A month later . . .

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.

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Honeyman

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.

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How does you garden grow?

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.

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Fronding

Have you ever noticed how ferns unfurl? They poke through the ground with great determination, all eager to catch the sunshine. Their fronds appear, all nestled in curves like question marks that seem to hug each other like young love in spring, wondering what life will bring.

 I’m off on a bit of jaunt in the jalopy with my favorite frond as we share a spot of time to celebrate our 40th anniversary.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend. If you behave, when I come back in a day or two, maybe I’ll tell you how to be a bee spotter.

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Fingerprints, mug shots, and . . . part two

After being fingerprinted, twice, and posing for a mug shot, I really started wondering what, exactly, I had gotten myself into. A month went by. I wondered why I hadn’t heard anything. My imagination went on overdrive. I kept looking at my finger tips.

Have you looked at the tips of your fingers? The underside, fleshy part? There should be oval ridges going round and round and round in a pattern unique to only you. Ruffles Potato Chips have more ridges than my fingertips, which are as round and smooth as a baby’s bottom.

The beautification committee was finally notified. We were officially sworn in, which meant we had to comply with a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) test, which is another story for another time. I stood. I raised my right hand. I swore to do my duty, then shook several sets of prints, I mean hands, and met two very fine women, from different walks of life, who would soon become my partners in dirt. The three of us had a common vision and ended up on a subcommittee together. Each brought her own set of skill to the committee we agreed to work on. Though none of us knew each other beforehand, we managed to plow ahead, set up a plan, research, write, and draw up ideas.

Last summer, we took a field trip to other communities so see what they had done. We talked to others, took pictures, formulated talking points, then shared them with the whole committee, city employees and elected officials, and finally started talking to members of our community. The city gave us a go-ahead IF we could get enough participants to fill fifteen garden plots.

We did.

On May 4, we held opening day of our community garden!  The plots were dug and tilled and plotted by city workers. Paths were laid between plots. A sign with our rules and regulations was posted, and Home Depot donated a pick-up truck filled with bagged soil.

It was a happy day for the three of us. There was a time we did not think it would happen, even though we all shared a common vision for a community garden. The seeds were sown and in the process a dozen or so folks in our town were granted a small plot of land to grow vegetables for a nominal fee. Most of these community farmers live in condos, apartments, and trailers, with little or no space to plant their own vegetables – and, of course Tom and I, who have two acres and too many deer! We took a plot, as well, and look forward to tomatoes and peppers and beans!

When you put your fingers into good, rich earth, no matter what your fingerprints look like, good things begin to grow and flourish and good will is born. I felt good,  through and through, as I watched several gardeners start to plant, work the soil, measure and look toward the sun. They were smiling and talking, enthusiastic and hopeful.

My favorite gardeners were a duo; a young woman of about thirty years and her grandmother. They were sharing a plot and came ready to work. The grandmother had sewn matching aprons with three deep pockets in each for their gardening chores. It made my heart leap for pure joy of it – for a good thing was beginning to happen. A garden was starting to grow.

Another gardener was planting a Mexican garden with corn and hot chili peppers and cilantro. Rows of lettuce have suddenly sprung up, and little  sprouts have poked through the soil. There are pinwheels in some of the patches – to scare the birds and rabbit-proof fences, one with a door.

It was really worth all the nonsense of fingerprints, for this little community garden of ours is already nurturing souls – and will soon feed them as well with the riches of the soil.

Sometimes, prints lead to paths and paths lead to gardens. Don’t you agree?

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Fingerprints, mug shots, and good citizenship . . .

 

. . . a little like “lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”.

 

I have always felt that one should give back to one’s community in some way or another. Through most of my adult life,  I have “belonged” to some organization or other that fostered a sense of community;  PTA. Sunday School. Newcomers Club – which our Katy couldn’t pronounce and called the Cucumber Club.  I’ve been a Voter’s Registrar and I’ve helped those in need through community agencies. I’ve even run for elected office. Good citizenship begins near home.

