on the House floor as the legislative session began. While that was a noble gesture, I hope those serving in Congress will pay more than lip-service to the document.

Again, I marvel at the short sightedness of government leaders. Obama recently enacted a freeze on the salaries of government employees, starting with the ones at the bottom of the ladder. How about cutting salaries from the top down for a change? Did you know that the man who runs the U.S. Chamber of Commerce earns close to $3.9 million a year?

I am saddened and dismayed at news of the school shooting in Nebraska. We lived in Omaha for almost ten years and know families who had children at Millard South High School. Thankfully, those students have already graduated, so they were not personally affected by this tragedy, but my heart goes out to current students and staff who are dealing with all the ramifications. Back in 1993 I wrote a book about school violence, Coping with Weapons and Violence In Your School and On Your Streets, and I remember hoping that the violence young people deal with would lessen as time went on. This was before Columbine and other school shootings, and I am sad to say my wish did not come true.

To end on a brighter note. I read back in November about a couple who "gave the ultimate gift." Their 13-year old daughter, Taylor was killed in a skiing accident and her parents donated her organs, a gift that saved five lives. The parents then created a Web site for potential organ donors to sign up.  If you have ever thought about being an organ donor but just haven't gotten around to doing it, visit that site. The process for signing up is quick and easy and just may save a life.

I am Not Making This Up

Absurdities abound.

Yesterday I read a news story about a woman in Dallas who was clearing old, dead vines from a thicket along a park. Apparently there is a city ordinance that one cannot "cut, break, deface or in any way injure the trees shrubs, plants, grass, turf (just in case you don't know what grass is) , fountains, seats, fences, structures, improvements, ornaments or monuments or property within or upon any of the public parks."

Whew. Glad they covered all those bases.

The woman who did this dastardly deed, which led to an arrest and felony charge, is a 67 year old attorney. She was able to maintain a sense of humor and said she met lots of interesting people when she spent the night in jail. "I've never been in a perp walk before," she said. "It was cool."

The story in the Dallas Morning News reported that the woman had been cutting and removing briars, vines, and dead tree limbs from the wooded area of the park for several years. She never considered it "felonious gardening." She was just trying to be helpful.

This is another case where the strict adherance to the letter of the law is absurd. This woman was not hurting or defacing the shrubs. What she was doing was what many gardeners do to improve an area and encourage new growth. It was CLEAN UP. And, yes, I'm shouting.

Could we please use a little common sense when it comes to enforcing the law?

Gardening is so good for the soul

I have been spending a lot of time outdoors planting new flowers and tending to my garden. Since I am still dealing with grief issues, it has been very therapeutic for me. Yesterday I spent an entire day planting things.

That made me think of the year I couldn't garden, so I found an excerpt about that from my memoir....

Pretty little flowers all in a row.

Not that year.

That year a few scraggly weeds lived in the spots usually reserved for the pansies that thrived early in the Texas growing season. Normally, when the sun burned too hot, the pansies would be replaced with petunias, then later with periwinkles. Those hardy little flowers can thumb their noses at the worst heat thrown at them.

Attending to this ritual of planting has always been an important part of my existence. Some days I’d rather be out digging in the dirt than doing almost anything else. The process feeds me deep inside in a way that defies articulation. But those who share this passion understand.

When it was time to plant the pansies that year, I was in the hospital after a complicated kidney surgery. The weeks recuperating at home ate up the rest of early spring when cool nights and mild days nurtured the ‘people’ flowers and let them smile to greet a new day.

My heart ached when I was strong enough to walk out to the front porch and sit on the swing. The empty flower beds looked so lost and forgotten, and I yearned to dig my hands into the dirt. I thought of asking my husband to plant something, just a geranium or two for a splash of color, but resisted the urge on two counts. He had enough to do with taking care of the kids, the house, and his job. Plus, it wasn’t the flowers I missed so much as the process. I could wait a few more weeks and still have plenty of growing season left. It lasts forever in Texas.

Petunia season came and went, and still the flowerbeds stood empty.

I’d had a bit of a set-back in my recovery. Some nerves had been damaged during the hours-long surgery and the pain was still incredibly severe. That forced another trip to the hospital to see if anything could be done.

By the time I got home again, we were well into periwinkle season and my flowerbeds had grown lush with weeds. My instinct was to lean forward in the swing and pluck out a clump of clover, but the look from my husband, rich with unsaid words, stilled the impulse.

I’m sure he meant well. Like so many spouses standing on the outside he felt so helpless in the face of my pain and limitations. He only wanted to protect me. But my heart yearned to be digging in the dirt. It was a deep and powerful ache that wouldn’t go away.

