Hooray! Hooray! It's the First of May

Outdoor fucking begins today! (Shame on me!)

But my dears, you can't deny it, there is some amazing outdoor fucking going on out there beginning around the First of May. I had a botany professor in college, who taught with relish the way that the flowers of spring dressed up to attract their suitors, the pollinators. Just look at the way the azalea flaunts herself in her flashy pink dress. Her antlers begging with that come hither look.

My brother and I hold this long-standing tradition. It dates back to the days when we held down minimum wage jobs in a shopping plaza on the Outer Banks. There in the dunes amongst the sea grasses, lovers lurked and well, if it happened to be the first of May, why what else could we say? So on the First, we race to be the First to scream it into the phone at each other. My colleagues at work, by necessity, are well familiar with the ritual. Some have even tried to get in on the deal. But alas, with the date falling on Saturday this year, they'll miss out. (Chip, First of May! First of May! Outdoor Fucking Begins today! Do I win?)

Searching for enlightenment, I though I'd Google that licentious lyric and find some cultural or historical significance. But rather my cheeks are still blushing at the nasty material that lined up on my search page. So I abandoned that effort and began to think about Garden Porn instead.

Garden Porn is what comes in those gorgeous glossy magazines that leer at me from the newsstand. I am a hopeless sucker for them and almost always grab Fine Gardening and happily shell out the outrageous $7 cover price. And then at the end of the day, when every brain cell is kaput and when Smithsonian, The New Yorker or even Time magazine presents too much of a challenge, that's when I grab my porn. I peruse the monthly rewrite in Organic Gardening, of how to compost, the compelling story of how Miss Flowers of Anytown, USA, ditched her grassy lawn and turned her whole front yard into a fetching display of seasonal blooms. There's always a nod to the water-challenged folks of the west coast and how succulents and rocks can be landscaped in glorious repose. And then there's those lucky southeastern gardens where the bells of the south create luscious Colonial-era edible gardens and ooze Charleston charm. I dream about winning the container garden challenge and study the swell way that others have managed to cram such variety of unique plants into a beautiful urn (my selections always seem to fight with each and then die off when the summer grows too hot). And with a mind full of seductive and sexy gardening successes, I drift off to sleep. The Putterer

My Mom: Lucille M. Py (1936-1998)

I think when I am old and in a state of dementia with all my memories lost or buried, I will still suffer the memory of this week, indeed the whole month 12 years ago when my mother lingered in a death coma and finally died on April 29th. She was only 63 and though cancer had eclipsed most of her body, her life-long passion for life fought the inevitable, and so she held out as long as she could.

My mom was one determined gal and she made the rules. Or, defied them. "Some rules are just meant to be broken," she'd often say with a smile playing at the corners of her eyes.

And she loved. She loved Claire most of all. When Claire came along, she transformed herself from mother to grandmother with ease. To love unconditionally without having to parent, or punish, or bear any financial worry or burden, was her ultimate goal in life. She could at long last turn all her focus and energy into what she most wanted in life.

My garden was started the day she died. It was a beautiful day just like today. She was a gardener and so the greenery blowing in the gentle breeze outside her window was bittersweet. She died before dawn. The dog howled. The children and Moms waited for the school bus. Everything went on as normal. But it wasn't. I didn't go to work. I hadn't really worked much throughout the month. My boss, a compassionate fellow, just knew what I needed to do. So my brother and I  went to a flower nursery. And we wandered around and giggled over stupid things. And I bought plants. A canna. I couldn't remember the name. So I told the nurseryman that I wanted that plant "with attitude." Like Mom. The nurseryman knew just which plant I wanted. And Chip made me laugh so hard. And I can't remember what we were laughing at, but I do remember that it was a beautiful day.  The Putterer

Cloudy, Cool, Comfortable, And Crazy

The weekend was not a washout and a lot of gardening was accomplished around the edges of a fairly busy social life. We had a house guest, Tayla Eulom, an artist in town from Los Angeles for an arts festival, who joined us on the heels of two other prior guests. There was a canceled Friday night party that turned out to be not canceled when everyone met up at a restaurant. And since Friday night had been previously canceled, the new Friday night was Saturday, so guests joined us for a second fabulous Friday night party on Saturday night. Sunday, we headed off to the water for a celebration of Maggie Wiles' 60th birthday party. And in between that, I got most of the new perennials planted. I went to the National Arboretum Plant Fair with Kate Newman, who is masterfully reestablishing her front lawn into a Maryland natives garden. While there, we ran into neighbors Ann and Chris, who also only plant natives. And also attending was former Smithsonian magazine Kenny Fletcher, who is now working part time at a nursery. He reports that he has recently finished building a greenhouse. The versatility of Fletcher, writer, traveler, Spanish speaker, videographer, musician, kite builder and now, nurseryman, never fails to impress me. Also, I met a new friend. Children's novelist, Amy Brecount White, whose new novel, Forget-Her-Nots, I bought and she signed. Meanwhile, Jim dug out that patch of invasive lilies for me and we filled four waste bags with the caste-off plants. Very productive weekend. Here's what I planted and where:
1. A Rosa gruss an aachen is at the white fence out front. The Rosa marmalade skies is in the side-yard next to the bottom of the deck.
2. A Hemerocallis clothed in glory is in the back garden along the path by the vegetable garden.
3. Two Astrantia moulin rouge are next to the lily clothed in glory.
4. Baptisia australis, the 2010 perennial of the year, is in the newly cleared space where the lilies were and next to it, I planted three butterfly weed plants.
5. Three hollyhocks, the old barnyard variety, are out by the front fence.
6. The new blueberry bush is potted on the deck in the container garden with the lemon tree and the new fig tree.
The Putterer

