tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91777105550282976842024-02-08T01:04:52.691-05:00Garden PutterWhere in the world does it all come together? In the garden. A great day is a day spent puttering in the garden.The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-54619188716633653892013-04-07T08:54:00.002-04:002013-04-07T09:00:06.309-04:00Domesticity, Gardens, Old Resentments, Children, Men and Virginia Woolf<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My book, well-worn</td></tr>
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I am Mrs. Ramsey, except that I hear that she dies young and I'm trying to avoid that (except of course, for the way I am putting my liver to the test) except for of course, she's the one giving the praise and in that way I'm more like her poor husband, who always needs praise; and yes, I'll admit, I'm shamefully driven by praise. At least I've always said a good scratch behind the ears is all I need for a job well done, as if I were a just short-snoot pooch. And I have to wonder how that came to be. But now more recently praise seems kind of bereft and condescending. Good work, some one will say and I feel good, except that I don't, because of course it's good work. That's what I do. <br />
<br />
I'm reading Virginia Woolf and I'm deep into the dinner scene in her 1927 <i>To the Lighthouse</i> and it reminds me of the silent warfare taking place at the table of many a staff meeting.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There is a code of behaviour, she knew, whose seventh article (it may be) says that on occasions of this sort it behoves the woman, whatever her own occupation may be, to go to the help of the young man opposite so that he may expose and relieve the thigh bones, the ribs, of his vanity, of his urgent desire to assert himself; as indeed it is their duty, she reflected, in her old maidenly fairness, to help us, suppose the Tube were to burst into flames. Then, she thought, I should certainly expect Mr. Tansley to get me out. But how would it be, she thought, if neither of us did either of these things? So she sat there smiling."</blockquote>
<br />
The ribs and thigh bones of their vanity—a phrase brilliantly etched like a drawing sketched. Poor Mrs. Ramsey, stuck in her time, married with eight children, fretting over her greenhouse bill, tied to a vain man; yet purposefully executing her wiles and ways over all who come into her domain, artfully pairing those who should marry, gentling prodding, carefully coddling, grandly and gorgeously lording over her super table, while silently slaying and deconstructing the personality of each of her guests.<br />
<br />
Would that I could write like Virginia Woolf, executing her prose with subterfuge and subversion, particularly when it comes to the hopeless unfairness of gender inequality. <br />
<br />
This phrase particularly reminds me of a former boss: "remembering how he sneered at women, "can't paint, can't write," why should I help him. . ." and forevermore Lily Briscoe must gird herself and restore her dignity.<br />
<br />
But the women exact their revenge, laughing at them, annoying them, teasing and despising them. Yet deep down inside, they are wounded as Lily points out, by the "most uncharming human being she had ever met."<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Why did she mind what he said? Women can't write, women can't paint—what did that matter coming from him, since clearly it was not true to him but for some reason helpful to him, and that was why he said it? Why did her whole being bow, like corn under a wind, and erect itself again from this abasement only with a great and rather painful effort? She must make it once more."</blockquote>
<br />
Would that I could write like Virginia Woolf.<br />
<br />
One thing I would like to have, though, from that life is an old cottage just off the coast—a lighthouse keeping watch, and a garden with a hand to help, and a kitchen, also well staffed, so that I didn't have to do everything, always, by myself with my tennis elbow aching and my lower back threatening and my knee weakening. Would that I could spend my precious moments in revery at my dressing table with my young children picking out my jewels for the evening or holding a child in my lap, with his feather-like hair gently tickling my chin as I took in the sweet scent of his baby flesh while I read quietly to him at the window, overlooking all that was in my domestic range. Oh the desire of having everything just so, just the way we want it, from idealized novels to a real life haven. Now that would be heaven. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-45365803243665721552013-04-06T08:33:00.002-04:002013-04-06T08:33:59.967-04:00Oh My Gosh! Oh My Gosh! Saturday and Sunny!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ready! Set! Go!</td></tr>
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<br />
What a crazy spring we've had. Totally behind schedule, or maybe just normal. I can't remember what's normal, given last year's super early spring. Just this week, the star magnolia bloomed. No blooms what so ever on the vibernum. I planted my sugar snap peas on the designated March 15th, but not a shoot had materialized last I checked. Cold and cloudy on Thursday when I watched the Nats win in an afternoon game, all bundled up with gloves at the ready. But this morning, oh the sun is up, and bright. And look at my garden. Isn't it gorgeous!
My new raised beds have been carefully constructed by my friends over at <a href="http://www.loveandcarrots.com/" target="_blank">Love and Carrots</a>. I've planted a few rows of kale, chard and chicory. I was going to put in my potatoes last weekend, but ran out of time and so those will be the first to go in. After that, I've got to get my tomato plants out of the basement and transplant them into separate containers, and set them out on the deck today. They will love the warm spring sunshine. I also need to lay in some compost in the back area down by the rose bushes, but I don't think my weak back can stand the hoisting and throwing, so maybe that won't happen this year. Tomorrow, over at the community garden, we'll gather a gang for weeding. The chopped chips have been delivered for sprucing up the paths and tamping down the weeds around the cistern.
I've got so much puttering ahead of me today. I can't hardly wait. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-66553023349940327712013-03-25T09:05:00.001-04:002013-03-25T09:05:29.213-04:00Oh No! Snow!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 25: Snow Day!</td></tr>
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<br />
Out my window, in my garden, on my special gardening day—a day designated with a leave of absence for gardening—the snow is piling up, bending the daffodils, mounding up over the pots of pansies, piling up on my purple chair. Today, my contractors from the well-named <a href="http://www.loveandcarrots.com/" target="_blank">Love and Carrots </a>organic garden consulting company are scheduled to arrive with a pile of stone and several feet of boards to build my new raised beds. Today, I cleared my schedule at work. Today, I've prepared my garden. Everything is at the ready. But huge blobs of spring snow are coming down; and it looks like two and a half inches has already descended.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the rocks arrive.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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And just as my classic guilt sets in, the rocks arrive. And I am freed of that nagging worry that I should be sitting at my desk, fielding inquiry, and adding commas. The Putterer
The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-75253525739395592662013-02-02T09:04:00.000-05:002013-02-02T09:04:35.980-05:00Saying Goodbye to My Journal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I filled out the last pages of my garden journal last weekend. I felt the end with a sense of mixed pride and panic. This was a free-form flow of the crazy mess that lives inside my head. The journal was heavy stock paper, the pens I used were colorful and bright. The handwriting I chose was wildly out of control or tightly purposeful. And the thoughts that arrived on the page varied from shopping lists to trite poems, or quiet observations of rain fall, bird chatter and the breezes I felt while sitting in my purple chair.<br />
<br />
In this book, I've recorded my growth from a wannabe gardener to the genuine thing. In this book, I left remnants of half thoughts that I might flesh out into to posts in my Putter blog. In this book, I compensated for my lack of drawing skills with flowering handwriting flourishes, alternating with pink and green and purple pens. In this book, I wrote down page numbers, like bread crumbs, to find my way back to books or catalogs or journals that I've read. And now it's done.<br />
<br />
So I've bought a new journal and this morning, I baptized it with a few entries, but it isn't quite my friend yet. The paper isn't as thick and my heavy ink pens bleed through. It's a moleskin—what the cool kids use—and it's the right size for tucking into my purse or tool bag and it's got a nice band and some page marking ribbons.<br />
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And it's got some stickers. Not free form. A little more organized. I don't know. I hope it works. <i>The Putterer</i><br /><br />
<br />
<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-84858439939948846502013-01-19T10:05:00.001-05:002013-03-25T08:32:17.383-04:00Graysnotes in My Hair, Seeds for Sunny Summer<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What harvest will 2013 reap?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
Puttering around this morning in my busy brain. My feet are freezing despite both the furnace and the flames in the fireplace. So we are thinking gardens again. But the days coming up this week are finally cold. No hard freeze this year in my garden. There's a white morning frost occasionally, but the day brings warmth and sun. There's a rose bush that still has blossoms on it, and a cone flower that is up with a bud suspended in time, but erect and green with promise.<br />
