How does your garden grow?

 

My herb garden at a funny angle

In the spring at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.—Margaret Atwood

 

My dad was a hobby gardener. Weekdays, he was an osteopathic physician, president of the Chicago College of Osteopathic Medicine, and administrator of the associated hospital. But weekends found him in grubby clothes on his knees in the garden. Mom always worried that students would come by and find him in those dirty, torn clothes with the ridiculous knee pads, but he didn’t care. When he bought the house in Chicago (1937, I think) he also bought the vacant lot next door, and it became his garden—a vast expanse, to my childish eyes, of green grass and flower beds, with a tiny, struggling vegetable garden.

I did not inherit that gene, though I envy those who find renewal digging in the earth. A friend recently wrote that he would not be grounded if he did not have his hands literally in dirt every day. Oh, I’ve gardened over the years, mostly pot plants. I used to have a flourishing short-lived lettuce bed in a long planter on the front porch, and I nursed the same pot of chives for years until snowmageddon did it in. But a dedicated gardener I am not. I love having beautiful flower beds, but I want someone else to do the work, especially now that I am somewhat mobility challenged.

We have a division of gardening labor at the Alter/Burton compound. Christian is an avid pot gardener (he is also an amazing cook—how lucky are we?). By early summer, he has the front porch alive with all kind of blooming plants, clustered everywhere. He also takes responsibility for the front yard where, this year, we have had a great loss. For almost thirty years, I had two huge rosemary bushes on either side of the steps to the porch. Age, plus snowmageddon plus a hard freeze early this past winter did them in, and they are no more. Christian says it looks pretty bare. I want to replace them, but not with small five-gallon plants. As I explained to him this morning, at my age I’m not enthusiastic about something that will look great in ten years. That’s not pessimism, just reality. Big rosemary bushes, however, are expensive, so I am thinking.

Meanwhile, Jordan and I have responsibility for the back yard, although Christian puts blooming plants on the deck. Every year we hold our breath to see if the bougainvillea will be as magnificent as the last year. This spring, he has successfully grown a pot of yellow Gerber daisies—I never could get them to grow for me.

The back yard is the scene I look out on every day from my desk, the patio where I entertain, the view from my cottage. Last week, I went to TJ’s Greenery, a backyard nursery in Haltom City and got lovely plants, still small but strong, and plenty of herbs for my moveable herb garden. Jordan has now planted them, but we still have a list of things to get—sweet potato vine to put around the basil, fountain grass for the big planters, a couple of planters that didn’t make my first list.

But for the heavy stuff for both yards, I have for several years now used a landscaping company owned by a local “boy.” Okay, John Filarowicz is probably not ten years younger than my youngest child, but he grew up in the neighborhood, as did his wife, and he will probably always be a boy to many of us. He has, however, a horticulture degree from Texas A&M and a thriving business, with at least two crews. He will take care of things like replacing the lantana that died by the front sidewalk (I didn’t know you could kill the stuff, but we’ve had two awful winters and an extreme drought in between). He will replace the back yard grass--we try something new every year, none of it works well, and we’ll go back to Bermuda this year. And John and his crew have put in a small native plant garden for me, which I find exciting.

For the past few years we’ve had pentas in a bed in front of the deck, but last year they were

Pitiful pentas

pitiful, so bad that John said he felt like an oncologist delivering bad news. So this year I’ve talked to him about filling that space with yellow native plants—coreopsis, gallardia, black-eyed Susan. We have yellow going in the marigolds I bought for pots by my kitchen door and in the new native plant garden. I’m a fan of yellow plants so that idea appeals to me.

Jordan is convinced the marigolds by the kitchen door are too small, and I am having to remind her it’s early April. They will grow and fill out as summer comes on. Then I have to convince myself of the same thing about the new beds.

Even though I don’t garden, I find spring, the season of new growth, incredibly exciting. How about you? How does your garden grow/

Things I wish were different

 

A Chinese pistache tree

It was a picture of a painted bunting that started me on this train of thought. The beautiful little bird had landed on someone’s bird feeder, and they, struck by their good luck, got a good picture of it. And suddenly, there I was, thinking about the things in my life that I wished were different.

