Santa's Helpers Are Subordinate Clauses

Hard to believe it is five days until Christmas. Totally unprepared for the onslaught, I find myself sitting in the camphor alcove watching the big red tail hawk. She swoops in about 11:00, settles herself on the river arch and lunches on something in the rye grass. Lizards? Snakes? I can't tell from the alcove. Her feathers are red gold and black. When she swoops away, her white undertail is a banner flying against the St.Johns blue gray.

She reminds me of the post Vietnam year when I produced my first born child, raised a red tail hawk in the guest room and tried to be a good Mrs. Lieutenant.

Mother Nature and Father Time

The winter sky over the garden this morning is mother of pearl gray. We have had four inches of rain in one day and the rye grass is drinking it up. Everything is green and gray with only the brave narcissus poking its cluster of white flowers into the air. Yes, everything in the garden is the offspring of Mother Nature and Father Time with perhaps me as the clumsy midwife.

And we say EPA is too costly

The fresh apple, still cold and crisp from the fridge, is not-me only until I eat it. When I eat, I eat the soil that nourished the apple. When I drink, the waters of the earth become me. With every breath, I take in I draw in not-me and make it me. With every breath out, I exhale me into not-me.

If the air and the waters and the soils are poisoned, I am poisoned. Only if I believe the fiction of the lines more that the truth of the lineless planet will I poison the earth, which is myself.

Donella H. Meadows 1941-2001

What is under the red bowl?

I always walk around the property when I have been gone for over 24 hours. Things change so dramatically. Buds unfurl, holes are dug, the labyrinth gets weedy. Nature is never still or silent, not really.

Recently I returned to find the big red bowl which usually sits on a limestone rock at the tea house entrance, turned over on a concrete paver. Odd, I thought, maybe the twins were playing or maybe Brad or Betty sat on it for some strange reason. There was a glass plate of cat food next to it. I imagined Betty sitting on it and petting Chester or Gold while he ate organic kibbles.

I reaching down to turn the bowl over, and something hissed loudly. " Snake," I thought. But I had a glimpse of grey fur, so I knew my first guess was wrong. Finding a copper pipe, I turned it over and there, coiled in a perfect circle, was the biggest opossum I have ever seen.

He was not happy, I had flipped his bowl. He snarled, hissed, and waddled into the forest. Chester and I looked at one another. I could tell his bb brain was confused also. Had the possum pulled the heavy bowl over on him? Had someone placed it over him? How long had he been covered? An enigma wrapped in a conundrum !

I Found A Thrill on Native Park Hill

Yes, I'm in this picture, but it is not in my jardin. Jake and Pam Ingram, Sally Robison and others are laboring to restore Native Plant Park. They have put in hours of labor to remove air potatoes and reintroduce native plants in a little neighborhood park that was dedicated to natives many, many years ago. After reading the book, Bowling Alone which describes my generation's retreat from the communal sphere, I am touched by folks who aren't secluded in their electronic cottages. Thanks, Jake,Pam, and Sally, you are restoring my faith in the possibility of averting the tragedy of the commons.

Love Brigade on the Lawn

They came again, the makeup artist, the hair designer, the videographer, the production manager, the bone thin models both male and female. Last year they came to shoot the view book on the river lawn, this year they came to do a video. They are infant entrepreneurs working hard to establish themselves, their line, their brand. Somehow my heart goes out to them. I remember my brief sojourn in NY. I remember sweating in winter wool for the December issue of the magazine. I remember the horrified shrieks of the hair folks when the hot lights made my curls sneak out from the shellacked 60's straightness that had been decreed by the fashion czars.I remember the sweet crooning of the photographer as he took the pictures and then handed his camera to the Asian assistant for instant reloading. There is no reloading now. There is only perpetuity.

Hot, hot, hot

OK what do I do with buckets of hot banana peppers? All of the folks I know are on antacids with serious medical names like Omeprazole. I'm thinking I will make Christmas gifts for the younger folks who still have intact digestive systems. Hot Pepper Mustard sounds good. It can be found on the web and doesn't seem to require a degree in astrophysics to create.

