I love the accomplishments of trees,
How they try to restrain great storms
And pacify the very worms that eat them.
Even their deaths seem to be considered.
I fear for trees, loving them so much.
I am nervous about each scar on bark,
Each leaf that browns. I want to
Lie in their crotches and sigh,
Whisper of sun and rains to come.
Sometimes on summer evenings I step
Out of my house to look at trees
Propping darkness up to the silence.
When I die I want to slant up
Through those trunks so slowly
I will see each rib of bark, each whorl;
Up through the canopy, the subtle veins
And lobes touching me with final affection;
Then to hover above and look down
One last time on the rich upliftings,
The circle that loves the sun and moon,
To see at last what held the darkness up.
“A Final Affection” by Paul Zimmer
I love this poem by Paul Zimmer. I first read it on Writer’s Almanac in May and kept it in abeyance for the right images. A bonus is a Baltimore Oriole. Click on the picture below to see him aloft and singing to his love.
In spite of erratic temperatures with one day of 80°F, the next dropping to 45°, strong winds, and torrential downpours followed by cloudy days, the Community Garden is thriving. It is gratifying to see the plots, including our own, slowly emerge and it has been fun to see how the different gardeners treat their spaces. The picture above was taken one month ago.
A month later . . .
. . . and the next day.
Isn’t this door to the garden plot clever? It brightens up the space and brings a bit of whimsy into the garden.
My favorite garden is the grandmother’s garden, which she shares with her adult granddaughter. They have already harvested strawberries and have used every inch of available land to sow with seeds and plants and flowers. It is amazing how much produce can be packed into a 10×10 plot.
Gus and Tom are friends. I’m guessing they are retired. Their easy, teasing banter reminds me of my father and the gang that spent many hours at our house. Tom’s wife had this sign made up and put it in the plot that Gus and Tom share. Since I took the picture, Gus has added more plants.
I’m heading over in just a bit to see how our crops fared through the storms and to check on the cabbage, whose slow, steady growth fascinates me, and whose flavors will tantalize come fall.
Now, if only I could figure out how to attach my photos without getting the words all out of kilter. Must be these fingers of mine, sans fingerprints, which really, it seems, don’t matter all that much since my every word is being tracked by some nameless (or named?) government “spy”. Wonder if he or she likes cabbage.
I can’t seem to catch my breath. Weeds are taking over our humble acreage here on the Cutoff. This afternoon, I broke the weeder. Pushing too hard on the handle, it broke! We have some pretty tough weeds in our garden. Tomatoes, cabbage, Brussels sprouts, zucchini and peppers have needed tending in our plot in the Community Garden. I’m trying to finish up some projects and the upcoming Elmhurst Garden Walk and Faire has us all busy making final preparations. In-the-meantime, forceful storms rolled in right at suppertime, pounding the skies with thunder and pelting the windows with rain.
So, what do I do? I sit here, my mind wandering, thinking of Honeyman Farms in Homer Glen, where rows and rows of seed packets fill a horse barn. Every kind of seed from a bevy of distributors; heirloom, seed collectors, beans and zinnias and chinese cabbage. There were so many seeds I wanted to buy for the pure beauty of the graphics on the packages – rather like judging a book by its cover. I’m easily swayed.
We wandered around, me reading every seed packet, he exploring a hearty collection of garden tools.
There were golden jars of clover honey for sale and garden plants just out the door, just waiting to be slipped into soil.
Remnants of long ago horse breeding caught our eyes. Old barns have so much to say, don’t they, with their corners and eaves and places that seem especially made for new life?
We strolled around to the pond were bullfrogs reign, and past raspberry canes, the owner inviting us back mid-season to do our picking. Just sitting, thinking about our recent outing, feels good, this taking time to catch one’s breath. Feels real good.
It’s late, my friend. I think I’ll wander on up to bed, read a few pages from Barbara Kingsolver’s “Flight Behavior”, listen to the raindrops on the roof, and call it day.
I have been hearing him for a month now; his song a calling card, elusive, warbling high atop the sycamores.
