sharing

I was looking through some old files and ran across this photo a gardening friend sent me of a waterfront rock garden she noticed somewhere or other in Michigan.

a model

I can't remember where I copied this photo. If you have a legit objection, I'll remove it, but I'm sharing it to inspire people. Share joy, reinforce life! The photographer's name is in the corner. It is the herb garden at UC-Davis.

a peaceful scene

Simplicity, lighting. The genius of the place, a backyard. It says Peace to me.
Another unknown source.

design

A garden show? Calgon, take me away.

busy busy busy - more about rose hips

Out gathering more rose hips, these from the R. englatine (the one whose foliage smells like fresh green apples)and cleaning and drying them in the dehydrator for tea.
I clean them by cutting off the ends and scooping out the middle- seeds, furzy stuff, and once in a while a leetle white worm. Then pop the hips in the dehydrator.
Good for you.
Did I tell you my German-American friend, Ulrike's story about growing up poor in wartime Germany. The kids would pick rosehips on the way to school to eat, and scrape the furzy stuff in the middle out to use as "itching powder" to tease the other kids... Kids will be kids. I seem to remember reading that during the same war English kids were fed rosehips as well, both sides' children were sorely lacking good sources of Vitamin C, such as citrus fruit, and rose hips being the very best source of C and its accompanying bioflavinoids.
Check the C bottles next time you go past the Vitamin counter at the store, they still add rose hips to better brands.

Autumn Song

Autumn Song by Margurite Kingman

The firelight glows,
The embers sigh,
We dream and
Doze--
The cat and I.
The kitten purrs,
The kettle sings,
The heart remembers
Little things.

The 'little thing' in the photo is a clearwing or hummingbird moth, visiting the flowers of a butterfly bush. Thanks for sending me the photo, Bonnie.

containers

I'll share a secret, I Google images of people's vacations. Hey! I'll never afford traveling to the places I'd like to see... so I live vicariously. But that's better than some bad habits I could have.
This is a balcony in Rome.
If you post it for everyone to see, you might find it on someone's blog, Bubbie.

The Herb Gatherer

By Glenn Ward Dresbach
From Collected Poems, 1914-1948

When fragrant fires of autumn smoulder
By upland pastures for wind to blow
And grain shocks stand, row after row,
He throws a sack across his shoulder
And trudges away in the mellow glow
To gather herbs – though he is older
Than most of the old men I know.

He squints in the sun, and always follows
The spring brook where the calamus hides
And he nibbles it, and away he strides
For thyme and tansy in sunny hollows,
Then on to burdock. His faith abides
in it for bitters, in careful swallows,
When winter had chilled his old insides.

Sage and boneset – his eyes keep sighting
Out of profusion the things he would find.
Pennyroyal, horse mint – these he will bind
In neat little bundles, always righting
Some slight disorder . . . at least in his mind.
He will hang them on rafters, ready for fighting
The ills of age . . . with the years so kind!

His old cheeks flush with the autumn weather.
His old eyes shine when the quail wings sound.
A sack that smells of the air and the ground
With tang and mellowness there together
Over his shoulder! And all around
The breath of autumn! . . . I wonder whether
Gathering helps more than the herbs he found.

so gather your rosebuds, too, girls

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME
by Robert Herrick

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry:
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.

This poem played a role in Dead Poets Society when Robin Williams used it to inspire his students, thus...

"They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster.
They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you, their eyes are full of hope, just like you.

Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable?
Because, you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils.

But if you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you.
Go on, lean in. Listen, you hear it?
Carpe ... hear it?
Carpe ... carpe diem, seize the day boys, make your lives extraordinary. "

gather your roseHIPS while ye may... and make jam

I know, it's rosebuds in the poem, and the common wisdom says gather rosehips after the first frost. (It supposedly kills any harboring insects.) But I like to pick them in the beginning of autumn, but before the frost hits, when they are ripened but still firm, like an apple. If you wait for the weather to turn you'll lose alot of them to drying up, mushiness, those little 'worms' will grow and ruin the fruit, and so on.

So I say, pick them NOW, and make jam...

Here's my Rosehip Jam recipe.

Pick some rosehips. I pick about a colander full. So you know right now, this recipe is not precise, but it works. Some say the big apple-y R. rugosa type are the best. They are big and pretty, and look like little apples... see the photo.
But this year I liked the hips from my R. glauca because it is so prolific and the hips are nice and clean of insects. Because I grow without chemicals, the R. rugosa has some little worms in many of the hips this year. Hey, I never promised you a rose garden. But the photo is pretty, isn't it.

