Anne asked me to blog about my garden so here it is!

Outside my old apartment.  St. Francis was over by the mailbox.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For ten years, I rented the same apartment - half of a house in South Pasadena, California.  There was a gardener to take care of the roses and all the plants I didn't pick out or maintain, but surely enjoyed.  I planted things in pots only - never in the ground, because my landlady was 89 years old when I moved in and I figured I might be asked to move out at some point with little notice, and how would I feel if I left my tomatoes behind?  
She lived to nearly 100, and just about the time she died last summer, I bought me a little house. 



And this spring?  I indulged my Midwest-born, farmer stock self, and planted a garden.

I started with a few pots, and one lavender plant in the ground.  Just some stuff outside the kitchen door - a small collection that accumulated when Trader Joe's had pots of 3 herbs together, sold at Thanksgiving - sage, rosemary, and thyme. Stuffing, get it?  Then a friend was trying to get rid of all the mint that was overtaking her yard, so I dug some up and potted it.  The daffodils are precious because they are from Connecticut, brought in a Ziploc on the train to to me in New York and then home to California in my carry-on suitcase in a yogurt container.  After I potted them, I backed over them in my car but only the saucer broke and the dirt only spilled a little.  Those babies are hanging on.  


I dug up a strip of grass that wasn't doing anyone any good, and expanded the planter bed someone else had started in the little corner of space next to the water heater.  That spot gets the best sun.

Not a big space, only about five or six feet by maybe 10? 

I had to dig up some other stuff that had been growing there.  Since I have visions of demolishing the front lawn and planting "drought tolerant" plants, and since plants are expensive, I made a halfhearted effort to salvage some dry-loving plants that I had to evict.  They are not looking good.  I suppose this is how it works - some sacrifice is necessary to move life forward. 

Scragglers.  

(Also, I have an unhealthy addiction to mint. Stay tuned as it jumps the pot and takes over my yard.)

I went to Armstrong and bought plants, based on impulse and a long-nurtured desire to grow pumpkins.  Watermelon seemed like a good idea, too, even in my small plot where it is probably ill-advised.  I am feeling experimental, and if it overtakes the driveway and I have to park on the street all summer, it's worth it to me.

Watermelon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I moved out of my apartment in South Pasadena, my landlady's daughter (who by then had become the landlady) gave me a potted Meyer lemon tree, kind of to say, "I'm sorry we started the renovations before you moved out, and we hope you're not so mad about the plywood over the patio door that you won't refer your friends as potential tenants!"  It's a pretty nice tree, and now it has these cuties on it!

 

They're about as big as Skittles now.

This cucumber was billed as a bush cuke, not a vine that was going to trail all over the ground.  Since I already had watermelon and pumpkins, I figured that was a good idea.  I planted this tiny plant and over it, placed this gargantuan cage.  I put an identical cage over the Napa tomatoes and they obligingly filled it right up.  The cucumber, though, tried to explain to me that it was just a little plant, and then it made these little flowers, which I think will be tiny nibbly cucumbers, if I am lucky.

 The pumpkins were my gamble - I was born in Illinois, where they really have Fall, like we don't have here, and I remember going to a pumpkin patch on a real farm, when I was a Brownie scout.  I remember the crisp air and smells and colors, and like many transplants here in California, I miss Fall.  I look forward to October, even though here it is almost always still disappointingly warm, and not chilly and happy and exciting like I remember.  So I planted pumpkins! 

I know someone in another state whose pumpkins were all eaten by gophers or something, and I don't really know whether mine will make it to an October harvest.  I don't know if they'll know when to ripen, given our weather, and I don't know what critters exist in my yard - so far the snails and I have had a little boxing match going.  I even Googled and found a comprehensive tutorial for growing pumpkins.

I bought a six-pack of pumpkins, and planted them two to a mound, as directed.  They don't have nearly enough space, probably.  But we'll see.

I fed them delicious vitamin granules, and watered them, and lo and behold, they began to grow.  I was surprised it worked, this experiment of mine.  Big leaves, and vines - who knew? 

And then this morning, this guy bloomed!

I'll keep you posted.

Someone I know just got a job offer!

Linda writes:

Someone I know just got a job offer - that's my happy word of the day!  I'm just tickled.  She is so smart, so capable, so deserving, and it is so long overdue.  And with more money than she is being paid now!  I am grinning.

