Tomorrow is the First International Yarn Bombing Day.
To commemorate this momentous occasion, I have spread my little bit of cheer -- two street-lamp pole cozies, about a dozen little crocheted flowers hung on neighbors' plants and gates, and an afghan spread lovingly over a nearby bus bench.
FIYB Day is well timed for me. A week ago Tuesday, I went to a favorite thrift shop and DID NOT BUY ANYTHING. Two days later, I woke up with a very strong image in my head. It was a fabric item folded in a sealed plastic bag, and when I mentally turned it over I realized that it was the classic tapestry of dogs playing poker -- in mint condition -- which I had seen at the thrift shop.
I was seized with regret to realize that I have reached a point in my life where there is NOBODY to whom I can present a tapestry of dogs playing poker. Worse yet, I don't even think I can get away with owning it myself.
And just when I was so seriously and tragically lamenting the possible loss of my capacity for silliness, I was saved by FIYB Day. How much better it is to share a basketful of acrylic yarn objects with society as a whole, rather than give one measly DPP tapestry to one person!
Tomorrow is also the first day of International Knit/Crochet in Public Week, an event I observe pretty much year-round, but on Monday, I will observe it airborne between Los Angeles, CA, and Boise, ID.
Annus mirabilis!
Friday, June 10, 2011
mulch per se
Though I've mentioned mulch in 13 out of 96 postings (well, OK, today's venture will make it 14 out of 98!), I've never designated mulch as a topic, nor have I included it, until now, in my list of searchable labels.
I've thought many times about describing the typical components of our mulch, with its range of color variations, or about how it's collected and applied. I've also thought about comparing our 'free' mulch to the packaged stuff that's purchased by neighbors who regularly throw away the kind of thing I like to spread on the narcissus bed.
Impetus to focus on mulch today came at last from a recent UC Davis blog post citing mulch's legal status as part of the 1990 Water Conservation in Landscaping Act (AB325). Further Googling of this ordinance reveals that it was refined into AB1881 (2006) and implemented locally at the end of 2009. Besides mulching, this body of legislation encourages the use of recycled water and discourages planting of invasive species. Right up my alley, eh?
It's nice to know that Steve and I are in full compliance with state and local laws on water conservation (like, no lavishing of potable water on plants between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., no watering for more than 15 minutes at a time, no water running into the street, etc.), but I started out to talk about mulch. Mulch is required by law in large and/or public and/or newly developed spaces because it saves a significant amount of water. We fall outside these categories but mulch anyway.
The bulk of our mulch consists of leaves, twigs, and seed pods from our street trees, the venerable Chinese evergreen elms. The leaves are small, so they break down quickly into a fine leaf mold. Other tree leaves include eugenia and bottlebrush, plus a huge supply of pine needles. The oily bottlebrush leaves stay green and pliable longer than the elm leaves, but the waxy eugenia leaves curl and turn crunchy as they dry to an orange-y brown. The eugenia produces an ornamental cherry, so that our weeds include an occasional seedling of eugenia or elm. All of these trees are evergreens. There's no glut of fall leaves here, and this is good since we need mulch year-round.
Red flowers from the bottlebrush tree and our neighbors' bouganvilleas lend a seasonal topping to our mulch. Being very light, they rise to the surface and keep their color for a long time.
Steve sweeps up this mix of leaves and blossoms from our driveway, sidewalk, and garden paths, and puts it in boxes for me to spread as needed. Recently I bought a large grey plastic trash can especially for this purpose.
Since our rampant nasturtiums have mostly faded, I've been heaping them, with their mature seeds, on bare spots where foliage from bulbs has dried out. A large infusion of sweet pea vines will complete these piles, which I'll stomp down a bit before topping them off with leafy sweepings. In accordance with permaculture practrice, this covering will not be disturbed or removed. Volunteer nasturtiums and sweet peas will start popping through it as soon as the fall rains come. Freesias and hyacinths will burst forth on their secret schedules. Mulch is an investment in future beauty, but not all that bad looking in itself.
Mulch per se.
.
I've thought many times about describing the typical components of our mulch, with its range of color variations, or about how it's collected and applied. I've also thought about comparing our 'free' mulch to the packaged stuff that's purchased by neighbors who regularly throw away the kind of thing I like to spread on the narcissus bed.