<br />
So I'm picking out seeds and thinking about testing last year's leftovers by wrapping them in a warm, wet paper towel to see if they are "viable." I've renewed my permit for Plot #24 at the Community Garden. And I'm at the ready to place my order for some new raised beds for the backyard. But I'm behind on my fall cleanup. My tennis elbow injury kept me from racking the leaves and composting them into their winter canisters. Before long the early crocuses will be up and I won't see them hidden under heavy leaf cover.<br />
<br />
That could be alright. The fence keeps people from seeing. No one can enter until I open the gate. Garden metaphors. They seem a little silly and trivial these days.<br />
<br />
I noticed an abundance of gray in my hair this week. I asked Jim what I should do. He said, and you have to love a guy like this, "If you want to fix it, go do it well and expensively." But I'm kind of fascinated by the way they seem to be coating my head, not unlike the morning's white frost in the garden. They aren't really gray, they are white. And light colored. I don't know if I want to fix them. I might like them actually.<br />
<br />
I wanted to do a post about my 2012 garden and the lessons it had taught me. But it was just one lesson this year, not worth a full post. The garden taught me that I don't have to do much sometimes to reap the harvest. For some reason when I couldn't get there to Plot #24 to water or weed, the garden did okay. The plants had been planted well in a lovely soil that retained moisture. The weeds that came up around the edges didn't take over and were easily pulled when I could come. The food ripened and was ready for me when I got there. The lesson is clear. Do the careful work and the rewards will come. And that's where I am right now.<br />
<br />
Dad died on January 1 at 5:05 in the morning. (That's when the gray started coming in.) I think about him almost every day now. I feel like he is better and well, and he's not angry or frustrated anymore. I'm sadder for the time he was alive and unhappy than I am for the time now where he is gone from us. I hope in a rebirth, or a heaven, or an ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust kind of way, he finds lessons in this life's journey for his next path. I hope he visits me here on Earth and finds comfort in my contentedness.<br />
<br />
I don't have my garden ready, but I am ready for 2013.<br />
<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-89470858429486822292012-12-30T10:00:00.000-05:002013-03-25T07:36:48.516-04:00All the Things You Wish You Could Say<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray Py and me</td></tr>
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My father Ray Py is in a hospice bed likely taking his last breaths on this earth. He isn't able to talk anymore. I spoke to him on the phone yesterday. He said something unintelligible and all I could muster in return was an incomplete 'I Love You, Dad." That's all. Then I read through the emails of people saying their farewells. My sister's last note. "He's comfortable. . . Unresponsive."<br />
<br />
And I tried to sleep, but my chest heaved. I think words don't convey any meaning to what was in my chest, where my heart lives. The epicenter. The force pumping life's blood, where emotion resides—where fear and anxiety and anger and frustration and hope and joy pound out the beat of our lives.<br />
<br />
Sleep was calling me, but I couldn't release myself to it. It didn't seem right to sleep last night. Instead, I thought about Jesse Jackson's eulogy for Jackie Robinson—we all have a birth date and then a dash. And then we all eventually have a death date. "But on that dash is where we live," he said. "And for everyone there is a dash of possibility, to chose the high road, or the low road; to make things better or to make things worse." And as I tried to think about the dash of my father's life, that ache in my chest grew more demanding. On my father's dash, there are so many stains and blots and discordant dots. So many transgressions and mistakes. So many fits and contretemps. Something worse than sadness and grief pulled at my chest cavity.<br />
<br />
I'm glad to know that I loved him. I sometimes worried that I didn't. I sometimes thought about his death and imagined that it would pass without too much sadness. But I couldn't have been more wrong. The complexity of my relationship with my dad makes his passing so much more wrenching than I could have ever imagined.<br />
<br />
When my mother died, there was a deep well of sadness. So much sadness, real, genuine, honest, heartfelt, a tragic loss. Real grief. I went through the classic stages and finally arrived at a place where I imagined that she rested with me in my heart, living life alongside me, whispering helpful hints to me as I made my way through each day. She was there with me for the ride. She was me. That is the completeness of a healthy grieving process. Perhaps it was her grief then last night, too, that filled my chest to the point of bursting. I think she must be there pounding out her sadness, inside the wall of my ventricle cavities.<br />
<br />
The space my dad occupied in this world, I now realize, was massive. He was my childhood hero. He was a child himself, mischievously devising games to play, adventures to run off to, discoveries to make. He joined us in secrets behind my mother's back, breaking the rules in a way that endeared him to us forever. We built forts in the living room. We drank coke for breakfast. And stole sugar cubes. We had picnics in front of the TV. We got in the car and drove off to find adventure. My favorite was to go to Dulles and ride back and forth on the buses out to see the airplanes. "Let's go exploring," he would say. And the jokes and one-liners. The quips. The giggles and the belly laughs. <br />
<br />
Forever in childhood is a very long time. But it doesn't last forever, and when we tried to grow up, we lost our hold on all that fun. He must have looked at our teenage bodies, and saw the eventual separation that would tear us from him. Divisions grew. When I made him mad, it was a cruel anger that was so bitter, so heartbreaking. And that bitterness is in my heart, making my heart ache so much today.<br />
<br />
There is much on my Dad's dash that I don't understand and now, I won't know. I think he would say he had a lot of joy in his life. I think he did find happiness. I know how proud he was of us. I know he wanted to be more to us. And maybe he just couldn't figure how to do that. I know many people who will tell me how much they loved him. And I am very happy to know that.<br />
<br />
But nothing hurts more than a cruel comment from your father. A word. A phrase. A shout. They well up in your heart and there is no way to cope. So you steal yourself. You block yourself. You build up walls. And you can't tear them down. Then when you have just one last moment to say goodbye. And you try to think of all the things you wish you could say, nothing comes out, and you can't say anything, except, I love you.<br />
<br />
I guess that is all there is. Really. Thankfully. <i>The Putterer</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-63430920059342471692012-07-14T08:49:00.000-04:002012-07-14T08:49:22.670-04:00The Plot is Doing Its Own Thing<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTw3QF4DixvKt7P44VhrpwF36cTJK8d9k5VbV9C7V4CeU_xokSS28G_3GG9I7Opar5C0zHpsL3gOG8wLubNFS3n25C4kG3NedTXkpjeH1xw6aFPPlT9Bw7JtXlOIm19_tv4bzWbzsneWo/s1600/harvest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTw3QF4DixvKt7P44VhrpwF36cTJK8d9k5VbV9C7V4CeU_xokSS28G_3GG9I7Opar5C0zHpsL3gOG8wLubNFS3n25C4kG3NedTXkpjeH1xw6aFPPlT9Bw7JtXlOIm19_tv4bzWbzsneWo/s320/harvest.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From my plot, The Wonderful, Happy #24</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now here's a little secret about gardening that nobody knows. It's not that much work!<br />
<br />
Everybody thinks that there is a lot of labor involved in having a garden. Well, guess what! Not so much.<br />
<br />
Plot # 24 at the Fenton Street Community garden is doing all the work. I show up occasionally in the morning when temperatures are expected to climb and I give it some water. That's it all it ever asks of me.<br />
<br />
Well, okay. One day, after the June 29 derecho storm, I had to help the tomato plants find the vertical path again. They were tilting dangerously over and shading my neighbor's plot. So I pounded extra stakes into the ground and jerry-rigged them with twine until the plants were approximately back in place. And I thinned out the yellow leaves at the bottom of the plants, but my Better Boy, my Mortgage Lifters and my Romas were all standing tall again. The okra, meanwhile, were so strong, that not even a 60 mile per hour wind gust could budge those babies. They are producing so quickly that sometimes I think they grow a fruit while I'm standing there.<br />
<br />
The soil in the plot is rich and well-dug. Last fall, I grew clover for a few weeks and then double dug trenches from the front of the plot to the back. I layered compost over it and then this spring I turned still more compost into the soil. So now when I accidentally step on the soil, my foot sinks an inch. Last summer, after I first got the plot, putting a stake in the soil was nearly impossible, the ground was so compacted. This year, it yields to just a few simple strokes of my hammer.<br />
<br />
And the rain we've had! Almost every three days, either a gentle downpour, like the one we had this morning, or a monsoon, like we had the other night. So that the ground is always moist around the roots of my plants. We've had rainfall all through June and now into July consistently. At the expense, of course, of the Midwest, which is disastrously dry this summer. We'll take it here, though.<br />
<br />