Trite but True

I believe this. While part of me used to seek the geographical cure of a move to somewhere else, part of me knows I am here for a reason and I need to deal with it.I am planted in the former Cowford where mud bogging outsells the symphony and barbeque is the preferred cuisine. That's fine.This has been my home for over three decades and the city has provided me with a livlihood and a mental album of beautiful views.

I have never understood why the city hasn't grown except for its homeless core. The only reason I can give is that it is too spread out to have a serious sense of community. Auto dependence has made the burbs seem closeby. White flight rolled on rubber feet.

Bee Here Now

The bee plaza was created after the Frances/Jean flood in 1995. The bee tiles had been nearer the water, but huge waves destroyed the plaza. Michael reassembled them farther uphill and there they have remained.

I am always taken by Buckminster Fuller's statement, " Bumblebees can't fly. Their fuselage is too big for their gossamer wings, but they don't know this and so they fly." How many times in my life have I done something I couldn't do because I had to do it?

Water Gardens for Under a Dollar

The water gardens are flourishing when every thing else is dying of the drought. This picture is an example of a DIY garden. The grid is a fan frame. The pot a found item. The aqua pipe is a vacuum cleaner addition. The old clothesline wick was from the street. I plant in the top only and keep the reservoir full of water. The plant is watered from its feet not its head. They are happier that way.

Yesterday I learned to identify pests at Master Gardener. How on earth is anything alive? Tiny red dragons stalk their pencil point prey; ants farm aphids, the mantis has a one night stand and then snips off the head of her paramour. Petite morte has a new meaning. I was pleased to hear the instructors recommending chemicals as a last resort not a first choice. Things have changed.

Black Madonna, Alchemical Chamber, Womb

Yesterday, I spent four hours removing compost from the container. The compost was rich and black. There was no trace of the cotton gloves, dryer lint, coffee grounds that I had put in the container. I put some of the black gold on the lawn where the bare patches are. I put lots of it on the raised beds. Why am I so mesmerized by compost? It is magical to me. The metamorphosis of the materials still takes my breath away. Now I am learning about the insects that aid in the transformation. I have an army of millions at my suburban disposal. Amazing.

A Giant Emerald

The garden always surprises me. Just when I think everything has swooned with the heat, I find an edible. Today it was a giant, perfect bell pepper in the Pluto box. Most folks would call the container an Earth Box and it is certainly based on the EB model. It is actually an old lawn cart retrofitted with a water chamber and a drainage hole. I stuck a piece of plastic pipe in it for watering. I see there are many cherry tomatoes the size of marbles there also. I remember the wonderful Urban Feast of 07. There were peppers there also. Yum.

Tiny Purple Beans With Emerald Centers

In the 90 degrees plus heat, the garden keeps putting out sustenance. Tonight I harvested a handful of bright purple string beans, a handful of basil, two scallions and three cherry tomatoes, mixed in some feta balsamic dressing and yum. That is one of the virtues of the garden, the freshest of the world's food at my fingertips.

Seeing Michele Obama's garden on the South Lawn almost made me weep. It is small but it there, an outward and visible sign that food comes from the earth and not merely from styrofoam sleeves in the supermarket.

Assasins All AAARGH

I came out at dawn to revel over the tiny tomatoes that were being produced despite the global warning, Hades-like temps that have rendered the landscape a seared mass of detritus. And YIKES, the tiny tomatoes had been denuded. The lush vines were sticks poking the gray sky. And on each stick was a thumb sized green tomato horn worm. I cut off the branches and dropped them into this bucket. Then I thought, do these become butterflies??? Have I killed soul images? Every solution seems be have consequences these carmageddon days.

For Crinum Out Loud

. She has big strapping leaves with gaudy pink purple flowers that throw up their heads and scream "look at me." And I do. The Southern Bulb Company labels her Ellen Bosanquet and says she can get out of control easily.A passionate plant given to Bacchanalian excess. Her sorority sisters across the yard throw white blossoms that look like horticultural fireworks or big bow debutantes. According to the bulb gurus they all die back in the winter. Ah, yes, So much beauty for so little effort.

