Ah the Good Old Days Sort Of

After I wrote the last post, I had a sudden, sharp realization of how much people smoked when I was a kid! And I'm not talking just about Miss Nita and Aunt Betty. I'm talking about everywhere. Do you remember family vacations as a kid? We always stayed in a Holiday Inn or a Howard Johnson's motel and the room always smelled funny. It was only years later that I realized it was stale cigarette smoke that gave the rooms that awful smell. My parents had smoked, but my mom gave it up before she got married. My dad smoked a pipe until he broke one of his teeth champing on the pipe stem. He gave it up. I remember how he always kept a toothpick in his mouth, in the exact same spot where he once kept his pipe. Whenever I did the wash I'd find bits of broken toothpicks since he'd leave them in his shirt pockets and forget about them. We were never without the obligatory box of toothpicks in the kitchen for him.

But smoking....we were strictly forbidden to smoke. I have never once smoked a cigarette. Never. Not once!

When I was 16, I took a job working for the Rosenzweig Insurance Agency in Floral Park. It was a wonderful job and a super office. Mr. Rosenzweig did not smoke and people were forbidden to smoke in his inner sanctum. But the rest of the office? It was like a chain-smoking convention. Those were the days when every desk in the office had a little ash tray that came with the pencil holder. Three of the women who sat in the open area where I worked smoked all day. You'd open the door to the office and this blue haze hung over the work area. Later on, when the first smoking laws went into effect, Mr. R asked the girls to smoke only in the break room. It was one small room in the back of the building next to the bathroom. We hung our coats on pegs on the wall above the file cabinets and ate our lunch at a small circular table.

One day I came home from work and my dad grabbed me by the collar and started sniffing, like a dog. "Have you been SMOKING?" he barked at me.

I must have looked amazed rather than guilty for he dropped his grip almost immediately. I said, "No, Dad, I would never touch the stuff."

He continued sniffing. "Why do you stink like cigarettes?'

At that I had to laugh. "We keep our coats in the break room where the women smoke. My coat's been hanging in the smoking room all day!"

Later on, another woman complained, so the girls had to take their cigs back into the alley and smoke outside. But I never forgot how funny it was when I told some young people at work one time about what it was like to work back in the early 1980's. They couldn't get over the fact that people could smoke at their desks!

Ann's Bloomerang Lilac

At my childhood home in Floral Park, we had a dwarf holly next to the front steps. Every family photo shows the whole tribe clustered on the brick steps with the squat holly front and center. I have a photo on my dresser of John and me on our first Easter when we were dating, and we're posed right in front of that holly bush. My dad said that my Aunt Betty had given it to them as a housewarming present when they bought the house in 1960. Every time I looked at the holly bush from then on, I thought of my wonderful chain-smoking Aunt Betty who kept coloring books in her home for me. Some day I will have to tell you about Aunt Betty. She was an amazing person, full of color and life, who kept seven cats, lived with her mother, never married, chain smoked Virginia Slims like she needed to set the world on fire, and once impulsively took my sister for an impromptu weekend trip to Pennsylvania to visit the bologna factory and see how pretzels were made. She and my uncle were friends with Roland Irolla, the national artist of France who designed the franc note! God bless Aunt Betty. She was like the German version of Auntie Mame without the money and sex.


Sadly, one of the first things the new owners did to the yard when we sold my childhood home was rip out all the old landscaping. When I last drove by the house in 2007 after attending my high school reunion picnic, they'd had it professionally designed. And while I loved the country-charm of the new landscaping and the plethora of hydrangeas, I missed Aunt Betty's holly.


Today John and I planted a dwarf lilac bush out front, to the left of the front steps, in almost exactly the same spot that just about 40 years ago my dad and mom planted Aunt Betty's holly. Curiously enough, after we landscaped the front and finished off that half this spring, we had a small section left. My sister Ann had given me a White Flower Farm gift certificate for my 40th birthday which I still had. We got the new White Flower Farm catalog two weeks ago and John pointed out a lilac called "Bloomerang".


I adore lilacs. We planted several small ones around the yard. Mr. Hoffman, the man who lived next door to us in Floral Park, had an enormous 50 year-old or so lilac hedge screening our garage from his property line. Every May crowning, I carried armloads of lilacs and snowball bush viburnum from our yard to school for the ceremony. I can't smell a lilac to this day without thinking of the Blessed Mother!

So we planted Bloomerang today. Already I am calling it "Ann's Lilac", just the way I used to call that other bush so long ago "Aunt Betty's Holly."

The Little Sisters Need Your Plants

We try to donate as much money and goods as we can to charities near to our hearts, and one such charity is the Little Sisters of the Poor in Richmond, Virginia.

