Tag Archives: Oklahoma Gardening

The Right Word

02 Monday Apr 2012

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, The Great Outdoors

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The difference between the almost right and the right word is really a large matter — it’s the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.  — Mark Twain

In spite of appearances to the contrary, my standard poodle Max is inspired to action by the right words.

And aren’t we all?

Like today, for instance.  Today my right words were Curly Dock — which I learned was the name of the mystery plant growing in my east garden for the past year — the very one I watered when it wilted in last summer’s triple digit temperatures, the one I was so happy to see survive our mild winter intact, the one I’ve been observing every little bit this spring, waiting to see how it would develop and what it would become.

Today I learn it’s a weed.  The perennial kind, hard to remove, because it has a long, thin tap root that snaps apart when handled.  It lives in the east garden where nice hollyhocks and feathery cypress vine and forever four o’clocks thrive.   No way did this resemble a weed to my eye, since its form was almost fern-like.  It was only a few days ago I became suspicious, when she sprouted an ugly set of flower stalks.  Enough so that I decided to take time to identify her by name this morning.  And dig up what I could.  And to walk away, knowing I will only be able to remove it, once-for-all, with help of chemicals.

“Chemicals are our friend,” my chemical engineer husband tells me all the time.  Though I try not to use pesticides in my gardening, he’s right about chemicals, when it comes to Max.  Finally, after months of searching for the just right cocktail of medicines, Max is growing like a weed.  Last November’s scary scarecrow look — when he reached a low of 36 plus pounds — is gone.  I pray for ever.  Today, thanks to the just right dose of chemicals, he carries close to 50 pounds on his princely form.

To say he carries does not imply an overly active dog however.  That would be his sister dogs Maddie and Cosmo.  No, Max prefers to carry his heavy load why lying around.  Like this morning.   When I was attempting to remove Curly Dock from my garden, this curly dog of mine was far removed from dirt and bugs and weeds – lying high up on the back porch, under the comforting cool shade of the Cherry Laurel.

But speak the right word and this prissy poodle of mine will move like a bolt of lightning. No lazy lightning bug flittering about , mind you — when he hears the word “hungry?”, it’s better to get out of the way fast to avoid being mowed over.  I don’t know why we burden the word, hungry, with a question mark.  But this I know: while it’s good to mow down most weeds, it’s better to be mowed down by at least one.

It’s the difference between Curly Dock and curly dog.

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Right as Rain

20 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Home Restoration, In the Garden, Life at Home, Mesta Park, Soul Care, The Great Outdoors

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It’s been raining like clockwork — as in spring forward brings spring showers brings Spring indeed.  The lawn is greening, perennials are pushing through soil, bulbs are blooming — or swelling and swooning with bud — while shrubs and trees attempt to steal the lime-light wearing their best feathery green fringe.  Not just in name, Spring is truly here.

What difference a year can bring.

After last year’s drought, I can’t imagine ever regarding rainfall as anything other than the miracle it is.  These days, when I hear the first pinging upon roof vents, everything else gives way.  I can think of nothing better to do than peek out windows and doorways to watch drops of all sizes hit hard scape like a dart board. Dot. Dot. Dot.  The single circles of sound dissolve into a symphony of crackling static; random raindrops swirl to spill liquid, coloring outside of their lines to cover every speck of visible surface.  When it reaches ground, it finally smells like rain — that inexplicably sweet, dampened earth mixed around seed and root that transforms a garden into a dwelling of possibilities.

It’s hard not to look outside without thinking about the changes this small urban property has seen in the last twelve months.  Yesterday marked one-year of ownership.  I no longer think about that uprooting from Mesta Park or the reasons that spurred our twenty block migration north. And while it’s true my bad knee needed a one-story home, I now like to think that this 1950s California Ranch needed me too.

By the time we closed on the purchase, this property had been through a bit of a drought too;  its owners had moved away to greener pastures long before selling it.  And though the house was never ugly to my eye, others didn’t share my opinion.  Why even at first glance, my own dear sister wanted to know what I was going TO DO about those front porch shrubs.  Like every other shrub planted without rhyme or repetition, these were starched crisp at attention in military crew-cut formation…and less I forget, my ‘meet and greet’ plantings were a mismatched set of Mutt and Jeff.