Neon Mormons Glean Ortega

Pear, pears, glorious sand pears everywhere. Great pear butter, jam, chutney. Folks just don't use the bounty that is theirs. Grate a little ginger into a crock pot full of pear slices, add lemon and honey and cook all night. The next day, blend the pears. Yum.
The Neon Mormons are Robo and me. We ride in a pair with our neon bike jackets. I heard one little boy tell another," They are the Neon Mormons." The name has stuck.

Rain Glorious Rain

Big juicy drops are falling from the sky and then there is a rainbow. We have been dry too long and so each drop appears as a liquid diamond; puddles are landscape jewelry of the antique excellent variety not paste gems. Why is it that only scarcity lets me value daily doings like transpiration and photosynthesis???? Without either of them, it is Gotterdamerung as Ashley said at Twelve Oaks.

Smoke Gets in the Garden

Too much smoke to toil and till. I race to the black river still. Paddle as silent as shadows now. I escape the smoke somehow.

Scarlet's Flower Double

O.K., I confess, I grew up in Jonesboro, Ga., a town of 305 in which we were the NEW people for nine years. Jonesboro’s claim to fame was its mention in Margaret Mitchell’s book Gone With the Wind, a book that has sold almost as many copies as the Bible. Indeed, for lots of middle aged Southern women, GWTW was the Bible. It provided chapter and verse about things the average belle could and could not do and remain on the barbeque A-list. Anyway, Jonesboro was the location of the main character’s home, the mythic Tara.

Because of my upbringing, I tend to see many of my garden plants embodying the characteristics of GWTW folks. That my crinum lilies for example. They always remind me of Belle Watling, the lady of ill repute with heart of gold according to Rhett Butler. According to Mammy, Belle was a dyed hair woman, a type consigned to the lower level of Dante’s Inferno.

My crinums thrust themselves on the garden scene around May. Their purple red flowers look “dyed” in that they are an uber bright red pink. They are all business, dense and prolific. Their wide strap like leaves, offer excellent contrast against the azaleas and the rosemary. Indeed, they will take over any part of the garden not visited regularly by the weed whacker.

Today, I found three young crinums in the mulch path. I will dig them up and replant them next to the Red Butler daylilies. They might enjoy one another.

Smoke, Too Much Smoke

There are fires in the north, possibly Okefenokee, and in St. Johns county to the south. A Halloween like haze is everywhere. I have an acrid taste in my mouth. The paper said we need a good tropical storm to put out the blazes. It is a little early to ask the deity for a full blown hurricane, but maybe just a class 1 tropical depression would be enough.

When I think of all the evenings I spent watching the city bed down, and now I can't see past my bulkhead. Sadness.

I know he's right. Edmund O. Wilson and the entire gang at Horticultural Therapy are right. When I wander in the garden, black cat swatting my heels, breeze wafting off the St. Johns, seeds sprouting, butterflies swooping, tomatoes ripening, lettuce bolting, compost simmering.......I'm restored.

Labyrinth Walk at 1:00 on May 7

The Veriditas folks have informed me that May7 is World Wide Labyrinth Day. According to them, everyone should try to walk a labyrinth at 1:00 PM to send a wave of peaceful energy around the planet.

I'm all for peaceful energy in whatever form it appears. I plan to walk the little garden labyrinth on the river yard. It is now covered in wild flowers. Chester, the new wonder cat, loves to jump up in the air and land in the gallardias ( aka beach daisies). While this does not create peace during my labyrinth walk, it makes me giggle. As far as I can tell the planet needs both peace and giggles.

Springs Hope Eternal ?

My hope-fantasy is that I will be able to reproduce the giant field of sunflowers I had three years ago. Reality is that I have actually replanted one set of sunflowers that had been yanked out of their bed by the light pole on St. Johns. Yes,I have put seeds of Helianthus Annuus in the concrete blocks surrounding the Urbfarm, but so far nothing has shown up. Perhaps one of the reasons is that I have uncovered the seeds each time I hosed down the blocks. I have also fallen in love with the blurb on the Moulin Rouge seed packet.It pictures a rich velvety, deep red, pollenless sunflower--excellent for cutting.The mass in the picture is so thick you can't see the ground in which they are planted. Reality is that I have managed to grow one spindly flower out of all the seeds. That orphan may not make it to adulthood given the stomping canines that amble through the flower garden. Oh well, hope springs eternal.