The Little Sisters are a Catholic religious order who work with the elderly poor (not just Catholics; they help all, regardless of religious affiliation). The sisters run a nursing home and hospice in Richmond for the elderly poor, those who have no one to take care of them and no money for traditional services. They run their organization almost entirely on charitable donations of money and goods.

You can sometimes run into the Little Sisters going door to door, actually begging or asking for donations. They still do it this way even in the 21st century as their founder, Saint Jeanne Jugan, did back in Paris in the 1800's.

This month we got their newsletter and noticed a call for donations...including plants! The Sisters are looking for plants to landscape the grounds. Here's the list of what's needed:

• Bleeding Hearts
• Hosta
• Calandiums
• Elephant Ear bulbs
• Ferns
• Peonies
• Butterfly Bushes
• Soil
• Mulch
• Pruning Shears
• Outdoor electrical cords

They also need monetary donations, so if you can spare a bit this month, it's always appreciated. All of the donations go to taking care of the elderly residents and their medical needs (none of the money goes to any other group or back to the Diocese from what I understand).

Looking out over my flower garden, I have about six large Butterfly Bush seedlings - volunteers from the sweetly scented purple one that seeded everywhere. And I mean everywhere! I've got Butterfly bushes popping up in the walkways and all over the yard. If I pot them up now and nurture them, I may just be able to donate them this spring. I'm so excited by this project! Not only can I find a home for those Butterfly bushes, but I can help the Sisters and the elderly in just one more way. My flowers can give joy to the elderly residents in their garden. I love it when I can combine support for Catholic organizations, doing good works AND gardening. Talk about a win-win-win!

Holy Week: The Sound of Silence

The Anchoress | A First Things Blog

I love the blog post (linked above). As we embark on Holy Week, try her suggestion. Try the sound of silence. For me, when I get very quiet, I can hear the small, still voice inside which is intuition - how God speaks to us in our hearts. Although I cannot totally turn off the computer this week (I have to meet client deadlines, for example, and turn my copy in on time), I can do as she suggests. Turn off the television, especially those addictive political talk shows and other talk shows with people yelling at each other over the table. Turn off the radio. Turn off the videos. Turn off the music. Work in silence. Sit in silence. Just breathe, and "be still and know that I am God."

Vegetable Gardening Saturday

I don't normally get excited over power tools. I know some gardeners who love their rototillers, for example, or who wax poetic about their John Deere riding mowers. We do have a lovely riding mower to cut the lawn - after all, with over 2 acres of grass, you need something pretty hefty to mow the lawn.

But back in the vegetable garden, I've got narrow pathways among the raised beds, and it's all fenced in. Last year it was a mess. I mean a total, awful mess. Tall grass, weeds, and brambles retaking the pathways. I felt like I spent half my summer out there with a string trimmer just trying to hack back the weeds. We have an electric string trimmer too and the battery lasts a whopping 10 minutes. It's supposed to last 30. So much for going green. I went more blue, as in my language cussin that thing!

Originally we were going to put down gravel between the pathways, but I warned John last year that I thought gravel would reflect too much heat back to the vegetable beds. At first he didn't agree, but earlier this spring, he said the same thing to me - "Let's leave the pathways as grass." So I knew we would keep the grass.

We went to Lowe's and found what I wanted. A nice, old-fashioned push mower, the kind I used to use as a kid in Floral Park cutting Mrs. Anderson's grass for $2 a week. All you do is push it and voila - cut grass. It's perfect for the pathways and it mulches the grass clippings back into the paths, or I can rake them up, as I did yesterday, and compost them.

We spent about two hours yesterday fixing up the vegetable garden. The radishes are up and I think the lettuce seeds, but no sign of the peas. The onions look like they're taking well, and the garlic is thriving.

Mrs. Moleworthy, as we have now dubbed the garden mole, appears to be concentrating her tunnels now on the herb beds. From people's comments to me I think she won't harm anything so I am leaving her alone. My next project is to paint a little sign for Mrs. Moleworthy's garden. I think she has moved in for good. As an organic gardener, I look forward to any way that nature has for keeping the insects down to a minimum. I've chosen to view Mrs. Moleworthy's presence as a gift, for moles are supposed to eat insect larvae, grubs and all the nasties that attack my plants. As long as she tunnels away from the root crops and doesn't disturb anything, I will be her landlord, and hopefully she will be a good tenant.

Spring's Entrance

After a week of glorious sunshine and 70-degree days, tonight we are expecting a frost. Well, it is early spring, and at least four weeks from our frost-free date. So nature has a right to send frost. But I am hoping it doesn't nip the blossoms on the peach trees. This is the first year the baby trees we planted that looked like twigs have blossoms.