Impetus to focus on mulch today came at last from a recent UC Davis blog post citing mulch's legal status as part of the 1990 Water Conservation in Landscaping Act (AB325). Further Googling of this ordinance reveals that it was refined into AB1881 (2006) and implemented locally at the end of 2009. Besides mulching, this body of legislation encourages the use of recycled water and discourages planting of invasive species. Right up my alley, eh?
It's nice to know that Steve and I are in full compliance with state and local laws on water conservation (like, no lavishing of potable water on plants between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., no watering for more than 15 minutes at a time, no water running into the street, etc.), but I started out to talk about mulch. Mulch is required by law in large and/or public and/or newly developed spaces because it saves a significant amount of water. We fall outside these categories but mulch anyway.
The bulk of our mulch consists of leaves, twigs, and seed pods from our street trees, the venerable Chinese evergreen elms. The leaves are small, so they break down quickly into a fine leaf mold. Other tree leaves include eugenia and bottlebrush, plus a huge supply of pine needles. The oily bottlebrush leaves stay green and pliable longer than the elm leaves, but the waxy eugenia leaves curl and turn crunchy as they dry to an orange-y brown. The eugenia produces an ornamental cherry, so that our weeds include an occasional seedling of eugenia or elm. All of these trees are evergreens. There's no glut of fall leaves here, and this is good since we need mulch year-round.
Red flowers from the bottlebrush tree and our neighbors' bouganvilleas lend a seasonal topping to our mulch. Being very light, they rise to the surface and keep their color for a long time.
Steve sweeps up this mix of leaves and blossoms from our driveway, sidewalk, and garden paths, and puts it in boxes for me to spread as needed. Recently I bought a large grey plastic trash can especially for this purpose.
Since our rampant nasturtiums have mostly faded, I've been heaping them, with their mature seeds, on bare spots where foliage from bulbs has dried out. A large infusion of sweet pea vines will complete these piles, which I'll stomp down a bit before topping them off with leafy sweepings. In accordance with permaculture practrice, this covering will not be disturbed or removed. Volunteer nasturtiums and sweet peas will start popping through it as soon as the fall rains come. Freesias and hyacinths will burst forth on their secret schedules. Mulch is an investment in future beauty, but not all that bad looking in itself.
Mulch per se.
.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
hundredth post looms
POSToccupations had 70 postings in the year 2010, and has had 26 so far in 2011. What does this mean? The third post after this one will be number one hundred.
I love milestones, and my 100th blog post certainly will be one. How shall I celebrate?
One fellow blogger marked her 200-post mark by giving hand-crocheted hot pads to two readers who sent comments commemorating the event. This made sense, as she uses her blog to link to the Etsy.com page where she sells handicrafts. It was like having a sale or giving a coupon.
I'd like to celebrate by announcing that my collection of 70 posts from 2010 is now available as a hard-copy or on-line book. Alas! This will not happen. My best estimate now is that'll it'll hit the streets in the fall -- just in time for holiday gifting.
Meanwhile, I shall follow Walt Whitman's example and "celebrate myself."
I love milestones, and my 100th blog post certainly will be one. How shall I celebrate?
One fellow blogger marked her 200-post mark by giving hand-crocheted hot pads to two readers who sent comments commemorating the event. This made sense, as she uses her blog to link to the Etsy.com page where she sells handicrafts. It was like having a sale or giving a coupon.
I'd like to celebrate by announcing that my collection of 70 posts from 2010 is now available as a hard-copy or on-line book. Alas! This will not happen. My best estimate now is that'll it'll hit the streets in the fall -- just in time for holiday gifting.
Meanwhile, I shall follow Walt Whitman's example and "celebrate myself."
Monday, May 23, 2011
infiltrator?
Now in my second year of blogging, it's fun to look back at 2010's posts. Google Blogger's admirable infrastructure (labels, archival dating, and internal Google Search), makes it easy to retrieve information and assess progress.
In March, April, and May of last year, I was engaged in mortal combat with snails and slugs, and devoted three posts to my struggles. Snails and slugs, part 3 will link you back to the series if you're interested in some nostalgia.
This spring, thanks largely to a year's liberal use of Sluggo Plus, our garden is virtually free of land mollusks and their fellow travelers -- sow bugs and earwigs. "Virtually," of course, is a word from computer jargon. It often means "not quite," or "notable exceptions abound." I don't think I've seen a single slug in the spring of 2011, and three or four snails is about average for a whole week. Often, this year's snails are found clinging to bricks or dry branches where they have climbed to wait out the dry summer months.
