I don’t need the reminder, thanks

Today, Bing Crosby told me his favorite dream. We are not on speaking terms, Bing and I, but he got up in my grill, as the kids say. How can I ever forget the moment?

There I was, pushing my cart along, searching for bulk commodities at an enormous food warehouse, and then out of nowhere, I’m walking past the sound of a voice crooning “I’m dreaming of a whiiiiite Christmas… just like the ones I used to knowwww.” I was momentarily stunned and distracted from my important quest for sliced apples with the thought “#$%^” and then the thought “but it was only Halloween and Thanksgiving at (that other store) today! I guess it really is colder on this side of town.” Alaskans don’t need or like to be reminded that snow is coming, so take your dream, Bing, and stuff it.

What’s the rush, I say. Either pace yourself with dignity, retailers, or just leave everything up all year. Need an Easter wreath in September? No problem, (store) has it on aisle 175, just shy of the St. Patrick’s Day edible glitter for your cupcakes and after you hit the Valentine’s Day throw pillows.

I want the dignity of enjoying autumn without thinking any of these three things: 1. how many hours it’s going to take to set up the Christmas tree, 2. what, oh what to buy for the in-laws, and 3. whether we should do a ham or turkey this year. It is getting colder, I admit. But that could be said for 9 months of the year here. I am trying in vain to live in the moment and merchants aren’t helping.

I don’t wear a coat yet (a vest doesn’t count). I haven’t put my bicycle away. The lawn still needs to be mowed (blech) and the dandelions are in bloom. So that means it is not Christmas, nor even Halloween.

My plants, for the most part, are still alive in their containers (albeit the favored ones are in the house because the piano movers came on Friday and everything in their path to the front door would have been demolished). My variegated Carex is still going strong after two summers outside and a winter in the house, so back in it came. My most expensive plant (grumble, mutter), the Phormium, also came inside. “Is this the final resting place for this octopus plant?” someone asked me yesterday. It is both a maroon curtain to the kitchen and a jump rope for the dining room. I haven’t decided if I will bring the dark-leaved Begonia into the house or it will die a sudden, cold death like the petunias and the orange Dahlia. But you get the point, right? It is barely autumn, let me have a minute more with my season!

 

Do you live in the moment? What holiday décor is up around your area?

There are stranger things than this

It’s that time again, gardeners and Alaskans. That time of year when I take a gander at the search keywords that lead poor souls to this blog. That time of year when I get to be Sherlock Holmes and ponder the limited evidence and make a deduction (sans dark trench coat, Y chromosome, and hobbling doctor assistant: take that Mr. Cumberbatch!). This will be fun.

1. “golf trinkets and trash” Why not start off with a bang? My first instinct is “huh?” followed closely by “what exactly are golf trinkets?” I imagine some flashy golden tees or argyle golf socks made from cashmere. Or maybe rhinestone encrusted golf balls. Just what is it about my blog that would attract this traffic?

2. ”night fish dip net” What is a night fish? Is it related to a night crawler? Dip netting at night is a good way to a. most likely break some fishing regulations, b. slice off a finger with a filet knife, c. annoy your sleeping dip net compatriots on the beach, or d. all of the above.

3. “pictures of potty kids in the wilderness” This must require some sort of background or understanding of lingo. Otherwise, should I be calling the FBI? This is not that kind of blog. Or (if my first reaction has misunderstood the query badly), use a plastic concessions cup…trust me, it is the best bathroom in the wild short of a wag bag. If you do not know what a wag bag is, you are lucky and not from Alaska.

4. “calamagrostis x acutiflora ‘karl foerster’” Yes. That is the only answer. Five minimum, nine is better. Anything over twelve and I will be your devoted admirer. Just promise me you won’t fertilize or place in more than 1/2 day shade.

5. “music forgot to change their” Their what???? Diapers, front man, tablecloth…help me out here!

6. “bunny boots alaska” Oh, all right. Even though I have written about this before. Pick the black pair unless you are an avid snowmachiner. In that case, the unofficial rule requires you to have the white pair or be endlessly mocked as a newbie or idiot. You’re welcome.

7. “alaska snowfall on trees and free ph…” I may never sleep well again. Free phones, free photos, free phish, free pharmacy technician training (scary!), free phenytoin level, free physical exam. You pick, I’m going for photos.

8. “gardening christmas songs” I may be the only garden blogger to riff on a holiday song (read here). Since I abhor research unless absolutely necessary, I will never know. For early holiday music rage prevention Last Frontier style, read here.

 

Do you watch or read mysteries? A Sherlock devotee?

Shhh…my aloe is sleeping

Yes, it’s a slow news day. Except for one tidbit. Before today I had no idea succulents could become so exhausted by day-to-day living. The drag of photosynthesizing and being watered on a weekly schedule was too much for my poor aloe who abruptly decided it was nap time.