Remember the 400+ bulbs we planted in the orchard? The crocus have been up, but today was the first day a few of the daffodils began blooming. Many more are peeking up but you can't see them yet.



My tiny garden next to the garage is cheery yellow....




And to celebrate, we got the new fountain next to the deck working today. It leaked. John fixed it. Hurray! I hope to work on the deck during the warm weather - bring my laptop out there and work on my novel.



I've been in such a sad, sorrowful mood this week. The news out of Washington made me upset. What made me even more upset were the absurd comments I've seen flying about. The general level of ignorance about what is in the US Constitution, the violence and threats against members of both parties...I just want it all to stop.

I want peace and security, I want everyone to be nice to each other and if we disagree we say so politely and logically. I want people to understand how choices made today impact the world tomorrow.

I ask myself, have I contributed to this by remaining silent when I should have spoken up? For not speaking up more? I vote, and I thought it was enough. Now I'm not so sure. Now I think I need to get involved more for causes I believe in. But I don't know how, or what. I just feel like I should do more...that somehow the world is tilting, and I am not sure I like the direction it's all tilting in. I am not a brave person. I am just one person. So what, Lord, I pray, can I do? What would you have me do? No answer yet. I have a feeling my pen's going to be directed elsewhere soon, to write about things I'm passionate about but which will be unpopular. I don't know yet. I want to go out and weed something.


Mostly I just want all the problems to go away.



Sometimes I think I garden to escape. I find solace in my flowers, in the soft rhythms of the season. I find laughter among the flowers and joy watching seedlings emerge. Somehow, the bickering and partisan politics and ignorance and stupidity of people melt away in the beauty of the garden. I think if more people gardened, they would be a lot happier.

Pierre Grows Up

Mr. Pierre turns two today and would like the whole world to know it. He is, after all, a cat, which means his ego is larger than any human's ever could be.


After my old kitty died, a week later I answered an ad in the newspaper from a man in Farmville giving away kittens. Mr. Archie Dunkley, who I keep wanting to call Archie Dunker and then make him Archie Bunker, had a lovely striped mom cat in his lawn mower repair shop near Longwood University. When we walked into the shop, all I saw was a tangle of gray kittens rolling over and over again in a big adorable lump on the floor. I couldn't choose. One guy with a jaunty white tail walked right over to us to investigate. I liked the little girl hiding shyly behind the door. We ended up taking Mr Whitetail home, as he was known around the neighborhood, and rechristened him Pierre. He was so bold that on the car ride home, as I sat in the back seat with him tucked securely in a cardboard box, his little head kept peeking up at me over the flap of the box. Not content to sit demurely and ride, oh no, not Pierre. He wanted to see and experience every last detail of life around him.

I had never owned a kitten before. I'd always adopted adult pets from the shelter. Even as a child, I never bought baby hamsters....always adults. Having a kitten was an experience. I was so afraid I'd hurt him, or drop him. I discovered he was such a tough little thing that he'd climb the highest shelf and leap down just to get a good jump on the dog's head. (He still does this. Last night he hid on the couch and jumped Shadow as she walked by. I'm also really lucky she's gentle with him. But he is a bold thing, attacking a German Shepherd 4x his size!)

For anyone who says "all cats are alike" or "all dogs are alike", they haven't owned a pet, or at least haven't spent enough time with a pet. Pierre is night to my old cat's day, opposite in personality in almost every way.

From 2 pounds to 20 pounds, my little puffball kitten has turned into an enormous tiger.

The photos today show him the day we got him home. Note the green books on the bookshelf. The second picture shows Pierre around age 1 1/2, next to the same books on the bookshelf. It's like watching time lapse photography!

Shadow Declares War

My German Shepherd dog, Shadow, gardens with me. She never leaves my side. On Saturday, I bought onion sets and set out for the vegetable garden to plant onions, lettuce, radishes, spinach, chard, beets, and carrots. As I was busy on one end of the garden digging away, it was awfully quiet on the opposite site. I glanced up and was astonished to see just Shadow's butt, plume tail waving, sticking out from the watermelon bed. The bed's empty at the moment, just soil and compost and of course my 80 pound German Shepherd, nose first, shoveling soil fast and furiously out of the bed.

With a shout and a cry I raced over to scold her. "Stop that!" I yelled, dismayed. She'd dug out a trench about a foot deep and two feet long!

John hurried over to see why Shadow was being scolded. "I've never seen her do that before."

"Neither have I," I admitted. She was now sniffing around the edges of the raised beds like crazy, stuffing that giant snout of hers into every conceivable crack. She was on the scent trail of something to be sure.

Suddenly, a creature about the size of a rat raced out from the watermelon bed and just dove for a small opening in the side of the other large bed where we grow corn. We both raced over. Shadow was now zig zagging, sniffing and trying to dig out the corn bed.