No, my wishes don’t involve riches or great wealth, homes in Santa Fe and Scotland, servants to cook my meals and clean my house every day, and certainly not the huge house I once, as the mother of four, dreamed about. Today, my wishes are much more modest. But they are also, I realize, things of the past—bits of knowledge and habits that I wish I had cultivated years ago. It is now too late.

I have long wished I was knowledgeable about trees and birds. Oh, I can recognize an oak, even a post oak, or a pecan. But there’s a tree trying to grow out of the fence behind my cottage—and I would have called it a catalpa. But those are the things from back home in Illinois that grew long “cigarettes” that we pretended to smoke as children. Lots of leaves on one stem. A mimosa? When Christian said he wanted a Chinese pistache, I had no idea what he was talking about. I envy those people who can look at a tree, tell me what it is, what’s wrong with it or not.

Similarly, I wish I knew more about plants. My dad spent his weekends on his hands and knees, wearing grubby clothes with huge, ugly rubber pads wrapped around his knees to protect them. We owned the lot next to our house, and it was Dad’s garden—the place where he could unwind, let go, dig in the dirt, and be perfectly happy. He was the president of an osteopathic college, but he didn’t care one whit if a student came by and caught him in gardening clothes.

Me? I can barely tell a hosta from a hydrangea, though Christian has done much to educate me. Oh yeah, I recognize pansies and petunias, roses and geraniums, and I  once was sharp about recognizing poison ivy, but bougainvillea were a whole new experience for me. I’m learning, but not at a fast enough rate. And now that a challenge to my mobility keeps me from gardening, it seems a bit pointless. Oh, who am I fooling? I never much wanted to garden. I dabbled in it, but I am perfectly content these days to pay for a lawn and garden service. What I really want is a classic English garden replacing our front lawn where grass is always a problem—good some years, a disaster other years. Don’t tell me it’s Texas and too dry—I saw a picture today of a Fort Worth acquaintance’s garden--a lovely, wild English garden in front of his house--and I burned with jealousy. But I can’t do the work, I doubt the lawn service would do it, and Christian is wedded to the idea of a conventional lawn. I’m at least hoping to get him, one year soon, to consider clover because it’s cheap, lasts a long time, and is better for the environment—doesn’t require so much water.

And then there are the birds. I sit at my desk in the early morning or twilight, listen to them sing, and wish that I could link the song to a specific bird, but it’s beyond me. I can recognize bluejays (love when they visit) and cardinals—we have a pair that live in our yard, though I haven’t seen them yet this year. But I know the saying that when they do visit it means someone from beyond is thinking of you and I always think it's my parents.

At one point, a friend gave me, at my request, a guide to birds that I kept by my kitchen sink, back when I was in the house and had a greenhouse window over the sink and a bird feeder right outside. But I was never good at spotting birds—eventually the tree that held the feeder had to be cut down, and I moved from the main house to the cottage. We have hung hummingbird feeders out here, but to no avail. If my dad was the gardener, my mom was the bird person. She had a bird feeder right outside the dining room window in their retirement home, and I sat in the window many a time watching the hummingbirds whir and fight and eat.

But when I think about these things, I remind myself to think about the things I am passionate (and knowledgeable) about—books and reading and publishing and cooking, politics with a humanitarian slant, religion though I tend to keep quiet about that. In listing the things I regret, I am by no means complaining. I have too much in life to be grateful for. It’s just that sometimes I notice the things that have slipped by me.

Want to talk about the mystery genre and the various subgenres? I can probably hold my own in that conversation.

 

A plant controversy

Grape hyacinth on my fence

Years ago, during a remodeling, we decided having dogs with access to the main driveway gate was not a good idea. Scooby, my beloved Aussie, would get so frantic if a storm was coming that he’d try to crawl into the gate, and I was afraid he’d get stuck and hurt himself. So, with the help of Lewis Bundock, the wonderful contractor who kept my house in good repair for years, we fenced off the driveway from the yard. Because I was pinching pennies, it was—and is—a four-foot hurricane fence. Not aesthetically pleasing, though I have to admit the openness it offers is a bonus as opposed to a solid wooden fence.