Now being a person who generally has difficulty falling asleep, I admire those who are able to go from fully conscious to deep, dreamless sleep at the drop of a hat. Unless that person is driving, in which case my admiration turns to naked fear. My late grandfather once very nearly drove my brother and sister and I into a river in Canada because he quick-started a nap during the drive from Oregon to Alaska. (I saved the day with my lightning-quick thinking in the form of a piercing shriek.)

This talent of near instant sleep is not only possessed by grandfathers. My early morning carpool consists of 6 children, 1 trombone, 3 ukuleles, 1 viola, 1 clarinet, and 1 unkempt grown female. Guess which is me? Hint: not the trombone. One of the boys can be asleep by the time I turn off the interior car light, put the car in motion, and pull out into the main road. And he even snores.

Apparently, my humdrum houseplant took a page from grandpa’s book. Granted, it had put on a lot of growth in the last year. (Something about repotting after 6 years in a Smurf-sized pot.) In fact, it was getting a little out of hand with pups sprouting all over the surface. Other than that, obedient and quiet. Then, timber! Rock mulch and soil everywhere. A poor bystander in the form of a variegated jade plant was even beheaded on the way down.

I noticed a problem as I was fumbling around trying to set it aright without busting off the chunky top portion. The scrawny stake used as a prop was both too short and too sharp for the task. It had pierced the aloe in several places which were oozing and said ooze caused the stake to slip.

I tried to lean the plant against the wall. No dice. So back down to the floor it goes until I figure out how to support a wide, tall, top-heavy plant. The stalk (trunk?) of the aloe is not strong enough to go without support. But something about a tomato cage in the living room says tacky. Am I right?

My 7 year old noticed the plant and asked,”What happened, mommy?” Never one to miss an opportunity to fib to my children I answered, “The plant is sleeping. It’s really tired right now.” The kid didn’t bat an eye. Quiet, everyone, the plants are snoozing.

Update: I used the tomato cage idea. The aloe is still alive but missing a few leaves and nursing a nasty grudge.

 

Ideas for waking up an aloe? Do you think it was sleep-deprivation or crutch rejection?

written by Christine B. for Last Frontier Garden blog

Quick Watson, names for garden dwarfs!

This is yet another post wherein odd questions are answered. I get between a grin and a guffaw when periodically I check the “search keywords” and uncover a treasure trove of phrases that lead souls to the Last Frontier Garden blog.  Poor saps.

Anyway, in the spirit of serving my fellow gardeners (and may I humbly add, all mankind), I shall answer with all the wisdom and clarity of the oracle at Delphi. Tally ho!

*How did nannies blow away in Mary Poppins?

The same way my garbage can blew away last month: the wind. Who knew England was so very gusty? Therefore, avoid toupees and wrap dresses when visiting, and never under any circumstances carry an open umbrella. Just a tip.

*Plants moose eat.

They might not eat all of your plastic or fabric plants, but the rest of the bona fide ones are vulnerable. In other words, anything but spruce trees or ornamental grasses, kid.

*garden dwarf names

Do you by chance mean gnomes? (Or are you referring to persons of shorter stature that grow petunias? I’ve heard they prefer to be called “little people.”) For gnomes, you can’t go wrong with “Barry” or “Roger.” For a female, “Smurfette.”

*fish bonker

If you plan to fish for something bigger than a minnow, it always helps. Wood is best. If you don’t know what a fish bonker is, welcome to Alaska.

*saxophone water fountains

Uh, Bill, is that you? I mean Governor Clinton. Generally speaking, sir, musical instruments do not belong in the pond. I know my mom would faint if I put my viola in there. Though on second thought, I am about ready to commit the family harmonica and hand bell set to that fate. Ring-a-ding-a-ding for preserving sanity!

*snow white

I said it before and I’ll say it again, for lots of hits on your blog, write a post (or better yet, just a title) about Snow White. That witless, trusting princess has fascinated a lot of people, as evidenced by the continuous stream of referrals to the one post I sort of wrote about her.  In truth, it was about dwarf evergreens, but tenuous connections are my specialty.

And finally, the all-time top entry:

*bunny boots

I’ve really got to do some more garden-related writing.

Now, now don’t complain. I spared you “dwarf umbrella,” “white vs. black bunny boots,” and “Cinderella's pumpkin carriage.” You’re welcome. Tune in next time as I bring you __________. That means I haven’t decided yet: The Grump’s Guide to Christmas Music or Cross Country Skiing Disasters.

 

Funny search keywords for your blog? Snow White devotees?

Babysitter's Dilemma: Tortoise or Hare?

A blindingly obvious choice for anyone that has 1. raised a child, 2. taught kindergarten, or 3. seen how fast a hare actually moves.  Do I commit to tend a slow reptile that drinks/eats every other day, makes a sloth look hasty, and needs cleanup every three days?  Or do I take the (admittedly geriatric) highly strung bunny, that needs daily feeding and watering, clean bedding, cuddling, treats like fresh carrots and rutabagas, and probably a big pink bow as well? 