Now on to planning my fall garden. It's time to put in more seeds. What's next? <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-89167287763170597802012-06-10T15:31:00.000-04:002012-06-10T15:31:18.139-04:00Garden Blooms for June 10, 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-12389968957990381492012-06-09T08:46:00.000-04:002012-06-09T08:46:09.291-04:00Kathy Jentz, Publishing Gardener, Plot 16<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuugBzdVJMXMQEjZBOl1iUYuhGTjeX-tY2juvdlH5LDBpvJ0WXJFQEs_KMYSTBIR4ZKsOaEVX-JNrG1dGBNj-ZhyphenhyphenMEEdb-CaqgX2Wh54jDRyKK93prUOas5FC8u4zmJnQszCa_L6a5QI/s1600/DSCN2139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzuugBzdVJMXMQEjZBOl1iUYuhGTjeX-tY2juvdlH5LDBpvJ0WXJFQEs_KMYSTBIR4ZKsOaEVX-JNrG1dGBNj-ZhyphenhyphenMEEdb-CaqgX2Wh54jDRyKK93prUOas5FC8u4zmJnQszCa_L6a5QI/s400/DSCN2139.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathy Jentz, Plot 16, Fenton Street Garden. Kathy’s work is featured in numerous area publications including the
<i>Washington Examiner</i> newspaper, <i>Pathways</i> Magazine, and <i>Washington Women</i>
magazine. In addition, she appears on regular gardening guest spots on
Channel 9, Channel<br />
4, and WAMU radio.<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've known Kathy for quite awhile. She is my gardening guru, living the enviable life of producing both a magazine and several gardens. Kathy is editor and publisher of <a href="http://www.washingtongardener.com/" target="_blank"><i>Washington Gardener</i></a> magazine and a life-long gardener. She says that growing plants should be stress-free and enjoyable. Her philosophy is "inspiration over perspiration." <br />
<br />
When we were assigned plots in the garden, I was delighted to learn that Kathy would be gardening just down the row from me in her Plot 16. She's always got a good tip handy; knows most everything there is to know and if she doesn't, she'll figure it out for you. Having Kathy around the Community Garden has also proved useful because she's a natural-born leader. When there's a project at hand, she's got the chops for it. With a quick command, we're all happily lined up and executing the orders. And as a result, we've got two gorgeous communal herb and wild flower patches growing in what once a messy mix of angry, ugly weeds. Without further ado, here's Kathy: <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfjOgKqIRfjZGrXMUpPIO8bw-xsej5s3k9hxMHp3B1lG0nIgI2mtZxAXjmE6m2SI0SnCkp37xHsfDCqsQrFWClLS2S_xS0q3zeOBSPIfLvrZCrd2S1tncOukyx44FYXBQTR5CH5C_GMs/s1600/DSCN2134.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigfjOgKqIRfjZGrXMUpPIO8bw-xsej5s3k9hxMHp3B1lG0nIgI2mtZxAXjmE6m2SI0SnCkp37xHsfDCqsQrFWClLS2S_xS0q3zeOBSPIfLvrZCrd2S1tncOukyx44FYXBQTR5CH5C_GMs/s320/DSCN2134.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathy lays in the brick path for our herb and wildflower corne</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>As a gardener, what do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?</b><br />
<br />
Mid-December thru February - HATE HATE HATE the Mid-Atlantic Winter!<br />
<br />
<b>Other than the state of Maryland, where would you most like to live?</b><br />
<br />
New Orleans<br />
<br />
<b>What is your idea of earthly happiness?</b><br />
<br />
Time enough to read everything in my stacks, cool drink in hand, surrounded by my cats and bunches of cut flowers<br />
<br />
<b>To what faults do you feel most indulgent?</b> <br />
<br />
Procrastinating<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Who are your favorite environmental or botanical heroes?</b><br />
<br />
Ben Franklin, he is not thought that way, but if you really read his stuff, he was a great protector of the Earth<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Who are your favorite gardeners in history?</b><br />
<br />
The originals: Adam and Eve<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Who are your favorite heroes or heroines of fiction?</b><br />
<br />
Indiana Jones<br />
<br />
<b>Your favorite painter?</b><br />
<br />
Dali<br />
<br />
<b>Your favorite musician?</b><br />
<br />
Prince<br />
<br />
<b>Your favorite tool?</b><br />
<br />
Cobrahead<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>The quality you most admire in a gardener?</b><br />
<br />
Patience<br />
<br />
<b>Your favorite virtue?</b><br />
<br />
Calm<br />
<br />
<b>Your favorite occupation?</b><br />
<br />
I'm not sure if this means job or way to spend my time?<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>Who would you have liked to be?</b><br />
<br />
is this a historic or fictional or not specific person but a job category?<br />
<br />
<b>Your most marked characteristic?</b><br />
<br />
Bossiness<br />
<br />
<b>What do you most value in your garden?</b><br />
<br />
Anything that takes care of itself and thrives<br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>What is your principle gardening defect?</b><br />
<br />
Hate the thought of weeding - but once I get going, it is not too bad<br />
<br />
<b>What is your dream of happiness?</b><br />
<br />
See: What is your idea of earthly happiness?<br />
<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-13337882978732003642012-06-08T07:55:00.001-04:002012-06-08T07:55:05.355-04:00A Proust Questionnaire for Gardeners<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW96DqW7KrNo-N8GjQaQmMXayPobKpRE0yMMR5pd32OVc75gXHfmqWcR4-AENxtn7jVGUaUwS_HYT-247jI-SJXgwgapdFj-ASs6B7SS4icvQ4Pj_G-RLw63_vUvj3QpcUzgfgMVBl9lo/s1600/DSCN2110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW96DqW7KrNo-N8GjQaQmMXayPobKpRE0yMMR5pd32OVc75gXHfmqWcR4-AENxtn7jVGUaUwS_HYT-247jI-SJXgwgapdFj-ASs6B7SS4icvQ4Pj_G-RLw63_vUvj3QpcUzgfgMVBl9lo/s320/DSCN2110.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proust Questionnaire: A Peachy-Keen Idea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today, I am inaugurating my new summer project on Garden Putter. I am seeking out anyone who loves to play in the dirt and grow things to answer my "Proust Questionnaire for Gardeners."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/archive/proust-questionnaire" target="_blank">Vanity Fair</a> has a decided edge on the Putterer in this tradition. Its famous last-page interview of luminaries has been long-celebrated, and I admit to shameless borrowing.<br />
<br />
But then again, it's really <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marcel_Proust" target="_blank">Marcel Proust </a>we should all thank for this.<br />
<br />
And speaking of shamelessness, and for those reading this who are unfamiliar with the tradition, I lifted this directly from this
Proust Questionnaire <a href="http://hoelder1in.org/Proust/fill_questionnaire.html" target="_blank">site</a>: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: 150%;">T</span>he young
Marcel
Proust was asked to fill out questionnaires at two social events:
one when he was 13, another when he was 20. Proust did not invent this party
game; he was simply the most extraordinary person to respond to them. At the
birthday party of Antoinette Felix-Faure, the 13-year-old Marcel was asked to
answer fifteen questions in the birthday book. Seven years after the
first questionnaire, Proust was asked, at another social event, to fill out
another; the questions are much the same, but the answers somewhat different,
indicative of his traits at 20.</blockquote>
Proust Interviews of random individuals are now being captured and preserved for posterity at the <a href="http://www.bibalex.org/isis/Frontend/Static/Aboutus.aspx" target="_blank">Library of Alexandria in Egypt.</a> Mine is a less ambitious project. On a good day, the Putterer's readership is somewhere around 17 page views—a circulation limited to friends and family, so for anyone feeling shy, no worries, few will ever find you here. Send me your answers in a comment below. Or contact me via email: beth.pylieberman@verizon.net. <i>The Putterer</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 150%;"></span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Proust Questionnaire for Gardeners</b><br />
<br />
As a gardener, what do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?<br />
<br />
Other than the state of Maryland, where would you most like to live?<br />
<br />
What is your idea of earthly happiness?<br />
<br />
To what faults do you feel most indulgent?<br />
<br />
Who are your favorite environmental or botanical heroes?<br />
<br />
Who are your favorite gardeners in history?<br />
<br />
Who are your favorite heroes or heroines of fiction?<br />
<br />
Your favorite painter?<br />
<br />
Your favorite musician?<br />
<br />
Your favorite tool?<br />
<br />
The quality you most admire in a gardener?<br />
<br />
Your favorite virtue?<br />
<br />
Your favorite occupation?<br />
<br />
Who would you have liked to be?<br />
<br />
Your most marked characteristic?<br />
<br />
What do you most value in your garden?<br />
<br />
What is your principle gardening defect?<br />
<br />
What is your dream of happiness?The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-59589217122620758082012-05-29T06:53:00.000-04:002012-05-29T06:53:30.860-04:00Why We Garden<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday at the Community Garden, we gathered for a little Memorial Day picnic and group gardening session. I offered a door prize, a copy of the new Smithsonian gardening book and we drew names from a hat. Each person had to write down why the loved to garden. The results?<br />
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<i>A Poem of our Collective Thoughts on Gardening </i></div>
