Wishful Thinking....

The little chicken peck kisses of late winter blooms are sweet but I miss the passion and heat of summer. I love the vitality and expressiveness of a field of wildflowers or a border packed with colorful beauties. If summer was a love song, it wouldn't be a ballad. There'd be no sappy, angst filled lyrics or unrequited love.

There would be the zip of a swing tune and the rhythm of reggae  followed by

a hip swaying, shoulder shaking, booty grooving

beat that fills you with joy.

 It would be a happy, smiley "Hey, let's dance!" song

that leaves your legs tingly, your cheeks flushed, and

 your heart pounding.

If it were a kiss, it wouldn't be a chicken peck!

Dear Lorna Lovey,

Yo Lorna,
     I just, like, moved next door to this really hot chick. She smells like flowers and her hair shines in the sunlight, Venus and Aphrodite rolled into one. ( I seen that in a book and it sounded smart.) She's in her garden all da time  and I really wanna ask her out but, like, I'm really shy. Don't tell no one. I need yo advice.

Signed,
Ain't Got Nobody

Dear Lorna, 
     A weird guy moved in next door and spends his free time in the shrubbery spying on me. I thought this was pretty creepy so I went over and asked him what he was doing. I was armed with a shovel in case I had to take him down. He saw me coming and jumped straight up like a dang squirrel, getting his head caught in the branches. I figured he had that coming so I left him there. Jerk.

Signed, 
Irritated

Yo Lorna, 
     Ah man, things took a real bad turn. I was trying to be all sly by hiding in the bushes while she was in the garden but she saw me! She started coming over and I freaked out. I wanted to be all friendly and stuff and say something really cool like, "Hey baby. Nice tool." but I got my head all tangled in the branches and all that come out my mouth was " Waaayy aby ice drool." She ain't ever gonna go out with me. I really need yo help.

Signed, 
Still Ain't Got Nobody

Dear Lorna, 
     Ok, remember when I told you about my weird neighbor? I felt bad about leaving him in the shrubs so I went back out, still holding my shovel, to check on him. His head was tilted at an odd angle and he was still staring at me but now he was mumbling about drool. All I was trying to do was work in the garden but now I have to watch out for my drooling neighbor. I don't get it. Why would someone drool? I thought only dogs did that. Am I missing something?

Signed, 
Just Trying to Garden

Dear Ain't and Irritated, 

     Ain't - I would suggest not hiding in the shrubs unless you want to meet the business end of your neighbors shovel. Go next door like a normal human and introduce yourself. It's almost Valentine's Day so maybe a packet of seeds would be appreciated.

     Irritated - Your weird neighbor has a crush on you so please resist attacking him with large tools. When he comes over keep the tissues handy. I think he drools.

Signed, 
Lorna Lovey
Advice Columnist

No One But You

I sometimes wonder if I were a character in one of my stories, who I'd be. Bits of fiction, funny dialogue, and quirky characters ramble though files that fill my hard drive. I do not write to become an author but to let loose the tangle of words that flow through my brain, exploding like dried corn in a hot skillet. I write because I am a writer.

But to write about a garden is different. There are no clever characters and the setting is always the same. There is no one but me, my strengths and weaknesses exposed with every post. My garden, like my life, is my story and I am not a character but the author. I reveal with words and flowers the labyrinth of a deep heart and busy mind. 

There are no chances to go back and erase the parts of my story I don't like and replace them with perfect scenes and tidy endings. But between everything I cannot control, come the choices I can. I don't wait for what isn't coming or pretend to be anyone other than my own authentic self. I choose to live my life with passion and exuberance and to own every choice I make.  Each trip into the garden reminds me of the difference between a valid reason and a bullshit excuse so I whisper gently or yell ferociously to be your own hero, love. I pick up the shovel, dig a hole, and try again.

Unexpected Pleasures

Special Note: Blogger has been cutting followers from blogs and has yet to resolve this issue. If my blog has disappeared from your feed and you're interested in following, please refollow. Thanks! 

There is a quiet pleasure in doing something simply and absolutely because it brings you joy.

A huge winter storm, locally dubbed Snowzilla, has smothered my corner of  Virginia in 3 feet of snow and closed area schools, giving me several work-free days. So I decided to indulge myself by doing all the non-gardening, stuck-at-home things I love.

Oatmeal coconut chocolate chunk cookies

Fluffy blueberry scones for my snow blowing neighbor

I baked, cooked, and baked some more,

wore pajamas all day and 

laid on the couch by the fire and read,

and shook my booty to

music music  music.

There's a garden under there somewhere....

Seedy Persuasion

5:41 alarm

5:45 alarm

5:55 alarm

Scout

Throw back the covers, slide out of bed,

 feet into slippers, grab robe, 

call the dog who was awake on the first alarm.

Genie

Baby and Lucy

Down the stairs and into the kitchen

three sleepy dogs, tails thumping against their beds. 

"Out, dogs" I mumble as I open the back door.

I am not a morning person.

Coffee like jet fuel with sugar and almond milk

Into the basement 

Tap the red switch to turn on the grow lights

Centranthus ruber 'Snow Cloud' and 'Pretty Betsy' seedlings to the left

 Very tiny snapdragon 'Frosted Flames' to the right 

Seedlings!