But it’s been an eyesore for years. One year I tried climbing roses, but they died. Then I tried to plant a vegetable garden of sorts in the tiny strip of land on the driveway side of the fence. The onions and lettuce died, even though a neighbor bought all the right soil, etc., and labored long and hard to put that garden in.

So this summer when a neighbor offered the community free grape hyacinth seeds and said they would grow anywhere, I took her up on the offer, with great gratitude. I couldn’t plant them, and I was unsure when anyone else in the household would get around to it. Plus, we had that track record of dead plants.

I mentioned the seeds to the young man who owns the lawn service, and he said, “Give them to me. I’ll have the guys plant them.” And he did—fifty dollars later. My free seeds were suddenly expensive. But I am not complaining, because the vines are growing and I’m quite sure otherwise the seeds would still be on my kitchen shelf.

This week, the vines began to bloom—a lovely, delicate pink, tiny bloom. I am delighted to look out my “garden” window and see them. But controversy has arisen: Christian went online, looked up grape hyacinth, and announced the plant is a creeper, not a climber. I have two amateur opinions that it is grape hyacinth. But if it’s blooming and softening the look of that metal fence, does it really matter? (After too many tries, I have given up trying to get the internet image posted--if you are interested, please google it; believe me, it looks nothing like what's on my fence.)

The vines are all sort of centered on the fence, but I am hopeful that they will branch out laterally as they continue to grow. Or maybe the plant reseeds itself abundantly. I figure we’ll give it a year to see what happens, but so far I am pleased with it.

And the bougainvillea, which seemed to suffer from the harsh winter, even though it was inside, has finally offered a few blooms. The pentas in front of the deck are lush and colorful, and the zoysia grass looks green and even, in spite of dog pee and poop—I despaired of it in the spring but apparently zoysia is slower to fill out than some other grasses. My lawn guy kept saying, “Patience. Give it some time.” He didn’t know, apparently, that patience is almost a useless word to use with me.

The plants—and I—were grateful for the rain this morning. Jacob, playing in a tournament on a golf course, was not so grateful. And now that we’ve gotten the yard in good shape, it’s too hot, humid, and buggy to sit out on the patio—not for me but for almost everyone else.

A handyman came today to look at all the little jobs we have accumulated—the flexible screen on my patio is torn and patched, and I have a replacement, but we needed it installed. Jordan looked but decided it was beyond her pay grade; Jacob inadvertently put a golf ball through one board in the fence beyond the driveway, but I notice tonight the gentleman took the board with him. The back door needs molding replaced where dogs have pawed at it to get inside, and the flag holder on the front porch was installed backward—Jordan claimed that one, but at least she tried. And then there’s a chandelier to be replaced with a ceiling fan and other small things. We miss Lewis Bundock something fierce but will be glad to have a reliable replacement.

And so, summer life rolls on. We are still fortunate with weather, and still grateful. I read with great sympathy and concern about heat and fires in other parts of the country. I worry about my children’s half-sister in California, who was burned out last year, but so far, she had not mentioned fires near them. The abstract horror becomes much more real when it hits someone you care about.

Sweet dreams, everyone—dream of flowers, not fires.

That kind of a Sunday

It was that kind of a Sunday

Sophie’s pose illustrates perfectly how I felt about today—it was that kind of Sunday. Once again, it took me a while to get going, though I did get my hair washed so as to be ready for church. But Christian pleaded exhaustion, and I went to church on the computer. Apparently, the national habit of turning everything into a designated holiday has reached the churches. Today was Higher Education Sunday, a special day I don’t remember ever hearing of before. But the sermon hit home with me—it was about how TCU and my church, University Christian, need and support each other. The community formed by those two institutions has been the center of my adult public life, and I was glad to hear the relationship affirmed, in spite of past occasions when the two took separate paths.

I would much prefer to be physically in church, but when that isn’t possible, I am grateful for the live streaming. Today neither the audio nor the video cut out, which happens too frequently and is so frustrating. The music, of course, is not as grand and glorious, but I still get a sense of a part of the week set aside for worship and inspiration.