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I like to eat fresh things.<br />I like to eat and experiment.<br />It's like having little babies. And it's so delicious eating my own grown-from-seed crop. I learn so much, too.<br />It brings peace, allows me to help create.<br />I garden in the backyard, and so far my vegetables and herbs are doing great. I garden because I love vegetables and it gives me great pleasure to reap and cook my vegetables and they taste so much better.<br />I like to garden because I love watching things grow. it's amazing to see a seed or a small plant grow up to be something so large and edible.<br />I love to garden because it gives me peace of mind, it teaches me about life, and it gives me food (for mind, body, and soul).<br />Veggies are delicious, and home grown is a lot better than store bought.<br />I like to garden for tomatoes.<br />I like to garden as redemption.<br />Because it brings the Earth's energy into my life.<br />I like to garden for the connection to the elements of Earth and Beyond!</div>
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Below, an assemblage of portraits of my fellow gardeners. They all glow with health and from hard work. Just like Mama said, "You gotta eat your vegetables!" <i>The Putterer</i></div>
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<br /></div>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-6333498750712962592012-05-27T08:09:00.001-04:002013-02-05T21:35:12.321-05:00A Memorial Day Recommitment<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCP8y0KhZHVi74SWLclkUmt34_peuVWzsK5ES9jL-bZVbkYMbzRaj4gnofmhyphenhyphenmRnqDpKYtL2akA9zTJiDCDqCHAG4PTC6oPxETBVdwZ3GuM4upz3w6efZ8CufaDXbYNjatzg9g3Syp2E/s1600/DSCN2078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmCP8y0KhZHVi74SWLclkUmt34_peuVWzsK5ES9jL-bZVbkYMbzRaj4gnofmhyphenhyphenmRnqDpKYtL2akA9zTJiDCDqCHAG4PTC6oPxETBVdwZ3GuM4upz3w6efZ8CufaDXbYNjatzg9g3Syp2E/s400/DSCN2078.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I was lucky," my friend told me.</td></tr>
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Three words. "I was lucky." My mind is on replay this weekend. I keep returning to a moment and hearing the story all over again. I repeat it to my friends. Each time I retell it, the story becomes a little more breathtaking.<br />
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I was over at the gym on Friday waiting for our instructor to arrive. My long-time yoga neighbor and I were lying next to each other on our mats. She's quick to laugh, so I say silly things to amuse her. We always giggle during a balance exercise and throw each other into a tumble.<br />
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So I was just on talk vomit, releasing whatever random thoughts were in my brain and this time it was cookies. The delicious cookies that my friend Tamara makes, a delicate near cloud-like confection of chocolate chips and oatmeal. They are manna from heaven and I had made a special request for them the night before. So trying to limit my sugar intake before bed that night, I was hoping only to have one. But then this new mantra that I've been practicing of respecting my impulses took hold and I grabbed two more and ate them with pleasure. The morning after, I told my Yoga friend, the scale registered almost five extra pounds. We were giggling then. I wasn't serious at all. Cookies. Weight gain. Just word vomit. To make my giggly friend giggle.<br />
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"Beth," she said, "when I eat cookies, I just eat as many as I want."<br />
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I don't know when the story turned, but it fell like a quiet thunder from her lips. Because, she said then, during the communist time "we ate nothing."<br />
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Washington, D.C., is a melting pot of nationalities. You almost forget how far people have traveled to be your neighbor. And when you ask sometimes the countries are so exotic, Togo, the Philippines, Malaysia, that you can't even imagine visiting.<br />
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Remind me, I said to my friend, where are you from? I heard it before she said it.<br />
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Cambodia.<br />
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Your family?<br />
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All dead, she said.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1879785,00.html" target="_blank">Khmer Rouge</a>. My lovely friend. Always smiling. Always kind.<br />
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And then, with her hand over her face, she told me her story about living three-and-a-half years, beginning when she was 17, in a labor camp. Hard labor, she said. "It was our job to clear the land mines from the fields to grow rice."<br />
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But the rice, she said, was exported to China. And she got no food. <br />
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Oh, the killings, she said quietly. "I was lucky."<br />
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She was lucky because she lived. She was lucky because she managed to navigate a harrowing journey out of the camps as a refugee. She was lucky when she escaped the rapes and the murders in the refugee camps. And she was lucky she said that she wasn't pushed off a mountain when she arrived in Thailand. She was lucky she had a brother in the United States, who had left Cambodia before the ascent of the Khmer Rouge. And she was lucky because she managed to get a letter posted. And she was lucky because he found her. And on September 17, 1980, she was lucky because she came to the United States.<br />
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My beautiful friend. She works for the United States government now. After we work out, we laugh together in the locker room. I was always tease her because she takes too long in the shower. We get dressed again for the afternoon meetings. She puts on an elegant dress and heels, she paints her lips. I don't know what her profession is, but she commands a quiet authority, when she leaves the locker room. I always wish her a pleasant day.<br />
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The roads we've traveled brought us together. I don't know how she does it. But to her, she simply was lucky. And now she's quick to laugh at whatever silliness that I can concoct.<br />
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But the next time, I eat a cookie, I'm going to eating it slowly, and joyfully, and revel in my great good fortune. And for Memorial Day this weekend, I honor my friend, and all those in this world who suffer so unfairly at the hands of evil. <i>The Putterer</i><br />
<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-38526269782544832142012-05-22T07:04:00.000-04:002012-05-29T06:56:10.733-04:00Weary Warrior<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My goodness but the garden did its job this weekend. It took me into its embrace and nurtured me, gave me a place to recover and rest. And then once it had accomplished restoration, it demanded a kind of industry that energized me and gave me such sweet satisfaction.<br />
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I've been thinking about sustainability. Ever since my daughter Claire <a href="http://clairelieberman.tumblr.com/post/23361042519/a-journey-south-my-experience-soul-searching-in" target="_blank">took the bold, brave move to visit</a> a completely self-sustaining farm in Ecuador. She spent an entire week off the grid at a place called <a href="http://sacredsuenos.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Sacred Suenos </a>near Vilcabamba in southern Ecuador. I've been thinking about how I have slowly been evolving a garden that once only grew pretty flowers along pathways of stone and grass to something that is sustaining life and repurposing itself in its compost and in the food it grows. And as I've evolved from a rather uneducated gardener to one that sees the garden as a metaphor for all things, I've also somehow managed to turn a rather dispassionate young girl, who sometimes stopped to admire it, into a young woman, who cares enough about gardens that she spent a week working hard on a real one that tries vigorously to be a fully sustainable farming venture. Last night, she told me that she thinks that whereever she goes, she'll try to grow something in a garden.<br />
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Well, I guess my garden has done its job there too. For me, I arrived home Friday completely wiped out. This project was for all practical purposes nearly impossible to do. Had I tried to do it all by myself, I would have failed. Fortunately, I was able to multiply forces by engaging my colleagues to pitch in just small amounts, in a many-hands make less work fashion. Still, I woke early each day, worked through lunches, stayed late in the evenings and even worked through on a Saturday. So that by the time, I signed off at about 7 p.m. last Friday, I had clocked innumerable hours.<br />
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Saturday morning, I woke at 4:30 as if I was still on deadline. My body wanted to sleep, but my mind tracked only to this rigorous schedule. So I got up intent on reading all that I had missed in the past four weeks. By 8:30, I was coffee'd up and so Kate and I went off to Behnkes. There, I wandered around studying the plants, thinking of places in my garden where I might add this, or transplant that. But the thought of raising a shovel or turning any dirt was so beyond anything I could possibly do. When I got home, I took a book and some tea down to the garden. And there I rested, reading and listening to the catbirds call each other. I drifted off to sleep in my purple chair. The cool breeze sometimes pushing a lock of hair across my forehead. And there I rested for a couple of hours, until I realized that what I needed to do was to go to bed. And so off to bed, in the middle of the afternoon. And through the night and into the morning, I slept and recovered.<br />