"What was that?" John asked. I grabbed a shovel and banged the side of the raised bed, making as much noise as I could.

Out raced the creature. He or she dove for yet another tunnel, my dog in hot pursuit.

Eventually, Shadow chased the creature out beyond the chicken wire that encircles the garden. He or she will be back, I know. Judging from the tunnels we found, I think I've got a garden mole. I've read conflicting information about moles. Some sites say to get rid of them because they will eat seeds and damage root crops. Other sites say no, they eat grubs, insect larvae and worms, so they're fine.

What's your experience with garden moles? Other than letting Shadow dig up my vegetable garden, what other organic gardening methods can be used to deter the mole? Pierre the cat has taken a pass at this battle, leaving Shadow to wage her war on the mole.

Farm Archaeology Part II

This morning we had an appointment with someone from the VA Department of Forestry. He's actually a neighbor, and it was a great visit. Not only did he teach us all about how to care for our trees but he knew so much about the area.

The old tobacco barn by our creek, which lies just a few feet over our property line, and the tantalizing view of a large ruin beyond the creek were only the first hint of what lies beyond. We crossed the creek (with me of course slipping off the stepping stone and finding myself shin deep in icy water) and walking up towards the old ruins we could see. The man we were with confirmed it to be the ruins of a large barn. He thought the family who owned it was prosperous, judging by the size of it and all the outbuildings.

Following the trail and a few more trickling streams up through the woods, we started to see more out buildings - a corn crib, the ruins of something else. Then on top of the hillside John spied daffodils nodding in the spring breeze and I noticed the remnants of a decorative wrought iron fence. We were deep in the woods, probably a mile from the main road and about half a mile from our house. Suddenly the ruins of the old farm house appeared on top of the hill. It was a breathtaking moment for me. These were the people who owned our land, who farmed it. The home was big for the time period. The roof was missing and the back walls had caved in, but there were two chimneys, two large porches, and electrical switches on the wall, so they had electricity and it was occupied in this century. Judging by the hand-wrought nails left in the siding and a few pieces of old wavy glass, the construction techniques, some old nails we found and the fact that the house wasn't listed on a Civil War- Confederate era map of the area, we gave it a rough age of around 1870.

It was a thrill for me to finally find the old farmhouse which was once the center of the land. The fellow walking with us also said there was an old plantation home somewhere very nearby dating back to the early 1800 or late 1700's that had once owned over 4,000 acres, part of which must have been our property.

The biggest thrill for me, though, was seeing the remnants of the old front porch. The posts on the porch, although of wood, were identical to the ones we chose for our home. And the color? Spots left on the wood siding indicated it had once been yellow....with shutters...which is what we chose here.

I know yellow's a popular house color and there are millions and millions of homes painted that color, and millions more houses with green shutters. But isn't it absolutely wonderful to think that somehow, someway, we've recreated a bit of the past unknowingly?

Oh and the good news: our trees are healthy and don't need anything done for at least 6 years. Thank you VA Dept of Forestry for the tree education - and nice to meet you, neighbor.

Signs of Spring

Signs of spring are everywhere. The liquid trill of bluebird song fills the air, and John saw a female darting in and out of the nesting box near the vegetable garden. The garlic plants are doubled in size from two weeks ago. I planted peas, lettuce, radishes, spinach and chard this week. I also planted pansies in the window boxes and around the sidewalk near the house. The daffodils and crocus are blooming everywhere!




John's been putting compost onto the lawn and reseeding. Yesterday he tackled the orchard and added compost around all of the trees. He thinks he might be too late to spray dormant oil...I'm not so sure. If I'm lucky, he'll do that today. The peach tree we bought that's mature enough to bear fruit this year already looks like it's going to bud. The rest are still too immature to bear fruit, but I'm hoping that in about two years we might see a peach or plum or two.


In the flower garden, all of the perennials have returned. I trimmed back the nepeta which threatened to take over the pathways. The salvia got a haircut too. I was supposed to do some serious labor, like moving compost into the vegetable gardens on Wednesday, but instead I got side tracked and built a support out of pine branches for my Blaze climbing rose. Right now it doesn't look like much or I'd snap a picture or two, but once leaves and flowers appear I'll be sure to take a picture for you.


I snagged two miniature roses on the discount rack at Lowe's for $2 each. I have no idea what color they are, but I added them to the little rose garden around the Blaze. I love my roses. They are like pets. They require a lot of care, especially to grow them organically, but I enjoy it a lot.

The crocus are blooming in the orchard. We go out every day and look for the daffodils; we planted over 500 bulbs out there, but they seem to be coming up at all times, adding dots rather than bursts of color as we'd hoped.