In Preparation For Rain

Sometimes you can smell the rain before it comes. There's a pleasant spicy aroma that fills the air in the garden as if the plants are in anticipation. I don't know if you would call it ozone or ion, but the splashing of water is one of the most restorative sights and sounds. I think that's why we hike to waterfalls in Yosemite or risk sun poisoning by sitting the entire day on the beach.

I am looking forward to rain because there is grass seed strewn about in the back. And my potted plants, which came inside during the chill, need a thorough dowsing. I am also hoping that my gutter man will show up in time to route the gutter into my new rain barrel.

And I also like the rest it affords me. If it's raining, I won't be able to go out. And if I can't go out, maybe, I'll sleep in a little this weekend.

Every year, I've kept a rain journal in my garden books. I write down the day it rained and what sort of rain it was, light in the morning, steady all day, night-time soaker. In this way, I keep a mental calculation of whether or not, I need to supplement the plants with any additional moisture. Last year, we had a wonderful year of rains. They came consistently throughout the year every three or four days, so that I hardly ever had to water. And the garden up through July was self-sustaining. Someone has told me that we are certain to have a moist year ahead of us and that the February snows were just the beginning of it.

So I am ready for rain. The Putterer

My Plumbago Is Killing Me

The Garden Doctor
Do you suffer from plumbago?
Is your back a little sore?
Or perhaps it’s pyracanthus
Which you caught in Singapore?
You’ve a nasty little hosta
Which I think you’ll have to lance,
And I notice a spiraea
Has been leading you a dance.
Are you getting forgetful?
Is nemesia the cause?
Does your antirrhinum pain you
When you’re walking out of doors?
You’ve had skimmia rubella
I can see that by your nose
And cornus capitosa
Has played havoc with your toes!
How is your viburnum tinus?
Have you lost your sense of smell?
Use a syringe reflex
That should keep it well.
I’m afraid your macrocarpus
Isn’t really up to scratch,
And do avoid nigella
It’s a nasty thing to catch!
Still I think you’re doing nicely,
Watch the quercus in your knees
Take your berberis twice nightly
Next patient please!

Anonymous Poem Courtesy of the 
Beltsville Gardening Club

Announcing the Garden Putter T-Shirt

I'm just tickled pink this morning--having figured out how to create, design, and even sell (if ever you'd want one) my own Garden Putter T-shirt. My own will arrive this week.

Yesterday in the garden, it was all about steady preparation. I did my first mow of the season and started the layering of this year's compost--green and brown and a heavy spray of water to make the mixture nice and wet and ready for its magical microbial processing. Compost is the alchemy of gardening. Turning kitchen waste, grass clippings and leaf litter into the black gold that feeds the plants is one of the most rewarding practices of the gardener. I distributed last year's compost all around the beds in the front yard.

The temptation to run out and buy bedding plants was overwhelming, but fortunately, I held strong against it, because last night the air grew ever more chilly.

And before bed, I had to bring in all the pots on the deck. This morning it's nippy, but I plan to get out there to spread more compost on the beds and just "BE There."  The Putterer

Longing for Saturday

I can't believe it isn't Saturday. I am in a gardener's state of mind this morning and drat, if I don't have to go to work and be an editor.

Jim took the day off and I am more than envious.

This wood poppy is a transplant from my neighbor's yard and this year it is practically a bush with babies coming in around it. It's a spreader, but I don't mind. I love it's lemony color protruding from the shady spot next to my chair.

Important ache and pain news from a crazed doctor with as much personality as he had medical knowledge came yesterday. I am, in fact, he said, getting old. This news I celebrate, since the alternative--sickness and death--contradicts my life goals. (And since, deep inside, I've been worrying that it was metastatic disease.) I couldn't be more elated.

Thus, my urge to be out in the dirt reveling in the quick-time growth of the plants, speedily arising so incredibly fast, that you wonder that you can't actually see them morph before your eyes. Life is good.

This weekend, after I dig out the lilies, (which by the way, are an invasive type that I've learned are not welcome because they crowd out other plants), I plan to dig in some milkweed, which I've ordered specially to supplement my butterfly bushes. The bushes attract the butterflies, but the milkweed nourishes them. They are a host plant for the monarch butterfly and so I hope to do my part in helping my butterfly visitors find comfort for their journey. Another tribute to Earth Day?

Speaking of which, my Earth Day tadpoles are swimming strong in their dish. I am going to drop in some stones to create a kind of beach for them to crawl out onto. They are still living on my desk in the kitchen and I'm watching them for evidence that they might need to transition to the airspace above the water. I worry I'll come down in the morning to a toad infestation. But I'm afraid to leave them outside at night as they might fall prey to some nighttime predator.

The morning light was a blue and pink and yellow in the sky over top the spring green in the treetops. What a shame, I'm bound for a cubicle today. The Putterer