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Well, Sunday morning, the catbirds called me into action. I felt so good. The morning was fresh. The garden was glorious. I took my bike to the farmer's market for the first time. All those times we've traveled Piney Branch Road by car, I never realized how steep those hills were. Pumping harder, accessing core strength, even screaming out with joy as I pushed myself up the hills. Heads turned inside passing cars to check out the crazed woman. Sailing back down on the other side, wind in my hair. Oh joy, I live a charmed life. All day, I worked in my garden, mowing grass, feeding compost, pulling weeds and singing the songs that pumped through my iPod into my ears. And when it was all done. I took a look at what I had created and I felt so happy. What joy! <i>The Putterer</i><br />
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<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-38129180256510834062012-05-06T07:34:00.000-04:002012-05-06T07:34:09.776-04:00Putter Splendor<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRProrv0J7kNR-lX7TbY7eUuvdWxY7nLYJiajsmaqz12XqqUrjLeT4SPE1SC6ycs6Z9t1hSIcTmFfG56ur2xEtRih22CQjxQXlOpWUAs7npbaoh-HRbfiZBSbKnZ0qYXikf0boPwrHl4/s1600/DSCN2005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRProrv0J7kNR-lX7TbY7eUuvdWxY7nLYJiajsmaqz12XqqUrjLeT4SPE1SC6ycs6Z9t1hSIcTmFfG56ur2xEtRih22CQjxQXlOpWUAs7npbaoh-HRbfiZBSbKnZ0qYXikf0boPwrHl4/s320/DSCN2005.JPG" width="320" /></a> Yesterday, I went out to get the paper and the profusion of blooms just took my breath away. I got my camera and started shooting. Peonies, roses, irises, everything. <i>The Putterer</i><br />
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<br />The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-32231265910895089192012-04-24T06:45:00.000-04:002012-04-24T06:45:37.922-04:00Book Binge<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmAIZu0IZt1OKlr-WhPNXQUolEuDmwMSjxhKtpyxMw9HLWOTy5xZeBpfDVjI74etSVTH9ysmwsbk_MKo7iqGIcur-s78-2DkV1lU5WBMiPNRF29oZYuCct30Vnr9eiqH6ItZaFDXq7iU/s1600/invisible-garden-dorothy-sucher-paperback-cover-art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmAIZu0IZt1OKlr-WhPNXQUolEuDmwMSjxhKtpyxMw9HLWOTy5xZeBpfDVjI74etSVTH9ysmwsbk_MKo7iqGIcur-s78-2DkV1lU5WBMiPNRF29oZYuCct30Vnr9eiqH6ItZaFDXq7iU/s320/invisible-garden-dorothy-sucher-paperback-cover-art.jpg" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Love this book</td></tr>
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So. I had to pick up some books at the library. I was participating in <a href="http://www.us.worldbooknight.org/" target="_blank">World Book Night</a>. I volunteered to pass out 25 free copies of one of my favorite books. That would be <i>The Poisonwood Bible</i> by Barbara Kingsolver. (I read that book that time we went to Africa.) When I got to the Wheaton Library, I found they had a used bookstore. So I went to the gardening shelf and bought four used books for five bucks. I gave away my free books and started reading my used books. One book, had a list of favorite books recommended on the inside cover. So I bought those books on Amazon in the used book section. Now I got more books coming, including this great classic called Norman Taylor's <i>Encyclopedia of Gardening</i> and a collection of essays and poetry by a feminist farmer named Janet Kauffman. I got up early this morning and started reading one of my used books, a collection of essays by Dorothy Sucher called <i>The Invisible Garden</i>. It turns out she's from Silver Spring, Maryland, like me. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dorothy_Sucher" target="_blank">Great lady</a>. Lovely book. "I had become infected with my first bout of garden fever, a recurrent disease, like malaria; an obsessive state in which plan piles upon plan, project upon project, the more grandiose the better, and nothing, absolutely nothing, seems impossible." I know this feeling. I wish I could have known <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/08/27/AR2010082704740.html" target="_blank">Dorothy</a>. I passed out my books last night in just 20 minutes. I gave away 25 books and most people smiled and thanked me. Some people, though, looked worried when I approached them and rushed away. Some said no, thanks. A disturbing few even laughed and jostled the arm of their buddy derisively, as if reading were so uncool and I was freakishly weird. Meanwhile, I wish I had an extra pair of eyes, because I've got a lot of books to read now. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-38634900378923499812012-04-22T08:06:00.000-04:002012-04-22T08:06:32.324-04:00A Month Ahead and A Month Behind<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNb9P14X-vxyjqNbFOhGmvzXciVbIvTEfp4TnegkmZ29lWCRjUPG8Dcp7fOnajDS5jM_ukRniGkiNeSM2rJWcSzfcTb4uDtk075n9ozGfzTpDpFWm2cESm_CkmrVfH3h2ma9viIEKZ_M/s1600/DSCN1978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKNb9P14X-vxyjqNbFOhGmvzXciVbIvTEfp4TnegkmZ29lWCRjUPG8Dcp7fOnajDS5jM_ukRniGkiNeSM2rJWcSzfcTb4uDtk075n9ozGfzTpDpFWm2cESm_CkmrVfH3h2ma9viIEKZ_M/s320/DSCN1978.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Azaleas are peaked or past peak.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_6FbwyOTMLZ6-dyOPLv66tsVTYKzr-UJYXLCMiZGPPEFaCkArygyGCDn5UhCtxg5S_vol0PXuEYQ77ol5Rioa4C86DzpDqGC77r1Xr7nV6ssTq9CcD-zmKOTK0cxQfBW6MhiTdx884I/s1600/DSCN1982.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_6FbwyOTMLZ6-dyOPLv66tsVTYKzr-UJYXLCMiZGPPEFaCkArygyGCDn5UhCtxg5S_vol0PXuEYQ77ol5Rioa4C86DzpDqGC77r1Xr7nV6ssTq9CcD-zmKOTK0cxQfBW6MhiTdx884I/s320/DSCN1982.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roses are busting out.</td></tr>
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I was just going through last year's photos of the garden and it looks like we are almost a month ahead in terms of bloom times. In fact, my garden seems like it's in a big hurry, and every flower and every plant is vying for attention. The azaleas bursted open as if they were trying to beat out the daffodils. The roses woke up so early, I thought they might ask for a cup of coffee. The dogwoods flowered so fast, I almost missed them. And the May-blooming irises and peonies are warming up in the batter's box for their turn at the April plate.<br />
<br />
We're finally going to get some rain today and it couldn't come at a better time because while the garden is out ahead, the Putterer is way behind at work. So today, I'm going to be head down at home on the keyboard. Though, really that doesn't bother me. It's a pleasant task, I'm writing little blurbs on the cool things to see at each of the museums. I might even run downtown and take in a museum, or two, to complete the task.<br />
<br />
A bus man's holiday.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, I couldn't be more pleased with the garden this year. I'm right on schedule, having put down mulch for the first time in half a dozen years on some of the beds and staunched a few weeds. I got grassseed down just before the early spring showers arrived, so the blades are robust and thick. I grew red lettuce, kale and chard from seed, so the vegetable patch is ready to deliver. I worked and worked<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJobvSxZE-XyGmR-roJEgOsfNSs6c6SHlfY6umUTFusIGp3F2AEfsciUUqGX7z-1k_VfnSW2pHxuiqLU39uNPelQKqZyNQQRmDNy94OZoKTgZzdm-l5BbUw_g5T18XtX7gghj3eYA1nvY/s1600/DSCN1984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJobvSxZE-XyGmR-roJEgOsfNSs6c6SHlfY6umUTFusIGp3F2AEfsciUUqGX7z-1k_VfnSW2pHxuiqLU39uNPelQKqZyNQQRmDNy94OZoKTgZzdm-l5BbUw_g5T18XtX7gghj3eYA1nvY/s320/DSCN1984.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dogwoods are showering their petals.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_iPQ8u9hSQdfRS2687fciASIsYonGiKq96DG_y9vDJs0-3ynS6uOCpQ6pr3TkQGVqXvrLUHlE3Rje2whXVIbRSYs4cWglHbyfn8iTNWaT0BjsqVbk_V1QAYHtCSrY8NFuvve0lEeNkM/s1600/DSCN1992.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_iPQ8u9hSQdfRS2687fciASIsYonGiKq96DG_y9vDJs0-3ynS6uOCpQ6pr3TkQGVqXvrLUHlE3Rje2whXVIbRSYs4cWglHbyfn8iTNWaT0BjsqVbk_V1QAYHtCSrY8NFuvve0lEeNkM/s320/DSCN1992.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swiss chard is ready for picking</td></tr>
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the soil over at the community garden. I grew a cover crop of clover, then turned it over in trenches, row by row, mixing in compost so that my beds are thick and spongy, and teaming with earthworms. Over there, I've got sugar snap peas and greens growing in one bed and the others are ready to plant just as soon as the nights can be counted on to stay warm. I've got tomatoes, melons, cukes, swiss chard, basil, eggplant, peppers, onions and parsley starts all thriving under my lights and waiting to go out to be hardened off and planted.<br />
<br />
Today, the temperature shouldn't rise above 55, so I've got my fireplace humming with a toasty blaze. Delicious coffee in hand. Snoozy pup snuggling beside me. It's going to be a wonderful day today.<br />
<br />
An early spring for an at-the-ready gardener. Not a bad thing at all. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-56914746363549907682012-04-07T18:38:00.000-04:002012-04-07T18:38:19.329-04:00Got Crafty Today<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAIQS_fPDP2FlT-0bCq39-McULk4NHgGM7GOe-1XiFMR2PUzs1XeRmW3GomHZ3y9QohfRlmI-tCSVpsIh1u8jyRRzmqDMeKnQtWqpDVbfwRoowJoAxlWjp9q9ycloUUbEKY5vTiqVyUjY/s1600/DSCN1880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAIQS_fPDP2FlT-0bCq39-McULk4NHgGM7GOe-1XiFMR2PUzs1XeRmW3GomHZ3y9QohfRlmI-tCSVpsIh1u8jyRRzmqDMeKnQtWqpDVbfwRoowJoAxlWjp9q9ycloUUbEKY5vTiqVyUjY/s400/DSCN1880.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Made a succulent mini-garden today.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My neighbor put this pitcher and bowl out on the curb last fall marked free, so I took it home. Last weekend I drilled drainage holes in the bottom of both the bowl and pitcher and today I made an arrangement of succulents and stones. I can't get out to water all my potted plants every day in the heat of the summer, so I'm potting ups some sturdy fellas, who don't need so much water. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-43930514373187541302012-04-07T09:17:00.000-04:002012-04-07T09:17:01.569-04:00Sunny Saturday!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumqm7e2i-peBbqYQf65t-ojtMkvL1QhUDin-CyrZtB-IFmgApAm-HksxW27Bp-wKwsvCKpNzTM1tIwGJM16R1n6bFlUSLm4uMQaRKIhjKWodCPElbvBl4ghM5WnZJ97nUhSX1nH9aeQw/s1600/DSCN1843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumqm7e2i-peBbqYQf65t-ojtMkvL1QhUDin-CyrZtB-IFmgApAm-HksxW27Bp-wKwsvCKpNzTM1tIwGJM16R1n6bFlUSLm4uMQaRKIhjKWodCPElbvBl4ghM5WnZJ97nUhSX1nH9aeQw/s320/DSCN1843.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It couldn't be more beautiful out this morning. The sun is so bright, it was piercing my eyes as I fumbled to make the coffee. I had to shade my eyes in the kitchen in order to see where to pour the water into the coffeemaker.<br />