Once the early service was over, I alternated between baking oatmeal/raisin cookies and a chicken casserole for supper. Not sure the casserole was a hit—personally I thought it needed salt, which is easily added. But I didn’t taste the wine/herb base I used. It’s a technique I used to do all the time with leftover turkey. Somehow it wasn’t quite the same. Jordan’s blue cheese salad was good.

Finished a cozy mystery that I really enjoyed—By Book or by Crook, a Lighthouse Library Mystery—and started an Alexander McCall Smith title, The Second Worst Restaurant in France. Despite the great popularity of his #1 Ladies Detective Agency Series, I never could hook into those books and so have not been among Smith’s legion of fans, which always gives me the feeling I’m missing something. But I liked the title of this one, and novels about food always draw me in. Not far enough in yet to have an opinion.

Still basking in the loveliness of last night’s birthday dinner. Sue took this picture of Jordan, Christian, and me. As usual, they photograph wonderfully—I think that was a gene I missed, but this is a better picture of me than many. My dear late friend Bobbie used to tell me she didn’t know why or what it was but I really never did look good in pictures—Megan always said, “Bobbie tells it like it is.” And my mother told me that her father once said she took such a poor picture that the only place he’d hang it was in the barn. I think Mom passed that gene on to me.

Hard freeze tonight, but who needs a greenhouse? I have a shower stall.

Of birds and dogs and dinner

An angel came to visit me today. I was sitting at my desk, with the door open as always, and suddenly a large male cardinal, in full red glory, landed on the screen—a tricky move, but he hung there just long enough to stare at me a moment, then he flew to the low wall next to the door—and in an instant he was gone. The old saying is that when a cardinal visits you it means someone from heaven is thinking about you, and, of course, I always think it’s my mom

Jordan put a more mundane spin on the story. She says the cardinal landed on the deck, outside the window where she was working, and kind of fell over before righting himself. She got up to see if he was okay—she suspected a wing issue—but he was gone by the time she got outside. So we’re praying that he’s safe and hearty and just came to give us a message.

I was surprised Sophie didn’t react, but she was sleeping in her favorite chair. That’s how she usually spends the mornings—cat naps with periodic forays to patrol the outside. But I think this morning, she was extra tired because she was absolutely hyper yesterday. She chased squirrels all morning, barking in an annoying manner. My attempts to lure her inside were ignored. Last night I mentioned the muddy footprints on the sidewalk, and only then did I learn that she had been “refreshing” herself in the kiddie pool recently vacated by Jacobs bass fish. Jacob found her standing in the muddy water—and I suspect it was only muddy because of dirt she had tracked into it. Thank goodness, she didn’t crawl into my bed.

Last night she refused to go out at ten as she usually does, and this morning she slept until I woke her. I think Sophie, now eight and in doggie middle age, might have learned that she can’t chase squirrels all day as she did at two.

While animals seem to be flourishing in our little compound, so do my desk plants. My patio tomatoes are growing nicely, though I don’t see any blooms on them which might promise fruit. And my basil is growing enough that I soon need to do something with it—probably pesto. I used to have old-fashioned plastic ice cube trays. I’d fill each cube space with pesto, freeze, and then dump into a baggie. I need to do that again. Meanwhile I think I have the only weeping basil I’ve ever seen—it looks like it’s in desperate need of water, but I water it regularly and the leaves and stem are perfectly firm. I just think it’s a weeping variety—if there is such a thing.  Or an aberration.

Monday nights are often salad nights for Jordan and me—a big salad with leaf lettuce and my special blue cheese dressing. So good.

Garden time—and a bit of role reversal

Jordan and I planned a full day—grocery, plant nursery, and a really belated birthday lunch. Only I forgot about the lunch. Since we had to leave early (for me) to get Jacob to school, I threw on sweats and a T-shirt with a hoodie. Grocery-store chic. At home, after the grocery and waiting for friend Mary who was going to the plant store with us, Jordan came charging out to the cottage and announced I had to change clothes. It was okay, she said, to go to the grocery in sweats and a T-shirt, but I had to dress better for lunch. So she chose some dark green sweats that look a little more like regular pants, and a lighter green sweater (of sweatshirt material). I threw on a fling, but it proved too much as the day warmed.