(To see what I'm growing this year, check out my So Seedy 2016 page.)

The Rethink

I've had a recent epiphany that I've been going about my life all wrong. Instead of aspiring to noble causes such as only growing plants that support wildlife, I've realized what I really need to do is just lower my standards. No longer will I seek out native plants or cultivars proven to support a host of bees or butterflies. I don't care what the Latin names are or how to pronounce them. I have a new method to my madness: All plants must sound interesting when yelled across the fence to my neighbors while talking like a pirate.

So many possibilities....

Ahoy there, matey! Me garden's full of naked ladies and giant hairy balls! 

Gar!! Where's me garden knife? There's eyeballs everywhere!

Yo ho ho, officer! I swear I'm just talking about gardening...

A Million Little Things

We sit in a group, jumping into a conversation with no clear beginning or end. Ideas and commentary are tossed in, stirred, discussed and I see B grin before lobbing a groaner straight at me. I could see the pun coming, his face like a road map, easy to read but the destination always a surprise. C and I laugh, full throated howls while he cooks up another. 

Polished and polite enough to take tea with a queen, when the doors are closed C cusses like a sailor and tells stories bawdy enough to make Mae West proud. I love her like a sister. When stress and pressure builds, jokes slick with innuendo are passed between us, choice words whispered loud enough to make the eaves-dropping men laugh and blush. There will be payback and when we least expect it, a prank will be played to exact revenge. We plot with wives to surprise them with Christmas gag gifts and the circle continues.

These aren't casual acquaintances but friendships with memories spanning nearly a decade. We're a diverse group: men and women, liberal and conservative, married and single. We talk about everything but gardening for none of them are gardeners. These are a few of my "I'll always be there" people and the ties run deep. I do not chose my friends based on their gender, race, or religion. It is a spark, a connection, a feeling of ease and comfort frosted with the knowledge that when they reach out, I'll always reach back.

We are different, B and I. He's quiet and careful, a sports fan who loves his lawn. We've started to lose track of how long we've known each other and mark dates by the age of our children. Long running jokes punctuate conversations and I pretend to ignore him when he pulls out his wallet to bet me $20 my daughter will run off and get married. "I hope your wife has triplets", I reply. His shoulders shake as he laughs.

The swoosh of an incoming text breaks the silence as a picture of B with his son fills the screen. "Just saying hi!" They grin over a menu as they wait for their order, the rest of his family on the other side of the table. I struggled to control the emotional rip tide of my son's deployment to the middle east and he and C watched me slowly succumb, unmoored from my hope that he wouldn't leave. The deployment was repeatedly canceled only to be reassigned, a different date and mission appearing almost daily across my phone screen for weeks as my son passed along the news. A strong hug and gentle advice helped hold back the tears and when I couldn't stop the flow, he waited patiently, handing me tissues til I could speak with ease. We're open and honest and little goes unsaid. I send a smiley face back and tap open the next text.

"Get out of your head. Stop thinking so much! Go dig a hole." I can see C's face as I think of a response. "Easier said than done." I type. "I wish my brain had an off switch." "It's called wine" she shoots back and I start to smile.

C is loyal and fierce and knows me well. I toss the phone onto the patio table and head into the garden. My thoughts spin and loop until I tell myself to stop. Memories of previous deployments bubble to the surface and the tears start again. Multiple tours in Viet Nam, Iraq, Kuwait, and Afghanistan pepper family history and my stomach tightens. I take a deep breath, my forehead on my knees, grass soft against my feet. I know too much of war, of bodies never recovered and the silent specter of PTSD. Fear is not a wide mouthed monster but a gnawing beast that devours you in small bites until you're raw and exposed. My child is no longer a child but a solider and I am powerless to protect him.

New Years Eve 2012 

My 6'5" tall son and his sister one of the few times he was able to come home.

My phone rings, an irritating quack, and my head jerks up. I don't want to talk to anyone, to explain myself. I just want to be alone. M's name fills the top of the screen and I tap open the call.

"Hey, how's it going?" My voice cracks as I answer and I don't bother to hide the emotion. "I'm calling to check on you", she says quietly.

I'm sweating in the August heat and absently swipe at insects that inch along my arm. Hidden by mounds of perennials, it is not my garden that offers solace but the people who fill it. I sink into a patio chair and let my apprehension gush, flowing through the phone to pool at my feet. She doesn't tell me not to worry, that it's his job, he's an adult. She just listens, her voice calm on the other end. His plane is airborne and his final stop is a safe, well secured base. Hopefully, he'll be there for a while, I tell her, before heading north. I take a deep breath and relax for the first time in weeks.

Actions speak a truth words never will, small measures of honesty that reveal the transparency of a human heart. The measure of friendship doesn't lie in grand gestures but in the mundane, steady hum of a vibrating phone and knocks at my door. It comes as a steady pulse against clenched hands that reminds me I am stronger than what I fear. It is my true garden, a refuge more beautiful than anything I've ever planted. 

Part of the shade garden after a rain storm.