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This morning, I'm off to Behnkes to pick up some fertilizers, non-chemical of course, to feed my soils to the letter of their needs. The soil tests came back this week and I am armed with the specific requirements to make my garden produce. I spent the whole week studying the reports and planning what fertilizers I'll use and how to make them work for me. I'll be planting four new rose bushes, a hydrangea and a native kalmia all along the fence. Last weekend, I had the boys help me dig out the holes. The soil was tough and difficult. So, I'll also amend with compost. The kalmia needs a particularly acidic soil and a place on a shady slope. Its root ball needs to be planted a bit above the ground, so I've selected the perfect home for it just beside the gate. The roses that I picked out thrive in sun, but tolerate shade. They are perfect for the range of shade and sun that play along the fence throughout the day. I'll start off the morning by putting the dry roots into buckets of water and leaving them to soak all of today and tonight and I'll plant them tomorrow for Easter Sunday. Over at the Community Garden, the water is turned on and so I can commence to begin. The soil there was higher in pH, than I expected, a 7.3, which is at the highest range for vegetables. Word up is that our compost was heated improperly, elevating the pH. I'm going to add Espoma sulfer in to help acidify. The soil test recommended that I add straight up nitrogen in the form of urea or bone meal to start the season. I've evidently added too much compost because my potassium, magnesium and calcium levels were in the excessive range, while my phosphorus was at optimum levels and my organic matter was admirable, at 12 percent. It's going to be a perfect day. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-49482642774641300072012-03-31T21:47:00.000-04:002012-03-31T21:47:27.080-04:00Boys in the Hood<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ZpBYM-Q7uq11tGbXnj9sKarHdmElcEQXRdn1KAMDs16eq8fHL9yz_KPREca7WzZQZLIfboxf_icoLO2bxlmzTw2duKDNNn0MhgR5NNWIIK5eoXGnCFIa9cR9J297dAI4HRgZgHVj20Q/s1600/DSCN1822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ZpBYM-Q7uq11tGbXnj9sKarHdmElcEQXRdn1KAMDs16eq8fHL9yz_KPREca7WzZQZLIfboxf_icoLO2bxlmzTw2duKDNNn0MhgR5NNWIIK5eoXGnCFIa9cR9J297dAI4HRgZgHVj20Q/s320/DSCN1822.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My helpers</td></tr>
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I was so lucky today to have some help. I won't embarrass them by naming names, but there are two guys in my neighborhood, who are the best of friends. They are together all the time and today, they dug holes for me. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-7547025014696751702012-03-31T10:03:00.000-04:002012-03-31T10:03:17.612-04:00Dear Soil, Talk to Me, What Do You Need from Me?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWfw8ufHK5R7irObkRkuxwLr24tokJKBXb9O9PiGvdb1E_tFSAsHZbwKr4izdy0A_fk_C56Lk2ER89_yX2csFQTrNwO2axtTynuhaV6NYO6UWM0_QERXIA0-CP40hRMvfKh_T_ZDJMPks/s1600/DSCN1816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWfw8ufHK5R7irObkRkuxwLr24tokJKBXb9O9PiGvdb1E_tFSAsHZbwKr4izdy0A_fk_C56Lk2ER89_yX2csFQTrNwO2axtTynuhaV6NYO6UWM0_QERXIA0-CP40hRMvfKh_T_ZDJMPks/s320/DSCN1816.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Double dug, tilled and composted. What more can I do?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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I feel like a Potash-head this morning. Potassium, nitrogen, magnesium, oye.<br />
<br />
I am the very model of a garden Major-General. I've information vegetable, animal and mineral, but I'm just so confused. <br />
<br />
Plot number 24, by all intents and purposes, should be a veritable vegetable factory this year. It has been lovingly tended to. Last fall, I grew a clover cover crop in it to help build nutrients into the soil. Then I double dug it, turning the rows of clover under to add compost into the soil and to build a fluffy, spacious soil composition that would encourage germination and root growth, and then I added compost to the surface to give it that much more organic matter. Last weekend, I laid over that an additional three to four inches of compost for top dressing. I am, you see, gardening to the letter of the law.<br />
<br />
But here's the pisser. I sent soil samples to the University of Delaware the week of March 5th and I have yet to hear back from them. They promised two week delivery, maybe a month if they were busy. But don't they realize that spring is at my throat! I need information, people, and I need it now.<br />
<br />
Because, and here's the action I hadn't planned on. Other gardeners at the community garden, after receiving their soil analyses, are putting lime in their gardens!<br />
<br />
So, I am a lime lover, I can lime a margarita like nobody's business. People come to my house from all over and are sublimely limed with one of my margaritas. Two, three sips, and I have raised their pH and diminished their acidity, which improves their mood immeasurably. <br />
<br />
But for the soil, I don't know my calcium carbonate, from my calcium magnesium carbonate, from my calcium hydroxide, from my calcium oxide. I sure wouldn't want to suffer a morning after from any margarita mixed with that shit. <br />
<br />
Studying my <i>Maryland Master Gardener Handbook </i>this morning, I read that in this state many of "our native soils in unimproved condition are acidic." And that soil acidity is especially deadening where growth is desired. My soil is certainly improved over last year. But my question is what exactly does just the mere applications of compost or organic matter do to the soil in terms of its chemistry? I was under the impression that compost would balance the soil's pH in lieu of chemical fertilizers. Yes?<br />
<br />
But on page 64, Marylanders are told that they can mix their soil margaritas with a choice of limestone and dolomite limestone, which are very slow to act, maybe years, or the faster acting hydrated or burned lime. But is that organic? No, of course it can't be. And if you don't get the mixture just right, it will run off and make all the Maryland streams, well, limey.<br />
<br />
And as for compost, here I'm reading that you should add no more than a quarter inch to a half inch of compost to turf in year, page 94, but over on page 407, in the vegetable chapter, it says that new garden areas may need four to eight inches of organic matter the first year or two. So that means you are planting young plants directly into compost and not the soil. Can that be good?<br />
<br />
I put about five inches of compost into the plot last week and I left it on top of the already double dug soil because I didn't want to destroy the structure of that system. Because you see, I've also read that tilling the soil can severely rupture structure and doing that can take years to repair! <br />
<br />
But since my soil test isn't back yet, I don't know if I need to do anything else.<br />
<br />
And yet the temptation to plant something was assuaged last weekend, when the master gardener gave me some extra of his plants to plant. I planted those directly into the layer of compost on the top and when I went over yesterday, I was dismayed to see that some of the leaves of the plants had yellowed. Meanwhile, MG's plants directly across from plot 24, were just a lovely green.<br />
<br />
I want to die. Just kill me now. Was it the lime? Do I need lime? <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-32418162956188527172012-03-30T08:13:00.000-04:002012-03-30T08:13:03.279-04:00The Last Days of the Month<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgE1RMjZPoN2eC2Pgw95TSH9PSf0UxBIA3fbOdYe22fAaNOEGNvua-lqbDstiAPAzuRFdLrw3eo9kMTO-CndMR4I92V6xATV2rtBfNjFCWMBjgzBA3NHbx-mvSGm3g3gxkZD3eGWHiaQQ/s1600/DSCN1813.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgE1RMjZPoN2eC2Pgw95TSH9PSf0UxBIA3fbOdYe22fAaNOEGNvua-lqbDstiAPAzuRFdLrw3eo9kMTO-CndMR4I92V6xATV2rtBfNjFCWMBjgzBA3NHbx-mvSGm3g3gxkZD3eGWHiaQQ/s320/DSCN1813.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A turtle stepping stone stands watch over my greens.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
March is over. We're in the final stretch. We closed the magazine. People aren't in the office. It's a time for resting, recovering, readying. I've been living my life on the last days of the month for so long, I don't know any other schedule. My months are always a frantic climb to get it all done, to finish, to sign off, to let it go, to come to a rest and a recover. Even my daughters complied with this schedule. Both of them arrived in this world just days after deadline. Once a friend said to me, "you have no idea what it's like to live without a deadline." The statement stopped me cold. He was right. <br />
<br />
I think I'd fall apart. How would you organize your life if you had longer than four weeks of five days, excepting holidays, to finish? The thought is you'd take deeper breaths? Slow down? Me? No way. I might at first, fail completely to get anything done? Would the laundry pile up? The leftovers rot? The weeds and the grass take over? Maybe like in college, after an all-nighter, I'd finally sleep deeply? (Those days are gone forever, I suspect.)<br />
<br />