Since our arrival on the Cutoff, I’ve grown familiar with his song, especially when he first arrives, before other songbirds appear. I know to look up to the tops of the ancient trees shading our deck, but, the orioles are hard to find. They are smaller than robins, stay closer to the tree canopies, and camouflage remarkably well considering their color.
Lately, I have heard more than one. The beau, it seems, has found his lady.
On Monday, we saw both. They were flitting above, fussing, in turn on a branch, high above the barn, building a nest, we supposed.
Have you ever seen a Baltimore Oriole? They are brilliant of color; he more vibrant orange than she, as is the nature of birds. Orioles build the most intricate of nests, resembling a sock or purse, impossible to find with the naked eye. We found one, once. Rather, it found us, after a windstorm, resting on the chaise lounge on the deck, it’s handles were gone but its cavity intact. Too damaged to mend, too precious to throw away, it nestles, each year, in our Christmas tree.
I had tossed some very ripe plums onto the unkempt hill we call our compost pile. Mostly leaves and flower clippings, coffee grounds and kitchen scraps find their way to the pile. Over time, we’ve harvested rich, organic matter from this pile that is enriching our soil here on the Cutoff. I was headed to the compost, my arms full of faded peonies, when I saw something dart out of the mound. Orange. A few days later, there were lemon rinds – and another flash of orange. Tom, too, had seen flashes of orange coming from the pile, which is near another mesh of twigs and the long stringy leaves of grasses; a virtual building supply store for the birds and creatures who occupy the Cutoff.
I want to talk to you about such piles of building material, but, will save that for another day. For now, I’ll leave you with a link about Baltimore Orioles, should you care to learn more or to listen to their songs, with a link here and I’ll ask you a question as well.
Do you have any songbirds near you?
The image is from the National Geographic site I’ve linked to, and, yes, I have used it before.
Is it like Mary Contrary’s, with silver bells and cockle shell and pretty maids all in a row, or is it more like mine, growing like topsy?
I lean more toward a messy, cottage-like garden, with an affinity toward “volunteers”; those self-seeding flowers that find new places to bloom and tumble willy-nilly into their neighbors.
Presently, the ferns are like a flash mob, dancing about in the breeze and multiplying like fruit flies. I don’t mind. They are one of the few plants the deer don’t forage, they are easy to care for, they are easily transplanted, and they get along splendidly with hostas. They have, however, been selfishly taking up space where the poppies grow. This poppy managed to poke through to catch some late afternoon sunshine.
This morning, gazing outside, I saw this bumble bee drunk on the nectar of the fuchsia which hangs just outside our large picture window. I don’t know how I spotted it, but, there it was for quite some time, barely moving, lost in pollen nirvana. Click on the picture for a closer look. It is a bit blurry as we were photographing through our 90 year windows!
It is the peonies that are holding court in the Cutoff garden this week; a loose and blousy affair. They remind me of high school senior girls who have cast off their shoes to dance in the dirt, the hems of their gowns dusting the warm soil and their curled hairdos flouncing in the wind.
Smaller than the earlier blooming tree peonies, our peonies (paeonia japonica) are generous divisions from friends. Introduced into the the garden two years ago, Marilyn’s pink peony bloomed for the first time this year. It is radiant, especially when the setting sun bids it adieu.
Bev’s peony came to us in two divisions three years ago. Good stock these gals are; they are spreading so well we may need to divide them ourselves this year. I wish you could see them in person, for these pictures do not do them justice. A deep magenta, they are jewels to behold.
All this writing and photographing my garden has worn me out. I think I’ll go back to the arbor, sit on one of its benches, and anticipate the blooms of the roses and clematis that are now inching their way up the lattice in search of the sun. I love my garden; topsy and messy and blousy that it is. Blossoms are always arriving, like family or friends at a reunion. Yep! I think I’ll just go take a little sit-down and watch the reunion unfold.
Kezzie and Papa and I decided to eat our breakfast in “Penny’s Arbor House” one morning last week. I couldn’t find my favorite carrying tray (it was, it seems, hiding under the library table, holding Christmas books!), so, I grabbed the top from a box of paper, and out we went to dine on fresh blackberries, Kix, and pumpkin bread.
