For the Birds

     This afternoon as I was planting begonias out in the backyard, a bunch of crows began making a terrible racket.  Perched on the lowest branches of the fir trees at the back of the property, they were diving furiously at Koda and scolding her angrily. I dropped my trowel and walked over to see what the rucus was all about. There, next to the fence was an injured young crow hopping frantically about on the ground. Koda was watching him with great curiousity. The crows in the branches were doing everything they knew how to do to help the unfortunate bird. I sent Koda away and set about to catch the injured animal. Here on the ground, he'd be easy prey for Posie cat-or any of the other neighboring kitties. Our next-door neighbors have a big old unused pigeon coop right next to the fence-so I decided to put him on top of it. (I knew he probably wouldn't make it anyway, but I wanted to give him a fighting chance.) Well, when I picked that bird up, you should have heard those crows! I feared that I was going to be swarmed and pecked to pieces! Remember that Alfred Hitchcock movie, The Birds? So I scooped him up, raced over to the coop and set him atop it in jig time. His friends didn't come after me; but they hollered and screeched all the same. The loudest one was sitting just above my head on a branch. She was fearless. After I put him on the coop, most of the others settled down, except that one bird. I suspect she was the mama. She continued to fuss and fume all afternoon.
     I have always liked crows, but after this incident, I can say that I admire them too.They stuck by their friend and risked their own lives to help him. They exhibited compassion, empathy, and courage. What a decent species!
     I hope the little fellow survives. He's got a lot of good friends pulling for him!

    

Random Images






The child inside whispers, "Pick it and blow..."
but the gardener in me shouts, "No, No, No!"




Blue-bell forest. A faerie's perspective...




Little white columbine, where ever did you come from?
I don't remember planting you.
But thanks for showing up, just the same.



Planting Blue Lake Beans on Ray's Little Acre

     It's been so rainy in these parts-it's been hard to get the garden in. When I was a child, we would have certainly had the garden planted two weeks before now.  Since the growing season here in Washington only runs from about May until mid-to-end of September (if we get an Indian summer), I've been fretting about delaying my planting until now. Because of this I decided to 'cheat' and buy some starts. I ran down to Ace Hardware and bought some Blue Lake Pole beans and some Early Girl corn. Dad would be shaking his head right about now. And though he passed on some 40 years ago, I find myself deep in discussion with him about the garden.
     "Starts! Early Girl corn! You know we always plant from seed. We used to buy seed- you and me,  for 25 cents a pack. You paid $1.49 for 8 starts. And you should have bought Golden Jubilee corn."
     "I know Dad, but we're 2 weeks behind already; and it's 2011, not 1965. Things cost alot more these days. And my garden is so tiny compared to ours. I only needed a few starts. But look Dad, I got the Blue Lake beans...and they're pole beans, not bush; just like we always planted."
     I sense his pleasure with this choice and run home to plant the beans.
     I learned to plant a garden from my Dad.  We had an older cottage on an acre of ground that Mom used to call 'Ray's Little Acre.' Shortly after we moved there he was diagnosed with emphysema. Probably from all of the sawdust he breathed in as a millwright-that and those Winston cigarettes. He was pretty short of breath most of the time, but this never stopped him from planting an expansive garden out back behind the house.  I helped. That was our job; Dad's and mine.
     First, old man Geiger from down the road would drive over with his Farmall tractor. It didn't take many passes until the soil was rich, espresso-brown furrows. Then we'd rake it for hours, tossing all the rocks into the field beyond. No matter how deep you dug, there were always more rocks. Why is that, I wonder?
     After this, we'd cover it with cow manure. Not too fresh mind you, or the plants would burn. Cow manure wasn't hard to come by in our parts. If you're a city dweller, you might think that it would stink. But it didn't...really! It had a pleasant sort of musky odor, not unlike the smell of a horse-and nothing smells better than a horse!
    Then came the fun. Planting. I'd put a ball of twine around a stick. Then with Dad at one end and me at the other, we'd lay nice straight rows to plant by. Using the twine as a guide, he'd make furrows in the soil with the corner of his hoe-blade. If we were planting things like radishes or carrots, we made shallower furrows using the handle of the hoe. And did I mention that hoe! What a beauty! I've never seen one since. The handle was painted with green, red, orange, and yellow stripes. Each stripe was a certain length, so that you could easily measure the distance between your hills of beans or corn or spuds. Oh how I'd love to have that old hoe today!
     My rows of beans today weren't nearly as straight as Dads. I didn't use twine; and I guessed on the distance between. I stop to talk to him about it.
     "These rows are a little wobbly, I know Dad. You always made the nicest rows. Even made me redo mine when they were crooked. Guess it's good you're not here to make me do this over. Just the same, I wish you were. And I wish I had that old hoe of yours...my spacing would be better. I'll never forget watching you trudging down the garden rows with that hoe in your hand; smashing a clod of dirt with the blade... pulling up a bunch of quack-grass... and leaning on it to catch your breath. No, I dunno where I'm gonna get poles for the beans. I remember you used to make them by splitting 2x4's. I don't have any 2x4's Dad, and I wouldn't want Kelly to split them if I did. He might get hurt. Laugh if you want, but admit it, you were pretty handy with an axe, that's for sure. But Kel, well, he's pretty handy with a car. He's no sissy-pants!"
     Again I sense Dad's approval-- that I didn't marry a 'sissy-pants'. That's what he called men who didn't work with their hands. That was also his special name for my older sister Linda. It was OK for her to be a sissy-pants, because she was a girl.
     "I would never marry a sissy-pants, Dad. I think you'd like Kelly. He's funny. My boys? No they aren't sissy-pants either. I taught them to do lots of stuff. You'd like them too. Sam looks alot like you. Tall, dark, very quiet. Like you Dad."
     With my little bit of planting done, I slowly straighten up, using my hoe to steady me. I'm a little bit sore, but thank God, I'm not short of breath like Dad used to be. Nonetheless, I lean on the hoe for a moment to survey my little garden plot.
     "I might get enough beans to can this year, Dad. Yes, I know I need a pressure canner. I'll have to buy a new one. The kids wrecked the old one some years back. They took it down to the creek and tried to mix clay in it. Gummed up the pressure valve. Yep, there were fish in the creek. Squalicum creek. Sam used to catch trout all summer long in that little creek. Didn't I tell you so Dad...he's a lot like you! Yes I'll talk to Mom before I can those beans. Well, I guess I'd better clean up now...Bye Dad. Love You. Hokey Pokie Billie Okie-Tomcat!"
     Dad knows what that means.