Today it's work inside for me to finish some client projects, but I'm sneaking out later today to do more tidying up. And tomorrow? We're planting more shrubs and butterfly-attracting perennials around the front of the house. Pierre's going to love that. The salvia and azaleas are his favorite "You can't see me" hiding spots. We can see him, of course. But he enjoys crouching wild-eyed behind the shrubs and peering out like a jungle cat. In your dreams, fat cat....

Happy spring!

Me and My Big Mouth!

Ever write an email or a letter, then later realize you came off too strong? I guess I had a hissy a few months ago about an article in County Gardens, a magazine I look forward to each month. The winter issue had a good article about African violets in it, but the authors never mentioned chimeras. I have first hand experience with this. And I guess my annoyance and lovingly tending my violets for over a year to find them all...identical...may have oozed out from my fingertips and through my keyboard.


I've got 20 identical dark purple violets as living proof. I took cuttings from my sister's plants. I know that each cutting survived. Yet even though the parents had pinwheeled and maroon colored flowers, every single blessed one is...deep purple. My favorite rock band, a great color, but I really wanted those pinwheel-flowered ones!

So today I got an email from the author of the article. I am sorry my tone upset you. I know what it's like to have someone poke at your writing. Oh boy, after 20 years of freelancing - I sure do know it!

The long explanation about why this happens with violets is here, on the Department of Horticulture website from Ohio State University:http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/tisscult/chimeras/valprop/val.html

You can make an identical plant with the pinwheel types, but you need to separate the plants at the crown, not the leaf. Others will propagate true to type from leaves.

So, dear article author and African violet expert: I sincerely apologize for my tone. I can be too strong sometimes too. Please don't take it to heart. As a fellow writer, I should have been kinder. I just got stuck with 20 identical African violet plants, so I know this to be true...cuttings don't always produce identical plants. (Exhibit A: yes, today's picture is one of the nauseatingly identical plants I lovingly cultivated. I've got the monocolor thing down pat in my plant room.) And I'd love to have you as a guest blogger if you ever want to share your experience growing prize winning violets. I just love my violets, even if they are all dark purple!

Planting Peas on Saint Patrick's Day

Happy Saint Patrick's day! I don't have a drop of Irish blood in me, but I am Catholic, so any day when secular folks decide to mention a saint is okay by me. I just wish the celebrations didn't involve so much drinking.



When I worked in New York City, us native New Yorkers snidely called this day "amateur day". There are two "amateur days" in New York City: New Year's Eve and St. Patrick's Day. Meaning: all the amateur drinkers come out to play and get in trouble. I tell you, I don't miss the commute on St. Patrick's Day. Not a year went by when someone didn't throw up near me or spill sticky alcoholic goo on my briefcase. I used to arrive home stinking like a gin mill. Now is that the way to honor Ireland's patron saint, I ask you?!


Seriously though, today holds a special place in my heart for other reasons. The phrase "plant peas on St. Patrick's Day" may be familiar to you. Mr. Hoffman, my next door neighbor in Floral Park, taught it to me. On St. Patrick's Day I'd rush home from school. Mr. Hoffman would be tending his vegetable garden. He had purchased one house lot and half of the next lot, and on the half lot he kept a vegetable garden. By New York City standards it was huge, and of course I was small, so it looked even bigger. He grew rhubarb, strawberries and sweet corn; green beans, spinach, tomatoes, and of course, peas. (For those who grew up with me in Floral Park and also attended Our Lady of Victory Church, you knew Mr. Hoffman...he was the sextant there for many years). (What the heck is a sextant? Here's the definition. It's basically a church officer who carries the keys and takes care of the building. You'd see Mr H running around with the wine and vessels before Sunday Mass, keys jingling...he'd open the choir loft up for me before Mrs. Cook got there....he was always opening and closing those big stained glass windows at OLV).


He'd wait until I got home from school, then he'd hand me a brown paper sack of peas. Together we'd walk down the row of moist and freshly turned earth and place peas in the furrow. He'dplace stakes along the row and string some twine for support. Weeks later, he'd call me over to shuck peas. There is nothing that tastes better than a pea just picked from the vine; the sweetness of a raw pea will make your mouth water.


I found a New York Times article that perfectly captures my childhood experience - this lady also knew the beauty of a freshly picked pea!


Mr. Hoffman grew up on a farm in Elmont, Queens. He was from a family called the Rottkamps that had lived on Long Island since Colonial Times. The farm was near what is now Belmont Race Track; in his day, he said, it stretched all along Elmont Road. My dad would point our strip malls and 7-11's and say "This is where Mr. Hoffman's parent's farm was" and I'd nod, but I'd never really pictured it as farm. It was always concrete and stores when I was little.