Feeling smug about snails and slugs, then, and with May more than half gone, I was shocked to find the largest snail of the year a couple of days ago. It was blissfully clinging just inside the lip of my new rhubarb pot! Ironically, I discovered it while sprinkling Sluggo Plus around the plant. I'd seen some damage to new leaves and attributed it to sow bugs, so brought out the heavy artillery. The intruder was revealed when I lifted a small leaf to make sure I'd covered the soil's entire surface. It was tempting to leave him/her to die slowly ("twisting in the wind," as it were), but I opted for my usual "stomp in the gutter" routine.
Not having seen any snail trails leading up to the pot, BTW, I strongly suspect that the snail came from Marina Garden Center WITH the rhubarb. The evidence would have been easy to spot, as it would have to cross an expanse of dry paving stones and rough bricks.
You can be sure that next time I buy a plant I'll check the pot for pests.
Meanwhile, I plan a progress report on the offensive against parking-strip weeds.
In March, April, and May of last year, I was engaged in mortal combat with snails and slugs, and devoted three posts to my struggles. Snails and slugs, part 3 will link you back to the series if you're interested in some nostalgia.
This spring, thanks largely to a year's liberal use of Sluggo Plus, our garden is virtually free of land mollusks and their fellow travelers -- sow bugs and earwigs. "Virtually," of course, is a word from computer jargon. It often means "not quite," or "notable exceptions abound." I don't think I've seen a single slug in the spring of 2011, and three or four snails is about average for a whole week. Often, this year's snails are found clinging to bricks or dry branches where they have climbed to wait out the dry summer months.
Feeling smug about snails and slugs, then, and with May more than half gone, I was shocked to find the largest snail of the year a couple of days ago. It was blissfully clinging just inside the lip of my new rhubarb pot! Ironically, I discovered it while sprinkling Sluggo Plus around the plant. I'd seen some damage to new leaves and attributed it to sow bugs, so brought out the heavy artillery. The intruder was revealed when I lifted a small leaf to make sure I'd covered the soil's entire surface. It was tempting to leave him/her to die slowly ("twisting in the wind," as it were), but I opted for my usual "stomp in the gutter" routine.
Not having seen any snail trails leading up to the pot, BTW, I strongly suspect that the snail came from Marina Garden Center WITH the rhubarb. The evidence would have been easy to spot, as it would have to cross an expanse of dry paving stones and rough bricks.
You can be sure that next time I buy a plant I'll check the pot for pests.
Meanwhile, I plan a progress report on the offensive against parking-strip weeds.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
good for the rhubarb
Friends outside SoCal may scoff, but on Monday night and Tuesday morning, we set a record with about 1/4 inch of rain. More fell last night, and today's forecast puts our chance of rain at 40%. It's a veritable monsoon in an area that can go without measurable precipitation from March through October.
Rhubarb is even rarer than rainfall in SoCal, and my recent reading of garden blogs has confirmed the conventional wisdom that the venerable "pie plant" cannot be grown here. I began to fantasize about Lida's homegrown Idaho rhubarb, and my forthcoming annual rhubarb-pie-making ritual (beebopareebop!).
Our first spring in Pennsylvania, I had been determined to plant rhubarb, but was unable to find it in local nurseries. I was told, in fact, that they didn't carry rhubarb because everyone HAD it already. When Gloria invited me to go with her to a large nursery out in the country, I jumped at the chance to buy rhubarb. We had a lovely outing, but rhubarb was not for sale. Finally I convinced a rather arrogant nurseryman that I didn't HAVE rhubarb already. He dug some up for me, wrapped it in newspaper, and put it in the trunk of Gloria's car, but he would not accept any money for it.
Then on this year's Mothers Day outing to Marina Garden Center, Steve and I saw two rather pathetic one-gallon pots of cherry rhubarb. We asked a saleswoman whether it would really grow in our area, and she rather huffily replied that everything they carried would do very well here. "What about that clematis I bought last year?" I wanted to ask, but that's another story.
Needless to say, we bought the healthier-looking of the two rhubarbs. Consulting my Western Garden Book of Edibles (a Sunset publication, of course), I see that cherry rhubarb can be grown in a container. Our three-gallon crock is designated to be its home. Steve has already drilled a hole in the bottom with his trusty ceramic drill bit. I should be able to plant it today.