We went to Weston Gardens rather than the local chain nursery. It’s a bit of a drive, out in the country, but a wonderful place with most helpful employees. I sat in royal splendor in my walker with a seat and supervised as Jordan, Christian, and Mary picked out plants, mostly for pots. We came home with geraniums, columbine, fountain grass, phlox, hydrangea, ferns, and a pot of chives. Severe storms are predicted for tomorrow, so the more delicate blooming plants will live in my shower until Sunday, which Jordan has designated as planting day.

The winter rye in the back yard looks so wonderful that I hate to see it go away, but I know it soon will, and we’ll over-seed with Bermuda. Jordan worried that the ferns we bought were too small for the pots, but they will grow. And soon the yard will be filled with bloom, and we can enjoy lovely evenings on the patio. Someone please banish the mosquitoes.

For lunch, we went to Righteous Foods—Jordan’s choice. It took me a while to realize how really good the food is there. I was put off at first by the emphasis on smoothies and grains and the like. But I’ve had a couple of dishes there that I like a lot—and it’s nice to feel righteous. Jordan had a lovely hamburger, and Mary had shrimp tacos. I chose franks and beans—what kind of health food restaurant serves franks and beans? It was delicious—locally made hot dogs with marinated cabbage and cheese, with black beans on the side. And churros for dessert. Color me stuffed, but I only hate half my sandwich and will have the other half tonight.

Buttoning down for the predicted storms.

Sunshine again—and a Stormy prediction

See that baby variegated plant being starved out by the taller ones

that have multiplied a lot

Make Fort Worth Great Again – doesn’t quite work as a slogan, but hey! According to local columnist Bud Kennedy, Stormy Daniels—yes, that one—will perform in Fort Worth tomorrow night at some place called Bucks Wild. Don’t you all beat down the doors demanding admission.

Storms aside, it’s been a pretty day in Fort Worth, with sunshine and temps in the seventies. I have the patio doors open and am enjoying the fresh air. And in a sign of spring, I fixed my first salad with lettuce from my garden. Wilted lettuce, to go with leftover leg of lamb and vegetables—for a friend who just escaped pasta. She professed to be much happier with lamb.

I actually got so wrapped up in my cookbook today that I let the day get away with me. Jean came for coffee and to pick up a honey jar and look at a plant that I want to split and share with her—the tall plants are crowding out the small one in a cute planter my daughter-in-law gave me almost a year ago. The original tiny plant died, and Jean found me a replacement. It’s holding its own but not thriving. Meantime my orchid is spectacular. I may just add a new picture tonight, even though I think it posted it before.

Anyway, Jean and I got to solving the problems of the world—we specialize in politics—and the problems of our own private worlds and forgot all about the honey jar and the planter. She left empty-handed. And I went right back to my work. Realized with a jolt that it was noon, and I hadn’t washed my hair nor done the dishes—in fact yesterday’s breakfast dish was still in the sink (I didn’t eat lunch or diner at home yesterday so no more dishes).

I did a lot of networking today, reaching out to friends, most in the publishing industry, for ideas on doing my cookbook economically. I don’t expect to make a fortune on it, but I’d like to avoid losing money.

I turned down an opportunity to return to my old life briefly this afternoon—colleague Melinda offered to come get me for an author talk and signing, the kind of event I’ve always relished. After I enthusiastically accepted, I had second thoughts. I knew that as the time to go approached, I’d be saying, “Why did you say you’d do that?” It wasn’t an author I know, though I think I’ve met him. Ditto the man who was going to emcee and introduce him. It would have been fun to see some folks I know. But what stopped me was our newly remodeled main library on campus—I haven’t been there since they moved the entrance and added impressive wide steep steps that I would have found a challenge in any circumstances. There is a handicap entrance at ground level, but I was concerned about having to park blocks away, and I didn't want to have to walk blocks. I can no longer run down the ramp to the loading dock, as I did when I worked there. So I reluctantly (and graciously I hope) declined.

And that’s when it hit me: that’s not the life I’m living these days. Books events of all kinds, from conventions to author readings, were the spice of my publishing life. But I’ve moved in a different direction these days. I’m less interested in those public events, more inclined to see dinner with friends or family as the spice of life. I recognize this without regret but, yes, with a great deal of nostalgia. It’s simply a different place in life. I do hope the reading went well, but I’m glad I stayed home and got ready to serve leftovers to a friend. We had a good visit.