We have the tortoise.  A shock to all, I realize.  Some members of the family were expecting a small, hand sized creature, harking back to pet turtles of yore that never quite managed survival and attainment of greater girth.  We tend what can be termed a largish dinner plate with chubby, clawed legs.  Weight watchers may not be out of the question, for the blasted thing might weigh twenty five pounds.



Such an alarming pet, for such a slow and gentle beast.  We must wash our hands after every contact, even the most casual.  Salmonella is a bit catching, says our local tortoise whisperer.  Now conversations around the house are likely to be punctuated with “and wash your hands!  With soap!  For more than seven seconds!!”  Mealtimes are even less pleasant, more like interrogations. “Did you wash your hands?!  Let me see!  If you’re not telling the truth, you could get very, very sick” and etc.

[Change of topic, because I feel constrained to mention: I planted my containers last weekend, and risk the wrath of Nature/Murphy’s Law/certain Alaskan garden experts by planting out early.  We shall see who has the last laugh.  For all the pesos I spent on annuals this year, I sure hope it’s me.  Back to compelling tortoise narrative.]

A dog wandered into the front yard on Saturday, and it was as if the Russian army had been discovered swarming the coast (I can see Russia from my place, you know….).  The five alarm klaxon went off.  Adults were hollered at to protect the tortoise, who, blithely ignorant of his impending doom, was roaming the yard at the speed of molasses.  Fortunately, the aged, drooling Labrador was driven off and “Tort” was spared.



Our “rent-a-pet”, for lack of a better word, is summering with us.  For his day job during the school year, he spends time amongst children aged 3-5 years old, gadding about the preschool room, avoiding craft projects involving paint or hole punches.  I came to a realization last week, at approximately the same time I was loading Tort’s coffee table-sized habitat into the truck.  I am one of those sucker parents, that takes the class pet because no one else volunteers for it.  I felt sorry for a tortoise.  At least the class pet wasn’t a wolverine, a rhinoceros, or a blue whale.  I suppose I’ll be president of the PTA next…. 

Any strange pets?  Been subjected to a guilt trip?

Something about neighbors and fences?

Now how does that old saw go?  “Fences make for feuding.”  No, that wasn’t it.  “Good neighbors are hard to come by.”  Nope, not that either.  “You can meet your neighbor on Facebook anyway, so go ahead and build a fence.”  Hmmm, maybe not.   

I recently moved from the garden formerly known as the Last Frontier Garden, to my current abode a couple of months ago.  I haven’t named the garden yet but I’m thinking along the lines of “Lady and the Pack of Tramps” or “The Shaggy Dog (across the Street)”, or even “All Dogs Go to Christine’s Yard”.  My gripe today is twofold, both folds having to do with neighbors and their animals.

A good neighbor is like smooth chocolate fudge.  A joy that I don’t encounter nearly as much as I would like.  So we’re all on the same page, my low bar for good neighbor includes the following:

1. does not operate a meth lab or brothel on the premises

2. does not have more than one (OK, this is Alaska, so I’ll say two) junk vehicle(s) in a permanent auto coma in the front yard

3. keeps track of their domestic beasts, including spouses and children, and doesn’t allow them to make public nuisances of themselves with regularity (politicians not excepted)

Is this a difficult thing, oh readers?  I am writing from the viewpoint of the perky, friendly neighbor here, the one that brings cookies to the new move-ins.  It’s not a natural behavior for me, I’m more independent and surly, but it builds character and I know I should do it, so I do.  My last neighborhood became so friendly, we had neighborhood BBQ’s in the summer, right smack in the middle of the cul-de-sac.  Out of a dozen houses, only one or two wouldn’t show.  Not bad, eh?

Of course, like any neighborhood, there were warts.  One dog, a beagle, would howl and bark and bay, occasionally for hours at a time.  I realize beagles are a noisy breed, but how on earth can you ignore that?  My plan of listening to AC/DC really loud only worked 'til the kids came home from school.  Then what?

Well, I thought I had escaped the beagle and the roaming cats (I’m saving that topic for another day after I’ve had my Valium) by moving.  I have an acre now.  Everyone else in the ‘hood has an acre or more, so I naively thought all my animal problems were solved.  Not so, said the little white yappy dog that appeared in my garage one day.  Some folks just aren’t thinking of others now, are they? 

I have to imagine the inner monologue here, as I just can’t believe I’d do this myself: “If I enjoy Fluffy then everyone will!  I’ll just turn him loose for a few hours and hopefully he won’t maim anyone with pet allergies, knock toddlers off their tricycles, or get into any fights with wolves, cats, dogs, Republicans, or animal control officers.  I hope he stays away from the street, he could be hurt there.  Also, it would be great if he didn’t get into the garbage with such zest on trash day.  I love my pet!  Go free, Fluffy, go free!!”

