This should not be.
Amidst the musky decay which naturally comes at the end of creation’s life cycle, this welcome aberration, giving the house a hint of spring-time-yet-to-come fragrance and a cheery countenance during the dark days of autumn.
*common lilac
Post Forward:
I’ve come to believe that the greatest joy in gardening is the first blush of new growth. Even now, as spring firmly asserts her presence among us, the intense pleasure of seeing that which was dormant bloom again is beyond words.
That pleasure was intensified during our time in Ireland when the bleak winter days would be intermittently punctuated by the promise of spring to come. The first harbingers of that promise were certainly the snowdrops found in abundance in the Dublin mountains. I’ve added a second photo of these lovely beauties…
Hope Springs Eternal (originally published 15 January 2008)
Or in this case, the ‘eternal hope of spring’…
It certainly won’t surprise you to hear me say that I truly love living in Ireland.
Yes, it is very green most of the year.
Yes, it is a mystically ancient land.
Yes, it is seaside and mountain and valley and wood.
It perhaps might surprise you to hear me say that there are drawbacks to living in Ireland.
Yes, it is perpetually damp, driving the chill to the deepest marrow of the bone.
Yes, it is dark in the winter for more hours than I care to count.
Yes, it is windy with a substantial portion of drizzle thrown in for good measure.
But, it all balances out when in mid-January this sight meets my winter-worn eyes…
I don’t know who to blame…but somebody’s gonna get it!
It’s understandable that knitting and weaving time are going to be cut dramatically short, what with a new job and the gardening season nearly upon us.
Seeds are patiently waiting to be plopped into the gently warmed earth.
The tiller is newly purchased, still shiny and anticipating its first bite of dirt.
But wait…
Something’s not right.
I’m finding a strange pattern going on here.
Days at work are sunny and warm.
Days at home are cold and rainy.
Before it was 70 degrees.
Now it’s more like 40.
Others are enjoying the sight of new sprouts in their veg patch.
Mine still wears a forlorn untidy face with only a dog toy to break the monotony.
Lettuces should have been planted by now.
And yet they still sit enveloped in packaging.
What’s going on here?
Is it just me or are there terrestrial powers conspiring to keep me from the garden?
Big sigh.
But wee surprises such as these mini daffs bring a bit of hope…
…and what it is.
It’s not a picture from Washington, DC.
It is, though, a photo from our northern Virginia back garden.
It’s not one of the Japanese cherry trees celebrated this week the District.
It is, however, our very own ornamental cherry tree, which we’re taking pleasure in this spring.
Unless I kill ‘em first, that is.
The ball began to roll when Marble-Of-The-Greenwood gave me fresh herb plants and cool retro vintage spice jars for my birthday. It’s a continuation of the freshly cut herb kick I’m on at present. And now, with colder temperatures, I’ve collected what I can, dried the bountiful harvest and brought the rest inside for potted fresh herbs through the winter months.
There’s just one problem.
I am an unreformed indoor plant serial killer. That may be due to the sad-but-true fact it doesn’t rain inside the house and I have to manually water the poor dears. And having a shockingly short memory results in dried shriveled sticks in pots.
But this year’s gonna be different. (I keep telling myself…)
To show how dedicated I am, I’m potting these darlings in antique canisters and using my best lightweight drainage secret compound (better known as Styrofoam). I’ve created a permanent home in our sunroom to ensure they’ll be happy and healthy.
Now realistically, if we want to benefit from this toil, I’ll probably have to pay one of the Kiddies to keep ‘em watered…
What might look like mounds of chopped up sticks to you is, in fact, composted gold to me.
I think the quantity of warning signage put me off in the beginning, but eventually the words ‘FREE MULCH’ won out.
It Will Tie In Eventually Digression Ahead:
I believe I have finally come out of my transitional stupor. Months of directionless activity are now giving way to purpose. As the mental fog clears, I am beginning to piece together where my energies should be directed…I think. But, perhaps that’s better left for another, more reflective, post.
Suffice to say, today’s bright and crisp autumn day was perfect for driving down the beautiful George Washington Memorial Parkway to avail of free mulch offered to those willing to sacrifice the cleanliness of their car interior. Two trips and seventeen nearly bursting garbage bags later, the flowers are bedded for another winter.
…at last.
So, we didn’t have a veg patch.
The grapes were ravaged by fungus.
The berries under-produced in the shade.
But the few spontaneously-purchased herbs tossed haphazardly into a bed actually yielded a harvest.
Now, with the larder stocked and the barns filled to capacity, I’m ready for winter.
(Ahem, pinch me, I was having a brief Ma Ingalls moment…)
But a very cheery sight will greet us this winter, a wonderful reminder of summer’s bounty.
I realise it may not have happened like that but still, it gives one pause to think.
Living in the US exposes our family to more US historical references.
Understandably, residing in one of the original colonies acquaints us with early American historical events.
So we hadn’t been here long before Husband-Will purchased HBO’s series on John Adams, based upon David McCullough’s book.
If the depiction is accurate, it reveals just how fragile and vulnerable our country’s fledgling government was.
But that isn’t the only revelation to ponder.