Before - Southwest Elevation

After - Southwest Elevation

To say the house didn’t ‘show well’ perhaps explains why it languished on the market for a year before we came along.  To borrow words of one new neighbor — the same who walks by my house everyday, just to track the transformations taking place — it had a bad case of the blahs when she saw it during ‘open house.’

After - Southwest Elevation - Closer Perspective

No one says that anymore.

After - Looking Southwest from Front Porch

The all too-many-to-recount changes were created through good, old-fashioned elbow grease — what I once thought my grandmother kept under her kitchen sink —  during the worst drought I’ve ever experienced.

Before - Southeast Elevation

Some changes were subtle while others were expansive.  Yet all were important.  And if I were to do it all again — heaven help me —  I’m not sure what I’d do different.  At least, that’s MY story.  Which is not to say this place is perfect or ever will be.

After - Southeast Elevation

But I’ll crawl out on one of my green-leafed limbs to say it’s perfect enough — perfect enough to last me the rest of my life.  And though I can’t point a finger at the reasons why, I know that the gifts of renewal I’ve showered upon this place have somehow strengthened me too.

We’ve bonded, this house and me, project by messy project.

Why to say this place feels as right as rain, after a long hard drought means something to me this year that it didn’t last.  It means I’m home, darling, in a way that has nothing to do with labels.

The White Orchid

11 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by in Life at Home

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The orchid arrived without a card. Like the proverbial pair of socks, where two go in the washer and one comes out — the card came up missing when Amy gathered the plant for delivery.

So what I know is that the orchid was given to me by Amy’s mother Barbara — that it came while I was out furniture shopping with my aunt and sister —  and that my husband, who accepted the gift on my behalf, did not think it important to ask for reasons why.

No mystery here.  He never asks.  Nor does he speculate.  This man I married, who in all ways but this lives in the “real’ world rather than a fairy-tale world of make-believe, prefers to think people will tell him all he needs to know about matters of a personal nature — in spite of an entire married life of evidence to the contrary.

Ginny had a baby.
Boy or Girl?
Forgot to ask. 
.
Mike’s getting married.
Where are they registered?
Don’t know.  I’ll ask.
.

Sometimes, as it happens, the generic, ‘just-right-for-all-occasions’ gift becomes a perfect gift to give.  And sometimes, the perfect gift becomes what the recipient would never buy for herself —  a lovely white orchid, eight blooms long — that is not only beautiful, but that has inspired me to expand my gardening knowledge in a way unforeseen.  How much light?  How much water, and so on?  For days now, like a Goldilocks of indoor gardening, I’ve searched for the perfect spot for my new orchid to call home.

The den was good since it was in a highly visible space; too bad the light was weak.  It sat on the kitchen counter for an afternoon, before I worried that the cabinet doors would lop off its blooming head.  The utility room?  Too hidden.   My husband’s office — too full.  The dining room?  Too dark.  Living room?  Too hot.  After days of looking, the ‘just-right’ spot ended on top of a nightstand that offered an abundance of soft light — and as living within mystery so perfectly happens — the nightstand belongs to the person who has no need to ask for reasons why.

I’ve come to appreciate how a lack of curiosity —  that once would have bothered me  to no end — has proved to expand a single gift to become many.  Was it a Christmas gift?  Why yes, I did receive the orchid during the season of Christmas.  Was it a sympathy flower, a way of expressing sorrow at the loss of my mother-in-law — why yes, this too makes perfect sense.  Was Barbara’s gift a way of expressing thanks, for the few tasks my husband and I took on related to the wedding reception?  Well, yes — why not.  All these answers hold merit.  Yet, after days of seeking, I’ve settled on a reason less likely but more generic — one that covers Christmas to sympathy to thanks:  that of friendship – and that I received the gift of a white orchid at all — becomes answer enough.

But what of that other pair of questions tossing around in the laundry, like  — Will Amy ever find the missing card? — And will my husband ever ask why the orchid has come to live on his nightstand? — to these I offer a single answer:  I hope not.