Yes, you guessed it.  We have dogs in the ‘hood.  Lots of dogs.  Big dogs, little dogs, fat dogs, old dogs, but most of all (gripe one) loud, (gripe two) roaming dogs.  I’ve lived in this city over thirty years and never seen another neighborhood like it.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think I moved into an off leash dog park. 

I wake up to dogs barking at 6:15 every morning.  For the past two months.  I am lulled to sleep every night, say 11:15ish by dogs.  (I think I am beginning to formulate a Dr. Seuss book about it all: “Dogs in the morning, dogs at night, every day a fright, fright, fright!”)  I know I haven’t moved into some Twilight Zone vector of selectively deaf and blind pet owners, because I see a couple of people walk their (non-barking) dogs on (hallelujah!) leashes, so their are a few Responsible Neighbors.  One of these jewel-of-a-neighbors observed, “Yeah, this neighborhood is weird about dogs.  I’ve never been in one like it before.”

My solution: bake bread/cookies/edible items, and walk over and meet the worst offenders.  I am tired of waiting for them to come meet the new neighbor (i.e. me), and it seems unkind to just introduce myself to gripe, so I will have a complaint free intro and get phone numbers.  I’m thinking something along the lines of “Oh, hi Marge, sorry to disturb you so late at night, but Fluffy seems so agitated.  She’s been barking for twenty minutes.  Is everything OK?”  (I won’t mention that I can hear the barking in every room in my house with the exception of the bathroom.  My bed won’t fit in there, anyway.)

I am losing my mind.

Had any neighbor problems?  Do you recommend a different approach?

Of flakes and semi truck crud

And with that unlikely title, I’m off.  (Off what, you’re wondering: off your meds, off your rocker, or off to the grocery store?)  It’s been too long since I have written a completely and unashamedly useless post.  That’s why the “flake” part of the title gets inserted.  Truly, I have been a flake.  I’ll try my best to make it up to you all…. 

Why the word “flake” gets associated with being undependable, I don’t know.  What did poor flakes ever do to deserve this deprecating connection?  Snow flakes are beautiful (but they don’t last long unless it’s really cold and they can grow into a big pile).  Corn flakes* are repugnant, unless they are covered in honey, sugar, nuts, or some other flavor disguiser.  I know this because I’ve been trying to choke down corn flakes for breakfast lately, and only the ones encrusted in other flavors can bypass the gag reflex.  Flakes of gold are hard to come by, but maybe the next storm will blow some into town.

My flakiness has a root cause.  No, it’s not stubbornness.  Not today, anyway.  I have been hit with a bad case of semi truck crud, or STC.  Tuesday night: book club numero uno until 11:15pm.  Yes, you read that correctly.  And I wasn’t the last to leave.  But I did leave healthy.  A good night’s sleep followed.  And then, with no warning at all, I woke up with STC.  Symptoms include, fever, chills, fatigue, desire to ignore one’s own flesh and blood, and quite a bit of groaning and sleeping in turn.  Not nearly enough sleeping. 

The fever broke, and fifteen minutes later, I was at book club numero dos, but alas began to regret it around 9:30pm, when I was slightly alarmed to discover I was stuck to the leather recliner in a sweat.  I have no doubt the hostess donned a hazmat suit and debugged the chair after I left.

Day Two of STC finds me without a voice (hurrah, the children shout), and coughing.  At least my teeth aren’t aching anymore.  The desire to perform even the most basic tasks has evaporated.  And that left me thinking of times in the garden (and in life) when something happens and our priorities shift.  Like that time I grew fifty Delphiniums from seed.  They were gorgeous, but this is a story that doesn’t have a happy ending.  All the staking and fussing with them was a nightmare for my lazy self. 

And then, one day, that was it.  My desire to enter the garden plunged to nil because of all the work that had to be done with those plants.  I went from passion to disgust.  They were given away to garden visitors and my sanity was restored.  I entered the garden with joy once more. 

There are more reasons than sickness for garden aversion syndrome, or GAS (yes, I just made that up), but my sick/tired brain can’t think of any at the moment.  I’m off. Truly, this time.

Ever temporarily ended a horticultural affair?  What made you do it?  What brought you back?   

*Does anyone else associate corn flakes with John Denver or is it just me?  

The flip side of the “new” coin

I suppose it would be dingy, scuffed, and nicked but as I am not a coin connoisseur, I can’t be more precise than that.  Last week I rhapsodized about the benefits of new, new, new.  My two X chromosomes are kicking in the guilt from suggesting all those sparkly, shiny, crisp, and brand new things, threatening to overwhelm me.  But to paraphrase dear Jane Austen’s Mr. Bennett, don’t be alarmed, I’m sure the sensation will pass away, no doubt sooner than it should.  Let’s celebrate the crusty, musty, flaking, stretchy, squeaky, and just plain old, shall we?

1. Favorite sweatshirts or sweatpants.  Assuming one wears sweatshirts, that is.  The hubby has an old green hockey sweatshirt from UAA.  At least fifteen years old.  My ratty navy one is from when I was sixteen.  Don’t tell my mother I still have this one.