Next, wash the hips, cut them all in half, then go through and clean out the seeds and little odd bits. Soak the cleaned hips in water (enough to cover) in the pot you will cook them in, for several hours, which will soften them.
Then when you are ready to make jam, bring the pot to a boil, and boil for 15 minutes, uncovered.
Strain the boiled water/juice into a large measuring cup. In this case I got 1 1/2 cups. Set the fruit aside, and add an equal measure of sugar (in this case, 1 1/2 cups sugar) to the liquid, and stir to dissolve it.
Boil the sugared water/juice until it thickens, stirring constantly.
Add the fruit and cook, stirring, until it is a nice jammy consistency.
Be careful not to burn it.
Your rosehip jam will be beautiful, it looks a bit like cherry jam.

Pour into clean jars and cap. Label, Store in the fridge.
In this case I got three jelly jars, filled. Here's a picture:

just another diamond day

vashti bunyan

being green

moss/Helligan

moss/Japanese

moss/French

St. John's wort

a season for everything

when all the world was green

summer/vacation/path/poem

If You Get There Before I Do

Air out the linens, unlatch the shutters on the eastern side,
and maybe find that deck of Bicycle cards
lost near the sofa. Or maybe walk around
and look out the back windows first.
I hear the view's magnificent: old silent pines
leading down to the lakeside, layer upon layer
of magnificent light. Should you be hungry,
I'm sorry but there's no Chinese takeout,
only a General Store. You passed it coming in,
but you probably didn't notice its one weary gas pump
along with all those Esso cans from decades ago.
If you're somewhat confused, think Vermont,
that state where people are folded into the mountains
like berries in batter. . . . What I'd like when I get there
is a few hundred years to sit around and concentrate
on one thing at a time. I'd start with radiators
and work my way up to Meister Eckhart,
or why do so few people turn their lives around, so many
take small steps into what they never do,
the first weeks, the first lessons,
until they choose something other,
beginning and beginning their lives,
so never knowing what it's like to risk
last minute failure. . . .I'd save blue for last. Klein blue,
or the blue of Crater Lake on an early June morning.
That would take decades. . . .Don't forget
to sway the fence gate back and forth a few times
just for its creaky sound. When you swing in the tire swing
make sure your socks are off. You've forgotten, I expect,
the feeling of feet brushing the tops of sunflowers:
In Vermont, I once met a ski bum on a summer break
who had followed the snows for seven years and planned
on at least seven more. We're here for the enjoyment of it, he said,
to salaam into joy. . . .I expect you'll find
Bibles scattered everywhere, or Talmuds, or Qur'ans,
as well as little snippets of gospel music, chants,
old Advent calendars with their paper doors still open.
You might pay them some heed. Don't be alarmed
when what's familiar starts fading, as gradually
you lose your bearings,
your body seems to turn opaque and then transparent,
until finally it's invisible--what old age rehearses us for
and vacations in the limbo of the Middle West.
Take it easy, take it slow. When you think I'm on my way,
the long middle passage done,
fill the pantry with cereal, curry, and blue and white boxes of macaroni, place the
checkerboard set, or chess if you insist,
out on the flat-topped stump beneath the porch's shadow,
pour some lemonade into the tallest glass you can find in the cupboard,
then drum your fingers, practice lifting your eyebrows,
until you tell them all--the skeptics, the bigots, blind neighbors,
those damn-with-faint-praise critics on their hobbyhorses--
that I'm allowed,
and if there's a place for me that love has kept protected,
I'll be coming, I'll be coming too.

From The Day Before by Dick Allen, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. Copyright © 2003 by Dick Allen.

Borage diary

2001: My borage always self-sows, so I was watching for it this spring (which BTW was cold and WET) but I thought, when it didn't appear, that it was not coming back. However, it did start to sprout seedlings in mid-July, which was droughty and hot, and is doing nicely once more in a terrible droughty and record-setting hot August.
September 2001: it is doing beautifully.

Disappeared 2002.
Planted 2003.

May 30, 2006: My borage volunteers started blooming yesterday, tasted one last night.
I am an obsessive weeder. I think the years that I lose my borage are the same as the years when I get around to all my weeding early.

I've dedicated two spots to borage - one in the back of the herb garden where it can go nuts - an eastern exposure. And the second in and around the cold frame, near the back door, to pick for topping salads, when I pick lettuce.

Borage is for cheerfulness and courage. Here's something interesting I've read, that i'm going to try: the leaves contain the same chemical as the saltpeter that is added to incense to help it burn. You can burn the dried leaves and they will throw off sparks. Mother Nature's Fireworks? Sounds like fun!