My dad was an avid gardener, and my grandma had a wonderful European-style kitchen garden that my dad had designed and built for her as a Mother's Day present. But leaping over the tiny hedge separating our driveway from Mr. Hoffman's driveway...picking mint from the herbs growing next to his patio and crushing them between my fingers....and taking armloads of lilacs to school for May Crowning from the bushes growing against his garage are my fondest memories.


And pansies. He'd give me pansy plants every spring from his own garden, lovingly grown from seed.


Today's photos....Mr. Hoffman's house. I loved taking pictures of houses when I was a kid. I think I was obsessed with home and garden even then! And May was and is my favorite month, when all the world is abloom. The second photo is me - yes, mini me, age 5 - tending the pansy plants from Mr. Hoffman.

Here's the eerie thing about these pictures. My sister found the one of my planting pansies in my mom's photo album and sent it to me. My mom wrote the date on the back: May 12, 197 - something (ha, you think I'm going to tell you the year?). I snapped the photo of Mr. Hoffman's house when I was in high school. I took lots of photos of houses around Floral Park that year so I'd always remember them. I don't know why I did it, but I'm glad I did.


Guess the date on Mr H's photo?

May 12.


I absolutely love it when things like that happen!


Today, I'm planting not only peas (received from the folks at Hometown Garden seeds; thank you) but also my sweet peas, those heavenly old-fashioned flowers.

God bless you, Mr. Hoffman. I miss you. You've been gone from this earth for a long time, but you live every time I plant a pansy or plant peas on St. Patrick's Day.

Wood Ash as an Organic Garden Fertilizer: Organic Vegetable Gardening Tips

Wood Ash as an Organic Garden Fertilizer: Organic Vegetable Gardening Tips

New article on using wood ashes in the garden. It does make a good organic vegetable garden fertilizer, but use it carefully and be sure you know your soil pH before using it. If you're already dealing with alkaline soil, spread the wood ashes outside where they won't change the soil pH around plants you like or your vegetables. They can raise soil pH rapidly. Wood ashes add potassium, calcium and phosphorous back into the soil - great for tomatoes.

The Case of the Disappearing Peanuts

I have a love-hate relationship to squirrels. On the one hand, I'm amused by their antics and their intelligence. I saw a special on television once in which scientists in a laboratory put all sorts of complications between a group of squirrels and their food in a lab setting. The squirrels not only figured out each obstacle, including some complicated locking-type mechanisms, but they could deal with - and remember - up to 26 before they gave up. Now you know why that simple squirrel baffle under the bird feeder doesn't work.


I've felt sorry for squirrels too. Growing up in Floral Park, my dad hated squirrels. He used to shoot them with his BB gun. Unfortunately, he missed a lot. We had a few squirrels winged by bullets but...well, let's just say you'd know them when you saw them. Ugh. It gave me nightmares!

He hated squirrels ever since this happened. He told the story of how a squirrel got into his childhood home through the chimney while the family was away. They came home to a disaster. The panicked squirrel had tried to chew through the windowsills to get out of the house. Furniture was ruined, and the squirrel had even gotten into the kitchen pantry and destroyed bags of flour and sugar, throwing the detritus around the kitchen. From then on, his family declared a war against squirrels.

I've felt neutral to them for a while, feeling on the one hand that they are kind of pests. They never fail to get into my bird feeders and my current feeder has a cork in the bottom instead of the plastic plug that came with it because the darn things managed to eat through it in search of seed. On the other hand, they're part of nature and deserve to live and eat and do whatever they do up in the trees.

John loves peanuts and bought a big sack of the salty ones in the shell over the winter. Actually he bought two sacks. One he ate right away, then he got sick of his peanuts, and so the second sack has been in the back of the pantry for...well, there was dust on it. He found it again, ate one peanut and spit it out. Tasted funny.

So he decided to start leaving them out for the wildlife.

Each night, he left seven out on the rock pile, under the bird feeder, and by the compost pile. We tried looking for tracks to see what ate them. Nothing. We tried peering out with binoculars. The resident Houdini removed the peanuts without so much as a wave of thanks.

The case of the disappearing peanuts had us stumped.

Until this morning...when I saw my bird feeder swinging wildly. Ah, finally, there was our guest. A skinny, young squirrel. I wonder how he figured out the bird feeder so fast? He's a countified squirrel without the benefit of bird feeders. As far as I know, he's never seen one except here.

He scampered off with big peanuts bulging from his cheeks, chased by another fellow.

From my desk chair in the office, I can glance out and watch their antics. I've decided to love their comical dance around the feeder. Besides, they're taking the peanut shells with them!