2. Photos.  As the kids get older, I get more (disgustingly) sentimental about all those silly pictures.  As they get older, the images become more dear…or maybe just the fact that pictures don’t talk back is dear.

3. Certain types of footwear.  Ice skates, the hubby suggests.  Hiking boots, soccer cleats, and other shoes of the kind that are broken in and molded to your foot.  Do Birkenstocks count? 

4. Any sentimental bits: teddy bears, blankets, etc.

5. Some food and beverage items.  Wine, from what I hear.  Being a teetotaler I’ve no idea.  Cheese, I’ve had some experience with and prefer a little age to it: I adore well-aged sharp cheddar, for example.  Is any other category of food good with a bit of time?  Weigh in…. 

6. Friendships, in many cases.  New friends are good, too, I hasten to add, but some friendships of long standing are like the proverbial old sweatshirt (see number one).  Comfortable, and you can let it all hang out with no pretending.  (All my old friends will shudder at the prospect of me letting it all hang out, I imagine.)

7. Professional relationships.  I don’t want to have to find a new doctor/dentist/mechanic unless the wrong organ/tooth/spark plug is removed through incompetency.  Just lazy, I guess.

8. Movies.  Some of my old favorites are Some Like It Hot, It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, The Great Race, Ghostbusters.  Too many more to list.  Astute movie buffs will notice these are all rather silly and absurd examples.  And those astute (and faithful) LFG readers will not be too surprised.

9. Trees.  Not too old, mind you.  Anything leaning at a precarious angle toward the house is deemed “too old.”  I have a grove of spruce trees at the new place and I’m not going to lie: I wouldn’t have picked that many of the species to plant here, but the privacy they provide is outstanding.  I don’t have to have blinds on any of my windows.  (Hurrah, no dusting of blinds, one of the most dreaded and tedious tasks ever, outranking filing taxes even.)

10. Antiques.  With the plethora of programming on TV about finding, repurposing, and/or selling old furniture, jewelry, cars, homes and other odds and ends, this one is a no brainer.  (No unkind comments from the gallery, now!)  Frankly I’m ready to sell my old Haviland Limoges china set.  The kids have broken one half and chipped the other.  Do they sell galvanized steel plates?  Surely those are kid-proof.  

And for a bonus, the LFG hubby recommends 11. trophy animals.  He points out the animals are bigger with age.  (And yes, I do have carcasses hanging in the hallway.  Not by choice, mind you, but one has to make compromises.  I came home from vacation and animal silhouettes had appeared in the hallway.  Surprise, honey!)

What is best with (a bit or a lot of) age? 

Things that are best new

Having no wish to draw the ire of the reuse/recycle crowd, but lacking in the common sense department, I will forge on ahead and just say it: some things are better new.  We have an entire holiday devoted to the newness of a year, so don’t tell me it’s not true.  Is it the novelty, possibilities, satisfaction, usefulness, or condition of a new thing that makes it so great?  I don’t profess to know, but here’s my list of things I like new:

1.  Books.  Yes, I know, I’m single-handedly bringing down a good portion of the rainforest.  But there is something to be said for reading a book that doesn’t smell stuffy and of which you can be sure hasn’t visited the toilet with anyone (but you, if you must).  Or you can bypass it all together and get an electronic reader like I did.

2. Computers.  Good grief, I think my desktop gets about three minutes slower loading pages every month.  While my shiny new iPad sings along at a brisk rate.  It’s really quite fascinating how a reasonable person can go from calm to tense to upset to frothy rage while waiting for a computer to do its thing.  I think I’ll skip the in between stages and just prepare for frothy rage when I turn on the computer.

3.  Underwear.  I refuse to explain this one.  

4.  Hand pruners.  No matter how I try to sharpen them, it’s never as good as when I busted the package open for the first time.  I think they can sense when you take them outside and start to develop dull blades and rust immediately.

5.  Food.  Some people finish what their kids/partners/dogs/etc. leave on the plate.  Something about a burger that’s been previously mouthed and is now coated in someone else’s saliva…blech.

6.  Appliances.  We had an old (it was even old when it was new) fridge for ten or eleven years.  It was like being in an episode of Star Trek shopping for a new one.  “Refrigerators make ice now??  No way!”  I’m not absolutely sure, but the dishwasher that came with our  home might not actually wash dishes.  At least that’s what the evidence tells me.

7.  Cars.  This is my opinion, which was formed (malformed, some may say) at a tender young age.  My folks loved used cars.  Which broke down rather often.  My car as a teenager, I was thrilled to have one you understand, literally broke down every other month.  Once it broke down on Halloween.  I was parked on the side of a major road and had to dash (I won’t tell you what my costume was, but it wasn’t cute) to my viola teacher’s house to use the phone and get dad to come out and tow the car.  Again.  Scarred, I tell you.  I need a reliable car.

