The Lime in Winter

Mornings on the St. Johns shore have been heartbreakingly gorgeous. First, the cosmic artist drenches the sky with ebony which fades into blue;then a slash of apricot appears. Birds begin to zip westward. They are silhouettes of aerodynamic zoom and purpose. Later in the morning the Top Gun pilots will try to emulate them, much higher and so very much louder.

Compost Tea in a Sun Tea Jar

Put some high grade compost in one of those mysteriously single socks that return unmatched from the washing machine. Add water. Some folks add molasses and use an aquarium pump. I don't. I put the jar in the Florida sunshine and leave it for three to five days. Then I decant it and pour it on my green friends. I am frequently assisted by my grandson Harry, a truly amazing novice gardener.

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.