So I took the day off today. I know I'm messing with fire, because that's one day less for the next cycle, but I'm going to pretend for a moment that I have all the time in the world. (Except, in a minute Jim's going to make me drive him to the subway, and Caley will need a walk, and I really need to make those doctor's appointments for Claire, and we're having Friday night here tonight and we're out of wine and limes and cointreau, and I want to go for a run, and mow the lawn, and turn the compost, and go to the community garden to water my greens, and oh what else can I do to turn my day off into a day on?)<br />
<br />
It's on that dash, remember the famous line that Jesse Jackson read at Jackie Robinson's funeral, that we live our lives. From the day of the birth to the day of death. The dash on the tombstone is were life lives. Not, the dash from the beginning of the month to the end. Nor, the dash from the start of the growing season to first frost. Nor is it the dash from the chime of the radio in the morning to the droop of the eyelid at night. <br />
<br />
I realized, though, this winter as I ordered foundation plants to decorate my new fence in the backyard garden that I might be closing in on the final frontiers of my garden. That after I put in these final pieces, I might be finished. All that would remain is moving plants from here to there, and maintenance. Does that mark an end date or the deadline of my garden. One of my friends asked me what would be next?<br />
<br />
What do you do next? When gray sparkles in your hair and the kids are living away more often than home? When you mark a significant anniversary in your career, the kind they give you a cheesy pin for? <br />
<br />
What's cool about that dash between birth and death is that it's longer than you think. It's got some time built into it for thinking about possibilities and opportunities. The maybes are kind of exciting. Garden metaphors abound. The tiny green elbow of a future plant poking up through the soil on a crispy, cool spring morning.<br />
<br />
But I don't have too much time today to think about that, because really, no matter what you do, there's always a deadline. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-80837372459888879522012-03-29T08:20:00.000-04:002012-03-29T08:20:48.291-04:00A White Picket Fence<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFyQ8OmZNVvc3JWrBZ5vLE0h4aOFH1mmeQBhNC6e0tbSRE3ofJThvPL4qe6pCuH5hDIqIC0xWVX01TSjt4TRgSzN0iudhk3T8HVpATfGqK1NglwU2h1esPBEM19P5NRWSrpC3gQjwkfM/s1600/DSCN1812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFyQ8OmZNVvc3JWrBZ5vLE0h4aOFH1mmeQBhNC6e0tbSRE3ofJThvPL4qe6pCuH5hDIqIC0xWVX01TSjt4TRgSzN0iudhk3T8HVpATfGqK1NglwU2h1esPBEM19P5NRWSrpC3gQjwkfM/s320/DSCN1812.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A white picket fence makes a plot a home</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Plot 24 is ready for summer. It has a design. It has good soil, amended with about two inches of compost. It is enhanced with stepping stones and a path for accessibility. And it has curb appeal, boasting a proper front entrance and even a white picket fence. <br />
<br />
The master gardener who tills the soil in the plot directly across from me was kind about my aesthetics. He calls his a "production plot" and indeed, his is producing. So much so that he had to give up some of his plants to me. I was the lucky recipient of some red leaf lettuce, three brussels sprouts, two each of tat soi, pak choi and an Italian green called minutina. I also dropped in a few sugarsnap pea seeds and some arugula. And at the front fence, three lovely dahlias went into the ground. <br />
<br />
And of course, I'll need a new sign—for display of my address and calling card and a whirligig to keep the bird's away they say, but actually, it's really just a pretty flush of spinning colors. <i>The Putterer</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-19144209636088863352012-03-25T10:42:00.000-04:002012-03-25T10:42:29.227-04:00Poking Around to Find Where It All Began<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SGCmWqubjC3GcvOytYYgrNl15Py11j8BXP9zZIbBb5r3NZlpwURcZQh3ykjvfCWxH73FunYJ-XCqoPpwxGtmwEdX5xLiC3PUs9o4CEWNQGiUAY_O8AJ6R6Lid7FtBE-xjOuURq1VHW0/s1600/DSCN1811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7SGCmWqubjC3GcvOytYYgrNl15Py11j8BXP9zZIbBb5r3NZlpwURcZQh3ykjvfCWxH73FunYJ-XCqoPpwxGtmwEdX5xLiC3PUs9o4CEWNQGiUAY_O8AJ6R6Lid7FtBE-xjOuURq1VHW0/s320/DSCN1811.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>I think what I love most about gardening, besides the act of gardening, is the idea of gardening. And today, I was wondering where that might have first emerged.<br />
<br />
Reading, of course. Especially the books I read as a kid. There is something magically transportive in reading about gardens and especially those that make them, travel to them, write about them, or observe them.<br />
<br />
My mother was much into reading and had a particular penchant for the 19th century novelist. We were all about <i>Heidi</i>, <i>Little Women</i>, <i>Joe's Boys</i> and Frances Hodgson Burnett. Mom would point out a title and I would dutifully read. I had a spot for literature up in a tree in the backyard. I would climb up about 20 feet from the ground and there was a perfect place where the branches grew into a Danish-designed lounge perfectly proportioned to my ten-year-old self.<br />
<br />
"But she was <i>inside</i> the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time, and she felt as if she had found a world all her own."<br />
<br />
I wish I could muster the intense focus that I had for reading back then, when I had no responsibility and time stretched endlessly into long, hot afternoons. There was no care in the world. I could be pestered about helping with the housework, but it wasn't my real concern.<br />
<br />
Today, when I read, it's always in haste. Hurriedly, I scan headlines, poke around at links, and flip pages from the back of the book to the front. (I've always read the last page first to make sure that I want to go there.) I don't retain too much either. My chemo-wrecked brain feels porous and ideas slip away before I can grasp at them and make them stick. <br />
<br />
But this morning, I'm feeling more retentive and that old feeling of escaping into another world is with me. It's because I am traipsing through a garden of words, some flowery and over grown, others sweet and sentimental, a few terse, but wizened. Here I sit before a fire, early on a Sunday morning. And I'm turning the pages of books, not clicking screens, and reading the words of old world writers, the literary gardeners and their gardens either real or imagined. Reading lazily, never thoroughly, but satisfyingly.<br />
<br />
Here's one from Elizabeth Barrett Browning that silences the noise of Internet junk.<br />
<br />
<i>As I entered Mosses hushing</i><br />
<i>Stole all noises from my foot</i><br />
<i>And a green elastic cushion</i><br />
<i>Clasped within the Linden's root</i><br />
<i>Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute.</i><br />
<br />
And for my sleepless menopausal soul. <br />
<br />
The Garden at Dawn—<i>Yesterday morning I got up at three o'clock and stole through the echoing passages and strange dark rooms, undid with trembling hands the bolts of the door to the verandah, and passed out into a wonderful, unknown world. . . It was quite light, yet a bright moon hung in the cloudless grey-blue sky; the flowers were all awake, saturating the air with scent; and a nightingale sat on a hornbeam quite close to me, in loud raptures at the coming of the sun.</i> Elizabeth von Arnim, 1899<br />
<br />
I have no idea what a nightingale looks like. I'm sure if I've seen one, it passed me by in a hurry. But every book one ever read, surely has a passage about nightingales. I am resisting now the urge to flit away and Google the nightingale and satisfy my need to know. I stay here instead ignorant, but focusing on the words. Is it bird or flower? And the magical nightingale takes on a dream state image, a white feathered ethereal, golden-beaked beauty. Who needs reality when just the word nightingale says it all.<br />
<br />
Alice B. Toklas says she had to grow vegetables for Gertrude Stein, but of course she did it all for herself.<br />
<br />
<i>The first gathering of the garden in May of salads, radishes and herbs made me feel like a mother about her baby—how could anything so beautiful be mine. And this emotion of wonder filled me for each vegetable as it was gathered every year. There is nothing that is comparable to it, as satisfactory or as thrilling, as gathering the vegetables one has grown.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and about them; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow, for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind, that blew upon them over the lake; they looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing.</i> Dorothy Wordsworth<br />
<br />
Verily laughed! I'm going to use that in a sentence today. How do you do that? Oh you boorish child, I verily laugh at you. I verily hope you laugh at me. But isn't Dorothy enjoying her daffodils ever so much more than her stuffy poet of a brother, wandering lonely as a cloud?<br />
<br />
<i>What a wealth to country children are the dandelions with their hollow stalks, linked into chains day after day, with untiring eagerness, and with the white downy balls, 'The schoolboy's clock in every town,' which come as the flowers fall away, and which sometimes whiten the meadow by their profusion, till a strong gust arises, and scatters them far and wide! Away they float, each white plume bearing onwards the seed at its base, so beautifully balanced, that its motion is most graceful, and its destined place in the soil most surely reached. </i>Anne Pratt<br />
<br />
The wonderful evocative meadow. That word. It conjures up so many memories. The fields behind my grandfather's barn. The rolling grasslands that we hiked with the girls on our vacations in the national parks. Even the sports fields where the girls played softball. And dandelions. I had forgotten the game of braiding them together. And the joy of blowing them into each others' faces, not worrying that the seed would land and fill the grass with still more. Who cared if a dandelion grew in the yard?<br />