8.  Hats.  I had lice once as a kid, so back to the scarred thing.  I still recall sitting in the bathtub with my sister with our scalps on fire with a toxic sludge “cure” for the better part of a day.  I think they used kerosene for a cure back in the 80’s.  At least it felt like kerosene.

9.  Relationships with politicians.  At the end of them, you’re quite ready to throw the bums out.  Or worse.  At least at the beginning, you have a hope of a moral compass or a shred of ethics.  Unless you’re an old cynic like me.

10.  Soap.  Trying to grasp the last little bit of the bar and having it squirt out of your hands and down to the drain is frustrating.  And I adore the crisp writing on a brand new bar.  Simple minds, simple pleasures.

And a bonus for all of you because I’m feeling particularly creative but more likely a bit tired.  Number 11.  Jokes.  I’m sure everyone has a joke they’ve heard three dozen times and which their great-uncle persists on telling every family gathering.  Maybe after that many times it’s more of a tradition than a joke.     

What do you prefer new?  Or do you like the oldies but goodies? 

Saying goodbye to my garden of ten years

Be sure you have your tissues handy, I intend to force feelings of fervency, dish dollops of dispossession, and insult the intellect.  Surely I do that last one every time I post.  Let it be known then, that my family and I are moving.  And, just like the afterlife, the rumors are true.  We can’t take the it (the garden) with us.

Lest I be accused of inciting a riot on the streets of the garden blogosphere, I assure you all I will still be posting about the wacky, unique, and challenging topics concerning gardening (and living) in Alaska.  Though we haven’t actually chosen a new house yet, we plan on moving close by our current abode.  I tell people who ask me whether we’ve found a place to go, “We’re planning on moving into a tent in your backyard.”  My surliness is getting the better of me.

It’s official: we’re out on November 9th.  Now the sensible gardener would have lifted and transplanted all favorites to an obliging friend’s garden for safe keeping before the temperature outside plunged to a balmy 40 Fahrenheit.  Never one to shy away from new frontiers in poor planning, the LFG rammed all her treasures into two holding beds and a smallish finished compost pile and put some very legal-sounding mumbo jumbo about “coming back in the spring for the designated garden goodies” into the sale contract. 

I don’t want to come back.  I want a clean break like ripping a bandage off in one quick swipe.  I love this garden but I don’t want to see it ever again.  I feel like it’s at it’s peak now and couldn’t bear to see it decline.  How’s that for thinking positive?

Ten years of pondering the garden’s layout.  Ten years of digging, deeply.  (Or at least as far as the combination of silt and construction backfill will allow.)  Ten years of anticipation in spring, appreciation in summer, and fond adieus in autumn.  Ten years of study and planning during the long winter months. 

Lots of sweat, some blood (adventures with sharp Felcos), and tears (hammers involved).  To say nothing of the money…oh, I can’t keep quiet about that!  Lots of money no doubt better spend elsewhere.  Preferably on something I could take with me when I move.  I’ll have to take the altruistic point of view and think of the joy and beauty it provides my neighborhood.  It’ll have to do.

I guess that means I have about two weeks to pack.  Not to mention the idea of living out of plastic bins and rubber tubs for the next two months.  I hate moving….

Ever moved?  Left a garden you loved/loathed?

Luck in the garden

Blame it on the upcoming St. Patrick’s Day on the 17th, but I have all things “lucky” on the brain.  Maybe the lurid green color associated with this holiday roped me in, or maybe it’s the pot of gold/leprechaun thing, I can’t say.  There is, in fact, a cereal devoted to luck (and high fructose corn syrup), called “Lucky Charms” of which I was an ardent devotee in my youth.  I had to give it up…not enough rainbow-colored marshmallows for my taste.  Not even pants (or trousers, for you English folk) are luck-less in branding: "Lucky” brand jeans have “Lucky you” embroidered under the zipper.  Subtle, isn’t it?



For the plant hunters among us, or at least those willing to go on hands and knees in the turf grass, finding a four-leafed clover is considered good luck.  Other talismans of luck: the horse-shoe, rabbits foot, and various items of adornment such as necklaces with charm or medallion.  And smelly socks, but perhaps that is lucky for sports players only.  Horoscopes are filled with such prognostications as lucky days, numbers, years, and signs of all kinds. (I’m a Leo, so this year I’m going to be busy.  In fact I might not be able to post once a week anymore, as I just recently learned, a minute ago in fact from the above link, that Saturn, Lord of the Underworld has sent me on a mission this year.  Hooray!  Time to dig out the blue tarp cape and duct tape goggles of my secret alter ego.)
  
Proverbs and famous quotes about luck abound.  “Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck.”  There’s Luck o’ the Irish.  Lucky in love.  Luck is the idol of the idle.  Or maybe you prefer Obi Wan Kenobi’s dour observation in Star Wars: “In my experience, there’s no such thing as luck.”  (The Irish have quite a few sayings about it, a fact uncovered in my scandalously brief research on the topic.  Surely some Irish reader will share why….)  And don’t we all send people off on a new adventure, whether it be the start of a sports game, wedding day, or Spelling Bee with the injunction “Good luck” or “Best of luck”?  Just what does it mean for the gardener?