Dad and his aunt Ada

Dad and Sarge

    

  

Lilac and Lavender Memories

     Lilacs remind me of Grandma's house. She lived in a pretty cottage-style house near a lake. I loved that house. Grandma was a meticulous housekeeper. Even mom said so; and mom didn't like her mother-in-law very much. She told me that she used to go into Grandma's pantry and run her fingers along the creamy-painted open shelves that housed her glassware--looking for dust. She never found any. Not once!

     In spite of Mom's feud with Grandma, I liked going there. Every room had it's own loveliness and special scent. The turquoise kitchen had a little chrome dinette set that sat under a window lined with African Violets of every hue. The kitchen smelled of roasted beef and cinnamon-apple pies and just baked sugar cookies.

      Her bathroom was sparkly white with a clawfoot tub and pedestal sink. Sometimes I'd go in there even when I didn't need to use the bathroom; just to wash my hands with her fancy Yardley soaps and sniff Grandpa Charlie's Old Spice after shave. And occasionally, if I felt really brave, I'd give her pretty cologne atomizers a little squeeze-in spite of mother's stern warnings to keep out of Grandma's perfume. She kept a little tin of lilac talcum powder on the windowsill. I always marvelled at how it smelled just like the real flowers--and so did Grandma.

     Back in those days, Grandmas always wore dresses. Her's were silky florals, always in dreamy lavenders, pinks and blues. I thought that she must wear those colors to match her clear blue eyes. 

     I really hope that my own grandchildren will have such pleasant memories of their visits to my house. No, I'll never be half the housekeeper or cook that my grandma was; but I do try to make my place tidy and neat. And I purposely leave a few pretty things around for them to secretly inspect. I listen to their parents scold them and tell them not to touch Grandma's pretty things...and I smile to myself. Of course I want them to touch my pretty things, to smell them and to enjoy them. But I keep this to myself. I'll just let them sneak a whiff of my perfume, or a dab of my lotion.

     And though I'm far too practical to wear those pretty pastel dresses like my grandma did; I do love to wear a nice cotton blouse when they visit- often in shades of blue. To match the blue eyes I inherited from my grandma.