During my next visit to the doctor, I asked if he thought it would be okay to do a bit of gardening. “I’ll be careful,” I said. “And I just feel this great need.”

The man could have posed for a Norman Rockwell painting as he sat on his little black stool with one finger tapping his cheek. Then he spoke. “Personally, I think there’s something very healing about dirt. Although I don’t recommend eating it.”

He paused to acknowledge the smile with timing so perfect he could’ve been on the comedy circuit. “But I do recommend filling your hands with it. Smell it. Work it. Let it fall through your fingers. It won’t cure you, but it won’t hurt, either. And maybe it will make you feel better where it matters.”

Several hours later I knelt on the grass. I ignored the pain that ran down my side and into my leg and leaned close to the dirt. The trowel felt good in my hand as I loosened a small section of the flowerbed. Then I picked up clumps of earth and crumbled them, letting the rich black dirt stream through my fingers. I reveled in the cool dampness; the pungent aroma. Then I dug a hole big enough to hold the single Marigold.

“Ah,” my heart said. “Just what you needed."

Six more weeks of winter?

Today is the day -- Groundhog Day -- not as auspicious a holiday as some others, but one we can have fun with. And my friend, Tracy Farr, is having lots of fun on his blog today. Hope you can hop over there to read his whole piece.

If the groundhog was here in East Texas today, he would not see his shadow, as it is overcast this morning and supposed to be that way all day. Problem is Punxsutawney Phil is in Pennsylvania and I think the sun is shining there. That means he will see his shadow and we will have six more weeks of winter. Bah Humbug>

I am ready for spring. I am ready for the outdoor work to begin. I am so ready, I am planting onions and potatoes today and spitting in Punxsutawney Phil's eye.

Connecting to the Past

For years now members of my family have been telling me that I am a great deal like my paternal grandmother. I knew there were similarities, but the real connection didn't hit me until this morning, when I came in from working in the garden and had a biscuit for breakfast.

Let me explain.

My grandmother, Emma, had a great, huge garden sprawling up the hill in back of her house in West Virginia. Every morning during growing season, she would be out on the hill tending to the garden. She'd sit down on her heels and scootch down a row of beans weeding and picking at the same time. When she got to the end of one row, she'd stand up and stretch, then start down the next row.

In addition to beans, Emma grew tomatoes, peppers, corn, beets and all kinds of greens. She could have set up a vegetable stand in front of her house and made a small fortune. Instead, she canned what she didn't give away. Family and friends always knew where to come for fresh produce.

Emma spent endless hours in her garden, and when she broke for breakfast or dinner, her food of choice was always a biscuit. Not just any old biscuit, but a baking powder biscuit that she could make like no other, except for my Aunt Opal, Emma's oldest daughter.

Accompanying the biscuit for breakfast might be an egg or a piece of fruit. I had mine this morning with a peach. Dinner -- lunch to city folk -- was biscuits and beans. Supper, the biscuit might give way to a pan of cornbread with the beans and a sliced tomato.

Like Emma, I am drawn to the outdoors and to gardening. Even in this Texas heat I am out early in the mornings weeding, watering, trimming, or whatever needs to be done. And I have a pasture to maintain. Grandma never had large animals. Just a few chickens, and they don't leave great gobs of stuff that have to be shoveled and carted off.

My garden isn't as big as hers was, but every time I go out to do some weeding, I think of her. Sometimes I even sit on my heels and try the scootching thing. And this morning when I broke the biscuit into my bowl, the connection to her was so strong it stopped me for a moment.

What an amazing thing to know that people are never really gone forever. Some part of them still lives on through us.

I hope you enjoyed the biscuit, Grandma.

Random Thoughts

This has been a disjointed day for me as I have a lot of things going on. Started this morning when I decided to plant beans. Seemed like a good thing to do since we are getting a lot of rain here in East Texas over the last few days.

While I was out working in the garden, I discovered that something ate my peas. I had several coming up and had just put up a trellis to support the vines. Too late to replant now. Drat. Guess I will plant a few more beans and hope something doesn't eat them, too.

I am getting ready for an all day event at a library tomorrow, so I am working down a to-do list to make sure I have everything else taken care of. I will have to leave early in the morning to drive almost two hours to the library in Tyler.

If any of you reading this live near Tyler, do stop by from 10 until 4:30. There will be a number of authors there with a wide variety of books.

This event is called "Azalea Tales" and is running in conjunction with the annual "Azalea Trails" that takes place when the flowers are in their full glory.

I have a few azaleas blooming, but they are not as full and lush as the ones in this picture. I guess I need to add more compost for them.