I myself have considered certain gardeners to be lucky: those with a large garden, a fertile garden, a high yielding, or artful garden.  And even, once, in a moment of rage, those with no garden.  (Don’t judge me too harshly, there was blood involved.)  Everyone gardening south of zone 5 is grade-A lucky.  More than 20 inches of precipitation annually: lucky.  If the seasons arrive in your garden when the calendar says they should (for example, March 20 being the first day of spring), you are lucky.  Ditto those living in England, where they are blessed with real garden programming, witty garden commentators galore, magazines, and scads of world-famous gardens to tour.  And there is always that gardener that seems to be able to grow anything, especially that one plant you’ve tried and tried and killed and killed.  It gives me comfort to call that luck.

Oddly, a recent scan of garden blogs revealed but one entry on luck.  Check out Whole Life Gardening (written by C.L.): “Gardening & the School of Dumb Luck”.  I found many blogs briefly mentioned luck (as in “good luck in growing/finding/getting rid of…”) but few had devoted a post to the subject.  But let’s examine the other side of the gold coin, shall we?

Gleaned from my meticulous research on luck proverbs, the antonym for “luck” is “work.”  My favorite definition of work, taken from bing, might be number 10: “means for energy transfer” but the others (have job, exert effort, function, be successful, work in a specific place, shape something, cultivate land, and attain particular condition) work for gardening as well.  To quote a man that seemed to spout proverbs: “I’m a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.”  So says President Thomas Jefferson.  Is it any coincidence there are a dearth of garden blog posts on luck, when we take into account that gardeners are some of the hardest-working folk around?
  
Do you believe in luck?  Or hard work?  Or some amalgamation of both?

Are you a blog squirrel?

And from that improbable title, I will pose the question to blog writers out there: how many blog posts (or "nuts" in my super clever analogy) do you have in draft form at the moment?  But first, a little squirrel trivia.

My source is the most expensive book I had to buy in college: "The Encyclopedia of Mammals," edited by Dr. David MacDonald and published in North America by Facts on File, Inc.  I paid $62.35 for the heavy tome (about 900 pages), which was a fortune then for a book.  Actually, upon reflection, I don't know that I have purchased a book more expensive since.  Rather than sell it back to the bookstore (a common practice for a destitute student like myself) for a loss, I believe I kept it out of spite.  And now it keeps the other encyclopedias company on the bookshelf.  I see I have peculiar taste in this book breed: flags, rocks, dinosaurs, pond fish, etc....I think the only encyclopedias I am missing are: farm animals with spots, soil organisms smaller than 3 millimeters, and rock bands from the late 1970's. 

Did you know there are 267 species in 49 genera in the big old squirrel family (Sciuridae)?  That's a lot of squirrels, from about 3 inches in the African pygmy squirrel to more than 25 inches in the Alpine marmot.  And most people (and bloggers) out there have experience with squirrels as they are found worldwide with the exception of Australia (and thereabouts), the southern part of South America, desert regions like the Sahara, Polynesia, and Madagascar.  So to be more succinct about it: they are almost everywhere.

Alaska has more than our share, from my readings of the University of Alaska Anchorage's mammal list, with 17 different species and subspecies from all three groups of squirrel: flying, tree, and ground.  Marmots to woodchucks, we've got 'em here.  The Red squirrel, Tamiasciurus hudsonicus (and two subspecies), is the tree squirrel we "enjoy" here in the 49th state.  I put enjoy in quote marks because frankly, there are plenty of folks out there that don't care for them at all.  When they are raiding the bird feeder and spilling an entire bag's worth of seed onto the gravel, even the tolerant Last Frontier Gardener can get testy.  I also put it in quote marks because some people enjoy them served on dinner plates.  Yes, it's true: squirrels rate their own entry in the Alaska Department of Fish and Game's list, where they are rated as "good eating" and their fur is sold in our great state and Canada.  I'm afraid I can't attest to their tastiness due to lack of personal experience.  I'm not real broken up about it either.

I feel bad for those poor saps that have to deal with the Gray squirrel.  Apparently in England (it was introduced there in 1876 from North America, a big "sorry" for that) it regularly strips the bark from sycamore, oak, and beech trees whereas in N.A. it favors the sugar maple.  Most squirrels love nuts and seeds, a few bugs here and there, fruits, and other plant bits.  They have also been known to take (skip ahead squeamish ones) baby birds and reptiles.  A plus for squirrel aficianados, Gray squirrels can have as many as nine or more in a litter.  Another bonus, they can have two breeding seasons a year if conditions are favorable.  Squirrels, squirrels, everywhere!