A thought on being a female and some other thoughts

Honeysuckle is such an awfully invasive plant. I wonder if our grandparents didn’t realize that when they planted it everywhere. It’s all over the chain link fence at the back of our property and that covering part of one side. My house is closing in on a century, and in some places the honeysuckle stems, caught now forever in the fence, are as thick as a small tree limb, impossible to get rid of. On the side fence, a profusion of ivy, carefully tended by my neighbor, has believe it or not, about conquered thehonesuckle.

But on the back fence, it’s blooming now and looks so pretty spilling over the top in cascades. How can you criticize something that cheering and optimistic? Today I sat by a window for a bit and watched the tiniest of birds—a wren?—flit in and out of the leave and a bee seeking nectar. It was like a little bit of nature at work, and I was fascinated.

I ran across a term new to me today: womanist. I’ve been learning daily in recent months from Richard Rohr’s meditation from the Center for Action and Contemplation. But he did not invent the term womanist—he credits Alice Walker who wrote, “Her origins are in the black folk expression, ‘You acting womanish,’ meaning ‘wanting to know more and in greater depth than is good for one—outrageous, audacious, courageous and willful behavior. . .. She loves, she is committed, she is a universalist . . . committed to the survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female.’”

For too long, acting “girlish” had been derogatory, so I like the idea of womanish. And how can it be bad to know more and in greater depth. I think I’m going to be womanish from now on and proud of it..

A pleasant day, working on my cookbook and suddenly seeing it take shape before my eyes. There are miles to go, lots to be done, but I see the skeleton now. And I’ve had such fun rediscovering old recipes.

But tonight, I left work behind and went for supper with an old friend who will have knee surgery next week, sort of a last fling before she’s laid up. Her doctor tells her however that she will be driving within seven to ten days. Neither of us can believer it, but she’s an eternally cheerful trouper—and a skilled R.N. If anyone can pull it off, she can. I’ll want to take her supper or something, after her daughter spends a few days with her, but the logistics will take some figuring out.

Meantime we had a jolly dinner at Winslow’s Wine Bar and Café. I had the appetizer crab cake (and wished I’d ordered two), a really good glass of chardonnay, and a chocolate mousse so rich I couldn’t finish it. Who would ever have thought that would happen to me?

October Sunday

Hard to believe that it’s October already but the signs are all around us—Halloween decorations. Someone posted on Facebook that she’d seen Christmas in some stores and it was too early. Shoot! I thought it was too early for Halloween when Jordan brought home pumpkins last week. But tonight her house is awash with skeletons and Halloween drapes that are, I suppose, meant to look like Spanish moss or something creepy. There are Halloween cocktail napkins in the container on my coffee table, a lit pumpkin (no candles, thank you—a plastic pumpkin with electric lights—what is the world coming to?) outside my patio doors, and a lit ghost by my front door. I guess the whole month will be dedicated to the ghostly tradition.

Lazy day today, writing in the morning with a side trip to Central Market. Still looking for a house plant. I appreciate the suggestion of Mike’s Garden Shop or whatever—I’ve been there and like it, but Jordan is not likely to take on an errand that far out of our beaten path. I’m still looking, but came away with some smoked salmon and pickled herring—prizes from Central Market! Also a beautiful, full white mum for a pot outside the front door. I love to shop there—Jordan not so much so, but she was pleased with the mums..

The big day brightener today was the arrival of my oldest child, Colin David. He’s here on business for two days but will take time to visit with us—he’s sleeping on my couch as I write—and to solve a couple of my financial dilemmas. We had a jolly dinner—chicken enchiladas and a new corn recipe with sour cream, cilantro, and red onion.

Welcoming a child home no matter their age is always a special treat, and I am delighted to have him here. I looked forward to long, heartfelt talks—but he retreated to his bed early and declared he’s not much good after 8:30 at night. A child half my age, who wears out before I do! Still I’m delighted to have him here. Every once in a while, I glance over to make sure he’s really here.