 

I’m still involved in activities in the community we used to live in, and gladly do so, but, the time finally came when I felt that I really needed to do something, no matter how small, in the community we live in now.

 

Right about the time this little pang came about, in the winter of 2012, I noticed a blurb in our community newsletter looking for citizens to serve on the city’s beautification committee. Right up my green thumb, it was, squirming in like a worm just when I needed the prod. Gardening. Trees. Beauty. Maybe a few hours a month.

I filled out the form, drove to city hall, handed it to the clerk and and felt good about volunteering.

 

 

I waited, and waited, and finally forgot I was waiting when a phone call came; a pleasant sounding man from the city who said they were very interested in having me on the beautification committee. Next step? A background check. I just needed to call the deputy police chief to arrange to be fingerprinted.

Fingerprinted?

 

I set up the appointment for an April afternoon and went in to the police station, where I was eyed with caution. I said I was there to be printed and was instructed to take a seat.

 

After a time, Mr. Officer Friendly came up to me, rather sternly,  with his bright badge and all. He asked me what I had done. Sigh. I explained the committee I was asked to serve on and he looked at me, oddly.

Soon, a female officer came out, lead me to a little room, wiped my fingertips with some sort of “stuff”, and started taking my prints. We talked a bit as she registered all ten digits. A felon came in and out. I’m sure he was felonious as he handcuffs on.  The nice officer took more prints and fretted some, saying it was hard getting good images of my fingers on the scanner, then, off I went.

 

 

 

A month passed. Another. Then few weeks, when I got a call from Mr. Officer Friendly, apologizing. It seems my prints were rejected. Rejected? My prints were rejected! Could I come in again? Soon? Well, it happened I was heading that way, so, in I went, a printless citizen.

 

They were waiting for me, I’m sure of it, for I was briskly escorted into “the room” and the process started all over again, only this time a male officer took my paw, er fingerprints, asking me why I needed to do this. I said I was a tree hugger and it appeared that tree huggers need to be printed to beautify their city. We chuckled a bit. I asked if the elected officials had their prints taken. Of course not.

My prints were vague, without the typical grooves and ridges. Bald fingertips, it seems. It was concluded that I just had planted the prints right off of my fingers. Just in case I was a hardened criminal and not the tree hugger I claimed to be, they took a mug shot as well. Turn left. Turn right. Look straight ahead, Ma’am. Actually, the mug shot was much nicer than the one on my driver’s license.

 

 

Do you want to know what happened next?

I’ll tell you tomorrow.

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Dancing with the daffodils

Daffodils

by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A Poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Sunshine and warmth have finally descended upon the Cutoff, and our daffodils are starting to open, their smiling, cupped faces laughing with spring. Some were here when we arrived on the Cutoff. A few were “borrowed” from a neighboring lot, soon to be plowed under to make way for a new house. A clump was purchased one fall, with hopes of other spring times, but, it is the ones from our friend Jerry that bring us the greatest thrill.

Jerry has cultivated daffodils for many-a-year, sharing bouquets of their buttery colored sweetness and scent with friends and nursing homes around the area, and bulb divisions with eager folks such as me. Although Jerry has not been able to tend to his bulbs as he has in the past, generations still bloom come spring, a few right here on the Cutoff.

I thought of Jerry when I happened upon this poem by William Wordsworth, and then I thought of Bev and her appreciation of Vincent Van Gogh. Here’s to spring, my dear readers, and to good friends!

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From Japan: Tasha

Tasha’s Hearth print from the Tasha Tudor and Family website

It is snowing here as I write; a crisp, clean sheet of page with a crisp white blanket of snow outside. I’ve been waiting for snow. It has been so long since we’ve had any here on the Cutoff. Downy snowflakes have been falling as I’ve critiqued a bit of writing for a friend, wrote up minutes for recording secretary duties, checked the availability of a few books in our interlibrary loan system, started a pot of chicken soup, and played around in cyberspace.