Monarch Butterfly Migration

Reposting a really interesting blog here -

Defining Your Home, Garden and Travel: Milkweed for Monarchs

I had no idea that March begins the monarch butterfly migration. Growing up on Long Island, my dad took us out to Mitchell Field on Sundays so that my brothers would shoot model rockets. The big open fields, a former aviation site (now Hofstra University buildings, the Cradle of Aviation Museum, and lots of office buildings) had meadows of milkweed. My mother used to pick the pods with me and show me how the pods opened to the milk strands. I've since learned that milkweed floss used to be the poor man's bed stuffing; and during World War II, it was collected to stuff life preservers for sailors!

Now I am grateful to see milkweed growing along the fence lines of the cattle fields here...lots of food for butterflies in a world losing so much natural space to urbanization.

I am planting more butterfly plants this year to continue increasing our habitat for both migrating and local species.

Signs of Spring at Seven Oaks

Spring. This weekend we push the clocks ahead. In another week, the official start of spring is here. It's nearly time to plant the lettuce, radishes, spinach and greens. I've got sweet peas for flowers and green peas for meals to plant too. But before I start working today, I wanted to note the surest signs of spring of all...

The signs of spring at Seven Oaks:

• Every day when you walk by the neighbor's herd of cattle, there's another newborn calf peeking around his mama's side.
• The buds on the Redbud trees are starting to swell.
• A dozen robins are pecking the grass in the backyard.
• Lady bugs are once again flying around the outside of the house.
• The female bluebirds are taking turns inspecting the nesting box in the vegetable garden.
• Instead of your neighbor's hunting dogs roaming the property, it's your neighbor's pet Akitas that keep running around.
• The sound of gunfire (from everyone hunting in the woods) stops, replaced by the sounds of tractors, farm equipment, and chain saws.
• Crocus, daffodils, and tulips peeking up from the ground.
• My bottle of Benadryl is open and rapidly emptying as our allergies flare up again.
• New bird song you can't identify greets you each morning...sure sign of migrating birds.

Here's to spring!

Resurrection Cactus

I wrote back in January and February about my acquisition of a Christmas cactus, a plant I'd long wanted to grow. My dad grew huge Christmas and Easter cacti and every holiday massed them in front of the fireplace. I remember just splashes of bright crimson, magenta and peach from the cascades of blossoms. I purchased two small Christmas cacti at Lowe's. Both had seen better days. They looked as if someone had left them on the truck too long and the cold weather got to them. Neither had blooms, and I had to guess at the color by the dead and shriveled flowers strewn around the shelf. For $2 and $3 respectively, I wasn't complaining. I knew from my dad's care of his Christmas cacti that they're fairly easy to grow. My little plant room in the back of the house has the perfect bright eastern sunlight too. My African violets love it, so I thought the Christmas cacti would too.

Well, as you can see, my little plant is confused. It thinks it's Christmas! It's not an Easter cactus. This article talks about the difference between the two types, and given that Lowe's had this guy out along with the decorations and Christmas trees and fake Santa Clauses I think it is indeed a Christmas cactus.

But I feel like a proud mama...look, my child has graduated! It's blooming! I am calling this one my Resurrection Cactus, because it's blooming just in time for Easter...and it pretty much DID come back from the dead, given the state it was in when I bought it a few months ago.

My plant room is also the place where I sit and meditate each morning. Then I have my coffee and breakfast while enjoying the warm morning light and my houseplants. Pierre often sits with me. Actually, he's usually climbing up the plant tables, destroying something, crashing a pot off a shelf or generally making a nuisance of himself. Today, though, he decided to hang out on the back of my chair during meditation, every once in a while interrupting me by tapping me in the head with a paw. He posed so nicely I had to snap his picture.

Wild Turkey Return

Another sure sign of spring - the wild turkeys are back! Last evening as I was making dinner I glanced out the kitchen window and spied seven deer grazing in the orchard. Shadow and I had surprised two in the driveway when I took her out for her walk earlier. I called John over with the binoculars to see if we could recognize any of the deer. We're starting to spot certain repeat customers; the doe with the badly crooked leg, another doe with unusual markings on her hind legs. No repeat customers. But John suddenly called out "The turkeys are back!"

Wild turkeys are fun to watch. They come out of the woods at dusk and dawn. They are very shy. If you run into them in the woods and they are nesting on the ground, they fly upwards with a huge noise. They are very large, and if you don't know they are there they can really frighten you.

We counted 11 females pecking at the edges of our field this morning. They are very plump looking. I was surprised - I thought the harsh winter would have made them thinner, but no, their feathers were glossy and black and their bodies nicely rounded. We haven't seen a wild turkey on our property since October. It was like they waved a wing goodbye in the fall, and now herald the coming of spring.