I wrote a good bit today—almost but not quite up to my daily goal. Resolve (once again): new routine tomorrow. Exercise followed by desk chores followed by writing. One thing I’m aware that I really need to work on is being more active. Pushing the rollator around the cottage instead of sitting in it is a good start.

Have a happy week everyone.

Twas a dark and stormy night....

That classic first line of a bad novel is true in North Texas. We're surrounded by tornado warnings, though ours has just expired. My daughter had hail at her house, while I relished about five minutes of steady, medium rain--the good kind of rain, just not enough of it for our drought. All evening lightning has flashed around the sky and thunder rolled over us. As my Mom used to tell me, the gods are bowling. As long as the sky doesn't turn green and no rotating clouds are reported, I enjoy a good storm. Tonight we're being warned to stay away from drafts because of lightning--otherwise I'd throw open my greenhouse windows and let some of that rain-freshened air in the house. It's cooled nicely outside but is still stuffy inside.
Once when my four children were little, we left them with a nanny for an afternoon. When the sky turned green, I called the nanny and said, "You do know what to do with the children in a bad storm, don't you?" We had a house with a basement. "Oh yes, ma'am," she said. "What?" Now I have no basement, but Sophie and I will go to the big closet in my bedroom, though I've never had to do that in twenty years.
When I was a kid, we had a cabin in the Indiana Dunes State Park, at the very food of Lake Michigan, high up on a dune--three flights of stairs from the beach. One of my great delights was to watch a storm roll down the entire length of that huge lake, cresting in wild whitecaps as it reached the beach and bringing with it rain, lightning and thunder. Maybe I didn't know enough to be fearful, and I'm thankful to my parents for not teaching me that fear.
Jacob on the other hand is fearful of storms. The other night he saw three lightning flashes, and I suggested he go to the back door because Sophie would want to come in. He insisted I go with him, explaining, "You know how lightning frightens me." Once there he stood inside the open door and called, "Come in, Sophie. It's lightning." About a lot of things he's fearless and brave, but storms get him.
Me? I'm actually hoping for more storms--my new plants need the rain. Just not violent winds or tornadoes, please.

Sprintime ritual

I know spring is here because today I went to the nursery for plants for my porch and deck pots. Greg, who keeps my yard in shape and has a much better eye for things, went with me to advise what to buy and what to avoid--like delphinium which, although gorgeous, won't survive our Texas summer. I always have a big pot of fountain grass in one corner of the front porch; when we asked, they said they only had the purple, not the green, which I said was fine. Greg contradicted me--that corner is dark and needs the lighter plant. Last year I only got one frond. I'll go back when they get green fountain grass and hope for better luck.
We bought herbs and shade plants because my house faces north and doesn't get much sun. For the deck, which faces south, we bought a tomato, some lavender, and the beginnings of a vegetable garden. The pot plants will look a lot better when they fill out in four or six weeks--now they're just struggling babies.

Basil

The coleus will replace a Wandering Jew that had been in this pot for years. So many things succumbed this winter--the Jew died early, but as little as three weeks ago, lavender, oregano, and sage were showing tiny shoots of new green. Then we got hit with one last arctic freeze, and that was all it took.
                                                                 Coleus

I always get coleus and caladium mixed up, so I hope I have them right here, but we bought a caladium--I'd never seen one this bright green and full--to replace a small oregano plant at the shady end of the porch. I'm particularly pleased with the begonias and sweet potato plants we bought for the pots at the top of the stairs to the porch. Last year we had sweet potatoes and something leveled them off.  Hoping for better luck this year.
I'm excited about my vegetable garden--with a wild Indian of a dog I haven't been able to grow anything in the back yard. Last year Greg planted some rose bushes which he said would grow strong, tall, and full. They would have if Sophie didn't knock them down as she ran back and forth to bark at a possum on the wires way above her.
I saw an idea on either Facebook or Pinterest--slit open a bag of potting soil and plant seeds in it. So we did--lettuce, spinach, pea shoots, and I forget what else. I'm looking for onion starters. Greg put the bag on an old table we don't use and dragged it to the middle of the lawn to get sun. Yet it's safe from Sophie. Pictures to follow when the seeds sprout.
What a nice day! Spring makes everything look better.