I found something, whilst playing, that I think you will enjoy. I promise, I will move on to something other than Tasha Tudor soon, but, so many of you had interest in her that I thought I should at least provide the link to the Tasha and Tudor and Family website, which is just a click away here. There is some Tudor history at the site, newsy information in grandson Winslow Tudor’s newsletter, receipts (old term for recipes), an online store with all sorts of wonderful items to buy, and, well, somewhere to go and while away an hour or two.

On my way to the website, I called upon Mr. Google to see if there was a video of Tasha Tudor. I do have two tapes (yes, tapes) that I purchased eons ago. They are now available on  DVD at the website. One is about her garden and home, aptly named Corgi Cottage, the other was filmed at Christmas, including roasting a turkey in a tin kitchen. I was hoping to find a clip of one of these to share.

Instead, I found this beautiful video that kept me entranced, as most things Tasha Tudor do, for a few moments in time. I thought you might enjoy it as well.

Some background information is needed. While Tasha Tudor is known and loved in the States, especially in New England, she is revered by many in Japan, whose citizens would often travel to hear Tasha speak or visit her garden. There are books about Tasha Tudor in Japanese; some are translations and others are written, photographed and published in Japan.

I always find it enlightening to see things as I know them through the eyes of others. This video does just that! It is in Japanese, but one doesn’t need language to enjoy it. I invite you to view it at your leisure, perhaps with a cup of something warm, or cold for my friends down under. You won’t need any music as it is beautifully orchestrated in the video. Whatever subtitles there are in the piece are in Japanese as you will hear Tasha speaking in English. I was elated to find this via the internet and my heartfelt appreciation goes out to its producers. Please, dear reader, enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zU-15to8d4

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Tasha Tudor

I originally knew Tasha Tudor through the many books she illustrated, some of which she also wrote herself. “Pumpkin Moonshine” was her first published book, followed by the “calico” books, then her illustrations of classics, including those of Louisa May Alcott and Frances Hodgson Burnett, along with cookbooks, nursery rhymes, fairy tales, and a host of other illustrative endeavors.

It wasn’t until the late 1990′s that I discovered Tasha Tudor herself when a series of books about her idyllic lifestyle on a hill-top “west of New Hampshire and east of Vermont” were published. A happenstance discovery of “The Private World of Tasha Tudor ” in a bookstore soon took me on a remarkable journey of learning about Tasha Tudor – and a little bit about myself in the process.

A diminutive woman steeped in old Yankee ways, Tasha’s book, “The Private World of Tasha Tudor” took me inside her Vermont farmhouse, Corgi Cottage, out to her gardens, and into her unique imagination. Tasha Tudor led much of her life steeped in the 1800′s, wearing clothing of that period, weaving her own cloth, making her own candles, and eventually building a house in Vermont that visitors were hard pressed to believe was built in the late 20th century.

In her lifetime, Ms. Tudor was asked by President Johnson to make ornaments for the White House Christmas tree, her hand crafted dollhouse with its furnishings and dolls, made by Tasha, were on display at the Abbey Aldrich Rockefeller Center, and Life Magazine once photographed the wedding of two of her dolls. (The dolls, being quite modern, eventually separated.) After a television interview, Tasha Tudor became an icon for those who sought the simpler life of getting “back to the land”.

It was “The Private World of Tasha Tudor” that took me in, made me feel at home, and spurred a rather large collection of all things Tasha Tudor, as well as an appreciation for the photography of Richard W. Brown, who lives in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.

“Tasha Tudor’s Garden” is where I often go for garden inspiration. I long to grow foxgloves six feet tall like Tasha Tudor did, and I wish I could encourage my roses to ramble with wild abandon as those in her garden. I’ve given up on sweet peas – well, almost given up, we’ll see. I’ll try them one more time. The point is that Tudor’s garden is lush, a bit whimsical in nature and all that a cottage garden should be. Some of the seeds sown in it are ancestors from two centuries ago. Richard Brown collaborated with Tovah Martin on this book. I love her style of writing and would not be stretching the truth at all to say that she has influenced how I “talk” about my own garden.