Lost and Found

Linda writes:

Last week at work, I got a “heads up” call letting me know one of our students was lost, possibly hurt or even dead.  Her car and campsite appeared to be abandoned, and so the search began.  Law enforcement sent ground units and planned for a search from a helicopter, as soon as the winds died down.  Everyone went into action, and did their jobs.  I met with people who knew her, and talked with them about how they were doing, and heard about bad things that they had already survived.  We quickly pulled together a meeting and planned what we would do next – fly her parents out, travel to meet them, break the news to her peers and colleagues.  There were topo maps and a blown-up copy of her ID photo.  We held our collective breath all day, waiting to hear and hoping we wouldn’t have to do the next parts of the plan – the parts that started with, “in case we hear the worst.”

Just before the end of the day, before more people got on planes to fly to the desert, the news came that she had been found.  She hadn’t even known she was missing, actually, and must have been surprised, when she returned from hiking, to learn that people were looking for her.  

I’m not sure what in this story says kinship to me, except that we will all drop everything to find someone who is lost.  We will amass resources and time and energy, and will commit adrenaline and money and concern and fear and worry for someone else’s daughter, whom we have never met. 

Somehow in the heart of this crisis is a way that we are all connected.  We think, what if it was my sister, my daughter, my friend?  What if it was me out there, bitten by a snake or fallen off a ledge?  And we are so relieved, so happy that she was found safe.

I’m not very biblical, but I couldn’t help thinking, “'For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' So they began to celebrate.”

4

Last night we had dinner at our neighbors' house. They have a 4 year-old son who, before dinner, was showing us a few of his toys.  He introduced us to some of them. His otter, his dinosaur, and a few others. He said, "I love them," and without missing a beat he added, "I love you guys, too."

It warmed my heart. It was such a kind, innocent gesture. Natural and genuine. Made me think about how, at 4, these feelings can be shared so honestly and selflessly. As we grow older, it becomes harder to say, "I love you," as we have developed layers of insecurities and self-consciousness that prevent us from making ourselves so vulnerable, and sharing of ourselves so openly.  But as a result, we are missing opportunities to experience kinship-- a connection where we feel that we "belong to one another" (I stole that from Father Greg Boyle, who I think stole it from Mother Theresa). I have to thank my 4 year-old neighbor for reminding me of that.

Memorial

Today's example of kinship is one that deserves far more than a blog post written at 11 at night... and it's not something I experienced myself, but is from a story I was told by a friend. Still, I think it is worth including here...

Through my work, I have met some amazing people-- today I spoke with one of them. This woman is one of the most courageous, compassionate people I've ever met.  Her daughter was raped and murdered by two teens nearly 25 years ago and she has been in touch with one of them since a few years after it happened.  She learned about his very troubled childhood and decided she wanted to meet him.  She has been writing back and forth with him for years, and met him in person several times at the prison.  He was released from prison recently and they've spoken on a phone a few times and plan to get together too.  She told me today that he is doing well. He was able to get a job through a person he knows through his church and she said, "I told him that it is a memorial to my daughter to see him out and doing well now."

Talk about kinship in an unexpected place. God bless her.

Flowers

On Tuesdays, I serve as a reading tutor for a very sweet (but with the expected amount of 'tude) young girl who lives in my neighborhood. She is dynamic and smart, but struggles in reading. Usually, we read aloud and I help her pronounce new words or ask her about the story she is reading to make sure she's understanding it all. Tonight, though, we spent the second half of our hour together doing a word search for names of flowers. It was the first activity we've done where it felt like we were doing it together, as a team-- not tutor and student, or 30-something and 10 year-old-- but as partners, on the same level.  Makes me think I should strive for that in other activities we do, somehow. I will ponder ways to do that between now and next Tuesday when I will join her in her learning adventures again.

Names

This morning I walked in to Saxby's, half-awake, for my low fat bran muffin- a frequent morning routine of mine. Today I noticed the man in front of me in line was disabled, possibly homeless. He ordered his coffee, handed the cashier his Saxby's Coffee Cash Card, then said, "thanks, Sam" to the man making his coffee. It was a kind exchange, and so simple, yet striking because when do you ever hear someone behind the counter called by name? It made me wonder their history and how much they know about each other. But really, how much do you need to know about someone to give them the simple courtesy of calling them by name?

It is something my grandfather always does, actually. He makes sure to get his waiter's name when he sits down at a restaurant, and only calls them by name-- none of this "Miss" or "Sir" stuff-- instead, he acknowledges their identity, their humanness, with appreciation.