Breakfast really is the BEST meal of the day – especially al fresco with a lovely miss.
First nights. They have always been a challenge for us. Long before Tom was dubbed Antler Man and I discovered I liked to play in the dirt, we took a trip to the Bahamas and began what has become a long string of first nights to chat about.
There was our one night honeymoon at the O’Hare Marriott forty years ago, when a champagne cork ricocheted off the walls around 4 am, and the window washer who later dropped in for breakfast.
Dare I mention our first night on Maui when we got lost on Kanapali Beach, the late night show with the hula girl, and the shot in the dark?
How about Heather and Andrews wedding, which was a joy to behold, 15 years ago? The night before the nuptials, we had a trip to the ER from Hell, not to mention the three times management had to be called to open the door to our suite.
A year after our honeymoon, 39 years ago, we jumped at the opportunity to share a condo for a week in the Bahamas with friends. The price was right and we were raring to go, even if we had to fly over the Bermuda Triangle to do it.
Our first clue should have been when we went to visit the owners of the condo and get the key. It was the 90 minute slide presentation of the mister’s snorkeling adventures that foreshadowed something amiss.
We all worked the day our adventure began; suitcases packed and stowed in our cars for a quick ride to the airport and a late afternoon flight south. The plane was packed with mostly college students, already “two sheets to the wind”, loud, undisciplined, etc. It was 1973. The world was being tilted on its axis, but, airplanes still had a certain cache. Meals were rolled to your seat by well coiffed stewardesses in uniforms, there were no security checks, one wore one’s shoes before boarding, the pillows were free and one felt safe.
As dusk descended across the Atlantic, we landed at the small Bahamian airport. Our luggage retrieved, we headed out to find our economy rental car. Just as the key turned in the door of the Volkswagon Beetle, the lights were turned off at the airport. Closing time. We came in on the last flight. No problem. A map (a real map), and the four of us, loaded down with our Samsonite look-alikes, a large, portable hairdryer, food, swimsuits, and Easter eggs, we squeezed inside! We were like the Ricardo and Mertzes, Ricky and Fred up front, Lucy and Ethel in back. Tom drove with my hairdryer in his lap, working the clutch with his long legs jammed into the steering wheel, his 6 foot 4 frame pushing the roof of the car. We needed the windows opened, not to smell the balmy air. No. We needed the extra room!
We stopped at a gas station to ask for directions. Off we went, around and around in what seemed to be a circle. Actually, it was a circle. They were toying with us, those station attendants! We figured that out sometime around our sixth lap. Finally, we found the complex where our condo was.
Like sardines in a tin, we crawled, squeezed, and maneuvered our bodies and bundles out of the car, while Jerry, who had the keys, opened the door and went in – then came out, shut the door, pale and shaken. “There are people sleeping in one of the bedrooms”. Did we have the right condo? Right key? Didn’t they hear the door open? Were they even alive? We commiserated, four northern souls in a balmy parking lot, wondering what to do. We decided to ring the doorbell.
A man came out, all tousled from sleep. Huh? As we explained that he was sleeping in our condo, we heard a pop as all the lights went out on the island.
It’s hard to negotiate in the dark of night when wearing one’s bathroom slippers – or has just spent hours flying and circling in a VW bug.
It seems there was a mixup from our scuba diving landlord (I told you those slides were foreboding) and the slumbering couple had the condo for a few more days.
All’s well that ends well, I always say, and this story does end well. The two sleeping beauties had another key to a one room unit, where we slept the night, exhausted, on musty beds in the clothes we had traveled in, hoping that no tropical creatures were slinking about. Since the wife was more interested in gambling than sunning on the beach, she readily offered to hand over the keys so they could stay at the swank hotel. Since they would no longer need a car, the husband handed over the keys to his rental. A sleek mid-sixties white Cadillac with a red leather interior and foot long fins; a great white whale that made our second night and our island adventure swimmingly grand!
Thanks to Andra and her post a few days ago about opening a hotel room door to find a man fixing her bed for awakening this sleeping memory. You can find her post here.