Together, Brown and Martin produced a third book, “Tasha Tudor’s Heirloom Crafts”, which is a unique glimpse into the many ways Tudor adopted a 19th century lifestyle into the modern era we all live in. It is chock full of pictures and words about Tasha’s kitchen, the extensive collection she amassed of 18th and 19th century clothing, her well utilized barn that connects to the house in the manner New Englanders use, and the marionettes that led to “A Dolls’Christmas” and helped keep her growing family fed with the performances they starred in. It is a book in which to find Tasha weaving and painting and making candles and all manner of other crafts that she continued to employ into her eighth decade.

Tasha Tudor died a few years ago, just before her 92 birthday, if memory serves me correctly. Some of her clothing sold for handsome sums. A museum is underway in her memory. There is still a family website for all things Tasha Tudor, as well as those of her family.

I first learned of a tin kitchen from books about Tasha Tudor. I was determined to try roasting a chicken in front of fire from the moment I saw her doing so using a tin kitchen. I looked at antique malls, fairs, and searched the internet for about six years before literally stumbling upon one at an antique fair one afternoon. My giddiness was a dead give-away to the seller if there ever was one as my foot brushed against it, I looked down to see what was in my path, only to hop back in pure glee, exclaiming “it’s a tin kitchen”! I lugged it home and before much time had passed, I cleaned it up and managed to roast a whole chicken in it in front of an open fireplace. I can’t begin to tell you how delicious it tasted, or express my sense of accomplishment at having figured out how to cook with it.  How I miss that fireplace of our old house. How I miss that roasted chicken.

 

Well, I rambled about much like Tasha Tudor’s roses. When Juliet mentioned she knew of Tasha Tudor’s books, but not much about her, I thought it might be a good spot in time to share some of the books I have that illustrate the life of such a well-known illustrator, thinking they might interest some of you as well.

It is very cold here, with the temperatures hovering around 16° F. Snow is dancing about, looking for trees and bushes and rooftops to cling to. I think I’ll make a cup of tea and invite Tasha Tudor to visit me for a spell. Which book will I select?

 

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About Mary

Mary is a dear friend to many, especially the members of the Elmhurst Garden Club. She has served the club in so many ways with her knowledge, determination, good grace and sparkling wit. Mary was instrumental in helping to rally members in an effort to save the Great Western Prairie, among other endeavors and held many club positions. She remains inspiration to me; an ever-blooming flower in the garden of my life.

These days, Mary can’t get out and about like she would like to. Health issues necessitated her moving from her home to assisted living and have limited her participation in the many activities she enjoyed. It could not have been easy for her to face so many life changes, yet she has done so with her sense of humor intact, participating in activities she can, and she is embarking on new adventures.

On Monday, our garden club held an auction in lieu of a program. Members donated fine items they no longer use; hand painted children’s furniture, crystal candle holders, tea sets, even original artwork. We are gardeners; progressive when it comes to the environment, horticulture, sustainability, scholarship, saving the monarchs. We are equally conservative when it comes to what and how we spend money. All this to say that none of the winning bids were exorbitant. We could all afford to eat dinner last night, some left with presents to tuck away for the holidays, and we had fun in the process as the garden club’s coffers increased a bit.

One of the auction items was a painting. A simple clay pot of purple flowers as bright as an April day. I could almost feel the dirt under my fingernails and the sunshine on my face. The painting is now mine; it’s soft, muted colors of periwinkle and sage politely waiting to be framed. The artist was our Mary, who recently took up painting!

What an inspiration Mary is. This endearing potted plant is just what I needed, not only to focus on what is really important, but to be uplifted by Mary’s example of fortitude and her endeavors to continue to learn something new. Her creativity and never-ending ability to give to others, along with her budding talent, are a gift to us all, and now, dear reader, my gift to you.

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