<br />
<i>She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said. . . . She did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow</i>. Frances Hodgson Burnett<br />
<br />
Poking around in the Secret Garden, that's surely where it all began. <i>The Putterer </i><br />
<br />
<i>Special thanks to Deborah Kellaway's compilation, </i>The Virago Book of Women Gardeners, <i>1996, Virago Press.</i>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-36204751526786310032012-03-24T09:04:00.000-04:002012-03-24T09:04:27.645-04:00It's Going to Rain All Weekend<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVe49O8rca8mABn4g6k6K9uc8KKJv-rYz7P0BphJZOTyVAlBiOZEgZS7QTyynLX5e-qhkCGSLM-9ohNTDAApTmJV3tIUa_2Q0VYpGF9HF2nJ1Mf1jSVFmgqxzgXb7kf4WOBI5indU0CsI/s1600/DSCN1800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVe49O8rca8mABn4g6k6K9uc8KKJv-rYz7P0BphJZOTyVAlBiOZEgZS7QTyynLX5e-qhkCGSLM-9ohNTDAApTmJV3tIUa_2Q0VYpGF9HF2nJ1Mf1jSVFmgqxzgXb7kf4WOBI5indU0CsI/s320/DSCN1800.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The delicious scent of my vibernum is everywhere.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I am not a photographer, but I can play with the adjustments in my iPhoto software and create some pretty spectacular images. A push, a tweak, a little saturation, some added exposure, a tint, some definition and Voila! Check out my pretty vibernum picture. It looks almost as it does in real life, maybe even a little better? (The image fails, however, to deliver the intoxicating scent of this delicate bloom. It rides on every little breeze.) <br />
<br />
I wish I had an extra effects tool for the weather, though. Today, heavy showers. Tomorrow, the same. Over at the community garden yesterday, I hurried to get all of my share of the compost—one cubic yard—into the plot. The compost was delivered to the driveway outside the garden and had to be shoveled into my garden cart and pushed over the wood chip paths and then dumped carefully into the plot so as not to spill into the other plots or onto my central path. I snuck away from work because I knew I wasn't going to be able to get it done on the weekend, thanks to the weather reports.<br />
<br />
After it was all done, my friend Anne said, "Aren't you going to plant anything before the rain comes?" Her plot is already neatly growing in rows some onions and parsley and lettuce and even a couple of artichokes that hadn't perished over the winter. Well, no. I wasn't going to plant anything until we had some water in the cistern. But it was going to rain. Hmmm. Change of plans. I could sow some seeds. But I had a party to get to and I needed to shop and shower. So no, I didn't plant.<br />
<br />
This morning, though, with the windows open and the birds calling, I woke early and didn't hear any rain. Wasn't too long before my sleepy thoughts turned to gardening. Never mind, that Patsy went out last night and hadn't come home. Pshaw, why worry about absent daughters when I could think about seeds. So I got up and took the dog out, bringing my camera and even before I'd made coffee, I was out in my garden taking photographs and studying the sky. The birds were especially noisy, obviously trying to tell me something. But I wasn't getting their message. A little like the weather forecasters. Rain today! Rain tomorrow! Weekend washout! Maybe! We think! Well, At Some Point! Could Be Just Occasional Showers! <br />
<br />
I mean I had plans, people. I was going to not think about gardening this weekend. I was going to read the newspaper. Think about other concerns. Do yoga. Maybe some planks. Get caught up on housework. Watch some basketball with Jim. Go somewhere with Patsy. No, Anne, I'm not going to plant something!<br />
<br />
Well, maybe, just a few seeds. Before the rain comes. If it does. Anyway, I can't control the weather, but I sure can crank up the dials on my iPhoto and distort my plants into some crazy-ass images. Here's what I did this morning under a forecast of rain. <i>The Putterer</i><br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5lP5vwHXmHumQTVulWXTjSAmFqwGUnbavKrxRNSDyl0tx5AX2sbVDtsaFNRCTJy5imUGyduY-V_6qwica453CmD_HYhltIL0IPmNBW-E2w_aqFN7rDJds4mdXj7X_K6BvMyQbBcB00c/s1600/DSCN1799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY5lP5vwHXmHumQTVulWXTjSAmFqwGUnbavKrxRNSDyl0tx5AX2sbVDtsaFNRCTJy5imUGyduY-V_6qwica453CmD_HYhltIL0IPmNBW-E2w_aqFN7rDJds4mdXj7X_K6BvMyQbBcB00c/s320/DSCN1799.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOa_SJB4AVUfuGHnskNPDJAl8L75LAmx1YdHRe8yJnP5Ii-Tpi9XkBwdvRe3lnNXxaf5yb7k503Hz3wHK237F5exhNc5N_31LjjSKdTnHXX4LRTFNw63YSCk6D7H6opclKyYaEcnUYnM/s1600/DSCN1801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpOa_SJB4AVUfuGHnskNPDJAl8L75LAmx1YdHRe8yJnP5Ii-Tpi9XkBwdvRe3lnNXxaf5yb7k503Hz3wHK237F5exhNc5N_31LjjSKdTnHXX4LRTFNw63YSCk6D7H6opclKyYaEcnUYnM/s320/DSCN1801.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoG4oJr2eaMijNOW08mHBSy_5f4epRb7CcPwbIaH2B6omOQBmRVg3yvZ2hcWMsfW3XiSVjJ0FcaiEtgdUk7kNg7x-ZPT7Sc04LtEh559QP-D84bptQMWj6PfbGCKsE7l2KA58uX7oMkY/s1600/DSCN1807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDoG4oJr2eaMijNOW08mHBSy_5f4epRb7CcPwbIaH2B6omOQBmRVg3yvZ2hcWMsfW3XiSVjJ0FcaiEtgdUk7kNg7x-ZPT7Sc04LtEh559QP-D84bptQMWj6PfbGCKsE7l2KA58uX7oMkY/s320/DSCN1807.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNPRurCjnCvh3BnU6h12ctB0wJCM3f99SB9JHmw6KEi6ChhgHkd_cPG1STeiQdKWxYUZ4-dUJbbXVYwfpXfpWwN78gLx5VufmDJKD6QYYrLunDVEdfXWguiHBr1CfW6PGn7hrQ1vn-ho/s1600/DSCN1809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXNPRurCjnCvh3BnU6h12ctB0wJCM3f99SB9JHmw6KEi6ChhgHkd_cPG1STeiQdKWxYUZ4-dUJbbXVYwfpXfpWwN78gLx5VufmDJKD6QYYrLunDVEdfXWguiHBr1CfW6PGn7hrQ1vn-ho/s320/DSCN1809.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9177710555028297684.post-90087996234997954272012-03-11T10:15:00.000-04:002012-03-11T10:15:22.650-04:00Pathways<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeLBARwY63O7yyG9toVQ9HiF95mxKw8khUrSzlXhtVs-X37GKX23noUjO-WZGwLazNbDL7ZnX7aObXo6C5nLefpiTyDz2nvkD8Xhwqe0RHl2Y3ganEsvVx4DyWZZ398jczuJVFFZg7HoE/s1600/DSCN1779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeLBARwY63O7yyG9toVQ9HiF95mxKw8khUrSzlXhtVs-X37GKX23noUjO-WZGwLazNbDL7ZnX7aObXo6C5nLefpiTyDz2nvkD8Xhwqe0RHl2Y3ganEsvVx4DyWZZ398jczuJVFFZg7HoE/s320/DSCN1779.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new path.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
What else to do on a beautiful Saturday but put in a path. Actually, I did more than that and for that reason, I can barely move my fingers to type this morning. My fingers are connected to the tendons in my biceps and triceps, which are sending sensory snips down to the tips of my toes, but today the garden beckons. I've got more hard landscaping to do. I need to buy more mulch and continue the job of newspapering and mulching the area along the new fence to keep weeds from coming in.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Jk-2lWS7fr0ovfo346ySZA1lb2upzyT_58wOHiedjyBkYmbi39lZ4Qx3NNZrj_3FekybihbGciGJai7zdiWbP2rgGrJBefJcALT0Wz73k7ILG9rfjsvT2LZqTAikaX4Ff5WuLES6rFI/s1600/DSCN1782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Jk-2lWS7fr0ovfo346ySZA1lb2upzyT_58wOHiedjyBkYmbi39lZ4Qx3NNZrj_3FekybihbGciGJai7zdiWbP2rgGrJBefJcALT0Wz73k7ILG9rfjsvT2LZqTAikaX4Ff5WuLES6rFI/s320/DSCN1782.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newspapered and mulched.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I also want to bring all my seedlings out and let them harden off. I wish I could plant them today, but they need about seven days of acclimation. Still,I bought some arugula seed that I'm going to sow and I've got four broccoli plants that I bought at Whole Foods and that can go in. I've already got brussel sprouts and red cabbage growing. I also want to seed the grassy areas with a mixture of clover and grass. And all of this with an hour lost to daylight savings. Never mind the newspaper that needs to be read and the grocery shopping that needs to be accomplished. Life is good. <i>The Putterer</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWHoUhMvliDjAAkLM3bzyAsi1dT3qMNScg0OpMt58Sw5GGSDhADUzVTTq-LkCyhK6G-_7N_3sAUHPJFbh0JiD_q_FRtN2Jw2dWfPO7Fi5Y-ubOw4_KAdT8OS5_ci11mRVrOye_VbPEYAM/s1600/DSCN1780.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWHoUhMvliDjAAkLM3bzyAsi1dT3qMNScg0OpMt58Sw5GGSDhADUzVTTq-LkCyhK6G-_7N_3sAUHPJFbh0JiD_q_FRtN2Jw2dWfPO7Fi5Y-ubOw4_KAdT8OS5_ci11mRVrOye_VbPEYAM/s320/DSCN1780.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My potting bench.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhBSfawoXH4Uq2tWk1NE60CgvXLpofo5elaJM9eZMnzUedQA-TnBhfVI_y6pbUy_YXA3qQQhbWLiIBtzRm429gc6Pfj_SStOu5GJ_tQG2DvEIPb7UHAN5Tm26SIx29l2vt5sK48gzwf8/s1600/DSCN1787.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhBSfawoXH4Uq2tWk1NE60CgvXLpofo5elaJM9eZMnzUedQA-TnBhfVI_y6pbUy_YXA3qQQhbWLiIBtzRm429gc6Pfj_SStOu5GJ_tQG2DvEIPb7UHAN5Tm26SIx29l2vt5sK48gzwf8/s320/DSCN1787.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My new composter.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT8Se2WrJuTKyi0KPzXbngQxEHOHhPPwlW2XU-Hp7QHtVdkMiqLCOWuSgAgMYzwGD29SI99dfJg-C30GrOnz5OSd-FsU0s2LGiy2jpn2S3Ea4azrNc5ZuWw1bNvyqIgIDbb-tIpX0ZoUE/s1600/DSCN1786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT8Se2WrJuTKyi0KPzXbngQxEHOHhPPwlW2XU-Hp7QHtVdkMiqLCOWuSgAgMYzwGD29SI99dfJg-C30GrOnz5OSd-FsU0s2LGiy2jpn2S3Ea4azrNc5ZuWw1bNvyqIgIDbb-tIpX0ZoUE/s320/DSCN1786.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of the path.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLyFpR6O6HDj-rTfnp4fC5q_XWM8Wa8ACJb3MM0ozmbEY8_ePZ4ENn2hR9IZOybk1nsp3sZGt8fpvK-sJQSkFn79_Qb9cfgQMdJQXj_V_dzxO-4HbFyi03uJNyb2XTwf5grh0WwcKJ3Y/s1600/DSCN1788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLyFpR6O6HDj-rTfnp4fC5q_XWM8Wa8ACJb3MM0ozmbEY8_ePZ4ENn2hR9IZOybk1nsp3sZGt8fpvK-sJQSkFn79_Qb9cfgQMdJQXj_V_dzxO-4HbFyi03uJNyb2XTwf5grh0WwcKJ3Y/s320/DSCN1788.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chives, cabbage, brussel sprouts.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>The Puttererhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08913160789838633530noreply@blogger.com3