If true, this production brings to light just how valuable an asset Abigail Adams was to her husband’s administration—an original colonial feminist, as it were. Without her, he’d have been doomed to pompous failure. More than an administrative strength, though, she single-handedly seemed to hold the family together during her husband’s lengthy absences.
And that isn’t the only revelation to ponder.
You see, John Adams was a farmer.
A farmer from Massachusetts.
A farmer from the north who wouldn’t have held slaves.
A farmer who traveled extensively across America and Europe during the formation of the country.
Now, with the farmer being gone, who was going to oversee those crops?
Certainly it was stout-hearted-colonial-New England-wife, Abigail.
No motorised tillers.
No convenient pesticides.
No suitably modern tools.
Just fortitude draped in a lot of 18th century skirt.
Amazing.
Such were the revelations to ponder as I bypassed rentable motorised tillers and laid hand to hoe to till our own soil. Trying to tap into my own teeny reserves of stout-hearted colonial-esque fortitude. Giving the now de-grassed earth an initial rugged turn preparing it for spring cultivation. Certainly couldn’t do it in yards of skirted material.
With Daughter-Kate’s help on the shovel, we even managed to lay a simple brick path, reminiscent of colonial days…a small token of appreciation to Mrs. Adams.
‘Well,’ said I, to no one in particular, ‘its not going to get done just by sitting.’
‘And it’s not,’ I heard myself agree, ‘going to get any cooler, by wishin’ it so.’
Convinced this was no worse than going to the gym…oh wait, I hate going to the gym…I hauled myself outside into the relentless sunshine and its constant companion, the oppressively high humidity.
Impersonating a weaver on the odd occasion, I can forgive you for thinking this is an elaborate, oversized warp. But no, with the advent of home ownership comes the opportunity for creating a veg patch. Yes, container gardening was an option during those house-rental years, but I’m rubbish at it. Pots need watering. I forget to water pots. It’s a sad case of neglect for houseplants too. Good thing the kids keep the dog watered or the SPCA’d be knocking at my door. And we don’t want that, do we?
Since our ‘house-move-and-ensuing-chaos’ occurred during the vital ‘get-stuff-into-the-ground’ phase, we have to wait until next year for the actual ‘veg’ part of the veg patch. But this year it’s all about getting the soil ready. Long ago, a previous owner had a lovely vegetable garden—but time and neglect have taken over, so it’s back to the beginning…killing the grass.
Now, what was I thinking?
Is this me tapping into my Inner-Ma-Ingalls?
Is this me being green?
Is this crazy?
What possessed me to do this without any power equipment?
Ack!
Thankfully recent rains softened the soil.
‘How wise to wait!’ you might say.
‘Dumb luck,’ I reply.
After using the hand-edger to cut the templates, it’s a simple rock-weighted-rubbish-bag method of killing off the grass. Might as well use the Virginia heat and sunshine to my advantage, eh? Sure, there are easier ways. Of course there are quicker ways. But I’m feelin’ pretty good about the synergy of getting an all-body workout and doing this without chemicals or petrol powered machinery.
So, two more squares to cut and cover, then it’s the waiting game for me.
Autumn will bring the next backbreaker synergistic opportunity…hand tilling.
Trifecta—‘Noun: a run of three wins or grand events, Origin:1970s from tri+perfecta’ —Oxford American Dictionary
Grand Event No. 1
Where there is life, there is hope.
It would appear that I haven’t assassinated the grape vine.
Might call for a bit of the bubbly…from the shop, not homemade…yet.
Need to begin fumigation with fungicide to prevent the little black rot bugger from returning.
Grand Event No. 2
Here is our work-in-progress.
The cottage, circa 1945.
Much still to be done to spruce it up but, as I remind myself, we’ve been here for approximately one month.
For friends across the sea, that flowering tree on the left is a crape myrtle.
Think I’d have bought the house for that alone.
Okay, not really, but it presents a very cheery face to passersby.
Grand Event No. 3
Today is Tuesday.
Today is my first visit to the local Farmer’s Market.
Gonna clear out the car boot with great expectations for good finds…
Think I’m beginning to relate to medieval hysteria accompanying a plague.
After our first glimpse of the cottage, it only took a few weeks to wrap things up in Dublin. And such was the sight which greeted us upon our return to America.
Appropriately named ‘black rot,’ its appearance has caused me to take a crash course in learning grape maintenance. Ruthless as a contagious fungus—I, too, have to be ruthless in eradicating it, feeling a little like the village executioner destroying the good along with the bad after an epidemic.
What once looked like this—
Now, looks like this—
So, if I haven’t killed the vine with my zealous pruning and if I can keep on top of any new fungus, we just might have some grapes next year.
…rhymes with Kung Fu.
I’ve had a garden for about two weeks now.
Dashed into the local DIY shop for supplies, including bamboo poles.
Can’t have too many for supporting plants or making tripod trellises.
Doing a major tidy round the place.
And what do I see behind the outbuilding?
Bamboo. Lots of it.
Never considered northern Virginia to be a bamboo growing area, but there ya go, a thriving crop.
Would come in mighty handy if we had a pet panda.
Now I’m the proud owner of a renewable source of free, albeit not too pretty, bamboo poles.
Potential for yarn, to be sure, if only I could spin it straight from the stalk.