Thirty Folks on Bikes

I agreed to do the River Friendly lawn tour. The night before I was told three people had signed up. I bakes a dozen blueberry loquat muffins and made two quarts of lemonade. At 10:00 Jimmy O. called and said, " A few more folks are coming." I said, " Five?" He said," Thirty."

It was too late for more muffins. I did have more lemonade. The pulled up, boiled in and listened to my three minute lecture. Then they roamed around the yard, frowning. A few came by and asked me questions," What do you do with the dollar weed?" My answer was live with it. They frowned.

I think it is hard for folks to get away from ego gardening. I love the bumpersticker I saw recently, " If your lawn is green, you're NOT." That says it all.

Miz Scarlett

She came quietly into the corner of the lily garden right in front of the organic garden sign. I noticed her first out of the corner of my eye but somehow thought someone from the park had thrown a candy wrapper into the garden. Nothing in the natural world good be that red? Could it?

Yes, a scarlet amaryllis had unfolded, slowly like a geisha before a client. She was unnaturally gorgeous. I did not plant her. I wonder which bird did?

Haiku Amaryllis

Basho, the poet, wrote a haiku that said, " The temple bells go quiet but the sound comes out of the flowers." The amaryllis this year have a temple bell quality. They are so huge they seem almost vocal. Some of them are striped and at least one is house -of- ill- repute red. I call her Miz Scarlett. She is in the back of the more conventional fleurs and is opening slowly, teasingly slowly.

Since I never planted any of these belles, I am just a spectator to their show.

Giant Lemon

This lemon on steroids is a Ponderosa. It has about the same amount of juice that a regular lemon has, but it makes a better prop for photos.

Rosemary for Remembrance

Ah, rosemary---bushes of it higher than a 6'man. So many uses, pesto, roasted potatoes, sticks for sausage. Rumor has it that much of Riverside was wild rosemary. The elders called it a rosemary bald meaning a sandy spot with rosemary bushes. Rosemary for remembrance says a crazed Ophelia. Now the docs are using alkaloids of rosemary to treat Alzheimers. Everything seems to come full circle.

Roselle Jam

They call it a Florida cranberry. It's flower resembles a hibiscus. The recipe for the jam is in Cross Creek Cookery, Majorie Kinnan Rawlings' wonderful book on Florida backwoods cuisine. The taste is fruity but the texture is a bit off putting rather slimy. Perhaps I simply didn't do it right.

The Queen Arrives

Reality is that I don't know her sex. She could be a he for all I know. I am just so happy to have her land on the property. It means there is biodiversity on my tiny plot, at least enough to support a red-tailed hawk.

Her wing span is as wide as the arch she sits on. I remember the power of the talons when Grecia would hit the leather hawking glove and dig in. To watch a hawk furl and drop, that is my idea of pure power and beauty.

Tea for Two or Ten

On cool, non-mosquito days, I crawl into the tea house and sip Earl Grey. I find it returns me to my childhood invisibility, the invisibility I thought I had high in Mimi's chinaberry tree.

The folks in the cul de sac right outside the tea house don't know I am there, so I hear interesting conversations. For some reason, lots of folks choose the cul de sac for romantic meetings and fiery break-ups. The dialogue is intriguing for my writer soul. I remember Steinbeck used to pay Mexican immigrants 50 cents a story. I get mine gratis.

Armadillo Attack

They're back. I put an entire cart of fill dirt in their little triangular holes. One of the holes was so deep I filled it with 11 calamondines because I ran out of fill dirt. I think Sox, the wonder cat, has given up. He seemed equal to the task of perimeter patrol, but has not been seen for two days. Robo thinks that he was traumatized by being locked in the garage. Hope not.

According to the web, nothing works---not moth balls, not predator urine, not high pitched noises----- nothing short of capture and relocate. I have one Havaheart trap and judging from the holes, I have about thirty armadillos. Let's see which month shall I devote to armadillo relocation? And, according to the pros, I have to take each one at least ten miles away.