Some characteristics of most tree squirrels are: good eyesight, chisel-shaped incisor teeth, well-developed sense of touch (those whiskers help), and nests in trees called "dreys."  I also discovered Red squirrels can locate pine cones buried 12 inches below the surface.  That goes a long way to explain some of the
disruptive behavior in the garden, such as that time I planted hundreds of crocuses and they mysteriously unplanted themselves and got nibbled and moved around.  I won't describe my thoughts at the moment when I discovered my work undone.  After all, this is a family friendly blog.  Just imagine some steam coming out my ears and you'll about have it.

So now that I have captured your attention with this fascinating bit of squirrel lore, I will shift gears and get back to my blogging analogy.  Thank you for your patience, as the automated customer service voice intones when I am put on hold....

I suppose I am a bit of a squirrel hoarding my posts, as I seem to feel safe with a minimum of three in draft form, but then I've always been the highly-strung, nervous type.  Right now I must be feeling particularly creative because I have four (a lot for me) in various phases, from two lines to two hundred.  That's a bit of an exaggeration, but "two lines to twenty" just doesn't have the same weighty feel.

High strung might be one excuse, but I also think I have more quality control if I have a week or two lead-time.  I don't seem to be the type that can churn out literary gems with short notice.  Only on rare occasions am I am struck with inspiration and a post seems to write itself to my satisfaction in one sitting.  Apparently, I need a good deal of time to work out logic, flow, and wit (If I can summon any: I do notice this post is sadly lacking in that respect). 

Also, time is needed to come up with pictures to adorn said post.  For example, for this post, I felt like I needed a squirrel picture, or at the very least a nut picture.  Normally I'd start combing through my pictures stored on the computer, but I just happen to know for a fact that I have A. no squirrel pictures, and B. no nut pictures.  Drat.  I think the squirrels are all still asleep, as I haven't heard any chattering in, say, four months.  So that's not happening.  Perhaps I'll root out all the different kinds of nuts I have around the house and photograph them (did it, see below).  Remember, I did put an "if" in association with witty content.

Roll call: pine nut, peanut, almond, walnut, pecan and pistachio.  Apparantly blog drafts aren't the only kind of "nut" I am hoarding...

So to recap, my reasons for hoarding posts are:
1. personality
2. development/editing
3. finding appropriate pictures

So time to 'fess up: how many draft posts do you have right now?

And what squirrels call your garden/country home?

Why Do I Garden?

The Last Frontier Gardener gets lucky: Alopecurus pratensis 'Variegatus' with Geranium 'Johnson's Blue'

A former high school teacher of mine once asked a similar question to our sophmore honors English class.  His actual question was more terse: "Why?"  After a few blank looks most people started scratching something, anything down on paper.  I filled a page and a half with answers to any and every question I could think of (the Tindall effect! nature versus nurture! igneous intrusive! Jane Austen!) before the time was up.  Turns out the answer he wanted was "because" or "why not?"  Those could be my answers to the gardening question as well if I wanted to be blunt or sassy.  I'll try a little harder than that to convey my answer to a question that can be inexplicable or elusive.

It's a little embarrassing to admit that my first reason for gardening is control.  I am a bit of a control freak about some things.  Having a yard to tinker in to create a certain effect is very rewarding.  And probably just as expensive and exhausting as therapy.  When I moved into my current abode, I inherited one tree, one shrub, and turfgrass. I called it "the fish bowl" because it was so exposed.  There was no privacy, no beauty, and little functionality.  After almost ten years of blood, sweat, and tears, I have made this space into something private, dynamic, functional, and beautiful (to me at least).  Not to say mother nature doesn't laugh at me and my control tendencies.  Weeds, weather, and wild animals all play a part, whether I want them to or not.

Nassella tenuissima lights up a container planting in autumn

The second reason must be that I've always loved the outdoors.  As children growing up in Alaska, mom shooed the six of us outside with great regularity.  "Go play outside."  The cruelty of that woman, forcing us to go use our imaginations in the fresh air!  We roamed the neighborhood and its wild edges having grand adventures.  I still like being outside and having (garden) adventures even though mom is not here to make me.

Now don't laugh, but my third reason is I am a sensualist.  I greatly enjoy having all my senses engaged in my gardening space.  The smell of sweet peas and stock, the movement of ornamental grasses swaying in the breeze, the sound of birdsong, the touch of a furry lamb's ear leaf, and the taste of my homegrown herbs, fruits, and veggies are all sensations I dream of in winter and revel in when it's summer.

Bergenia spp. and Picea abies 'Ohlendorffii'

I could fill pages and pages just like in high school English class, but I will conclude with a fourth and final reason I garden: roses don't spontaneously bloom beneath my feet.  It may be a "labor of love", but labor it is.  I've got to put in some effort to make a garden!

P.S. This post is in response to a call for a 500 or less word essay by gardens of the wild wild west on "why I garden."  I discovered the contest last night and stayed up late thinking/writing about it because it is a good question (and because the contest closes on December 21st).  If you'd like to share your reason(s) for gardening, please leave a comment below.