Will they nest in our woods? We've seen chicks while on vacation in Kentucky. They are the cutest little things. They have huge clutches of eggs and frankly, the chicks are so stupid they are probably fast food for predators....I think I read somewhere that they have a dozen babies because so few survive. The chicks really will walk right out in front of a car. I'm guessing they would walk right into the jaws of a fox too.

Now to keep Shadow from chasing her new "friends"....

Seed Starting Update - It's Spring

It's now officially spring...my seeds are up!

Seed starting begins here in February. Trays are washed. Seeds purchased. Sometimes I feel like an Army general coordinating the troops. What goes in when? Timer on - check. Lights all working - check. Plants high enough so Pierre can't get them - double check.

A quick peek under the grow domes of the flats under the lights in the basement revealed wonderful tiny plants:

• Tomatoes
• Dill
• Snapdragons
• English primrose
• Missouri primrose

and now I wait...for the Echinacea and Spanish lavender, the peppers and the basil. And I'm eying the rest of the flower seeds. Some must go into the seed starting trays this weekend. I've got call Parks too. I placed an order over the internet in February and haven't heard from them yet. I know they can't ship my sweet potato plants until it's time to plant them here, but I also ordered a lot of flower seed packets for the butterfly garden, and those should be started in about two weeks or so. I supposed I can start them late. I just don't want to miss one single warm day when they can be growing outside!

The Dollar Store had miracle bargains on gladiolus bulbs, so in addition to the package of 30 I snagged at Wal Mart, I got a few packages of six for just $1. I'll grow them for cut flowers. I haven't had cut flowers in the house in two years thanks to Pierre. When he was a kitten, I couldn't stop him from exploring any countertop, cabinet or table where I'd place a vase of flowers. He wouldn't sniff the flowers. No, not Pierre. He would shred them, snag them, whack the vase until it tipped over. Thankfully I never lost a vase, but I mopped up so much water from tipped flower vases that I stopped putting them out. Now that he's "mature" (ha) I'll dare it again. So far - knock wood - he hasn't found the vase of tulips I bought on Sunday and put on the kitchen table to brighten the mood.

This weekend, temps are supposed to be nice and warm, in the high fifties. I can't decide yet whether I'll fix the fence on the vegetable garden or do some cleanup in the flower beds. I think the flowers bed may be a good start. Any jump I can get on the weeds, such as clearing some areas that got overgrown last year, is a good thing!


I'm doing the happy dance around the office. Spring arrived in the form of tiny seedlings!

For the Love of Compost

I'm not ashamed to say I love my compost pile. I love the mystery and magic of nature that transforms my household garbage into black gold, that rich, crumbly soil that looks like chocolate cake. I love the industrious earthworms that wriggle in and out of the pile. I love feeling like I'm taking care of Mother Earth every time I throw out some eggshells, coffee grounds, and lettuce that's seen better days.

My dad's compost pile in Floral Park, the suburban/urban town I grew up in just outside of New York City, was a thing of beauty. Constructed of bricks and sandwiched between the picket fence separating our property from the M's (where Miss Nita lived) and the greenhouse he'd erected against the garage, he maintained that pile with focused concentration, babying it with amendments, liming it occasionally, turning it...that compost was so wonderful, when we sold the house after my dad died, my sister took away as much as she could in garbage cans the evening before the sale was to go through!


In Huntington, we built the first compost pile for John's family. His mother thought it was dirty and foolish. John liked the idea. We copied my dad's use of discarded bricks but unfortunately built it around an old locust tree. We had one happy locust tree and it always took a while to get enough compost for the garden. But I had wonderful fat, wriggly earthworms there.

Here in Virginia, we started the compost pile even before we dug the first hole in the garden. A friend tells me that's the true sign of an organic gardener - she builds a compost pile before she puts one single plant into the ground. My new pile is in the woods, just beyond the flower garden. We used some of the cement blocks leftover from construction and created a simple outline.

I tried to turn the pile last fall, but a swarm of yellow jackets was on it and they chased me away. I see now the lovely black gold soil under the top layer and I'm counting the days before I can add it to the vegetable garden.

Last night when I walked Shadow, we started a creature investigating the pile. I didn't catch a good look at him but from the size and motion and the sound of branches snapping I think it was a raccoon. In Huntington, John surprised an opossum one evening who was dining on a banana peel in our compost heap; last night's scavenger found the pineapple core I'd tossed into the pile, and the only remnants this morning were a few scattered fragments of pineapple on the path leading to the pile.

I love composting. I feel so connected to the earth, to my farm, to my garden and to my food.

Do you compost too?

Today's photo credits...top picture is from Morguefile; bottom photo is my flower garden next to the driveway this past fall. The compost pile is just behind the pine trees.