I figure we can move the rhubarb around until we find a place where it does well, even if that place turns out to be in Idaho.
Meanwhile, the rain IS "good for the rhubarb," as the old saying goes. It enjoys being on display on our new garden bench, and will probably stay there to bask in the morning sun.
Rhubarb is even rarer than rainfall in SoCal, and my recent reading of garden blogs has confirmed the conventional wisdom that the venerable "pie plant" cannot be grown here. I began to fantasize about Lida's homegrown Idaho rhubarb, and my forthcoming annual rhubarb-pie-making ritual (beebopareebop!).
Our first spring in Pennsylvania, I had been determined to plant rhubarb, but was unable to find it in local nurseries. I was told, in fact, that they didn't carry rhubarb because everyone HAD it already. When Gloria invited me to go with her to a large nursery out in the country, I jumped at the chance to buy rhubarb. We had a lovely outing, but rhubarb was not for sale. Finally I convinced a rather arrogant nurseryman that I didn't HAVE rhubarb already. He dug some up for me, wrapped it in newspaper, and put it in the trunk of Gloria's car, but he would not accept any money for it.
Then on this year's Mothers Day outing to Marina Garden Center, Steve and I saw two rather pathetic one-gallon pots of cherry rhubarb. We asked a saleswoman whether it would really grow in our area, and she rather huffily replied that everything they carried would do very well here. "What about that clematis I bought last year?" I wanted to ask, but that's another story.
Needless to say, we bought the healthier-looking of the two rhubarbs. Consulting my Western Garden Book of Edibles (a Sunset publication, of course), I see that cherry rhubarb can be grown in a container. Our three-gallon crock is designated to be its home. Steve has already drilled a hole in the bottom with his trusty ceramic drill bit. I should be able to plant it today.
I figure we can move the rhubarb around until we find a place where it does well, even if that place turns out to be in Idaho.
Meanwhile, the rain IS "good for the rhubarb," as the old saying goes. It enjoys being on display on our new garden bench, and will probably stay there to bask in the morning sun.
Monday, May 9, 2011
read talk walk [sing] write smile
One of my daily routines is to go to Google Reader and see what has been delivered to me through the magic of RSS feeds. Today I was delighted to find 5 Things To Do Daily, by Nina Sankovitch, posted at Care 2 Make a Difference.
Frankly, I almost skipped Sankovitch's wonderful essay. In recent weeks I've been 'attending' a couple of on-line workshops on how to get organized, and have methodically honed my list of the things I need to do daily. There are EIGHT of them, including 'Check Google Reader.' What if I found that I had to add five more? Nothing new will fit on the one-page checklist I've set up on a clipboard, with 31 numbers to tick off after each item.
It was a relief to find that the 'five things' were pretty much habitual for me, and that they were all expressed in words of one syllable. Oddly, "sing" was omitted from the list of five things, though Sankovitch clearly states that one should sing while walking, and so I added "sing" to the five when I used them to title my own post today.
I cannot count the ways in which "read talk walk [sing] write smile" resonates with me at this very moment, but I will outline a few that come to mind in addition to the aforementioned 'to-do list' coincidence.
1. Reading as therapy has worked for me, and it's the subject of a poem (titled Palliative) I wrote about a friend who was dying of lung cancer. Here's an excerpt:
With six months to live,
and having renounced an aggressive program of care,
she sets out read or re-read
all the novels of Dominick Dunne.
2. Talking with friends and family (strangers, too!) is an important activity for me, and books come up in many of my conversations. My birthday and Mothers Day provided the occasion of numerous phone calls, and yesterday Ruth recommended Donna Leon's mysteries, set in Venice (Italy, not California!). These will make a welcome respite from the heavy Doctorow (City of God) and Atwood (Before the Flood) now at the top of my Kindle menu.
Frankly, I almost skipped Sankovitch's wonderful essay. In recent weeks I've been 'attending' a couple of on-line workshops on how to get organized, and have methodically honed my list of the things I need to do daily. There are EIGHT of them, including 'Check Google Reader.' What if I found that I had to add five more? Nothing new will fit on the one-page checklist I've set up on a clipboard, with 31 numbers to tick off after each item.
It was a relief to find that the 'five things' were pretty much habitual for me, and that they were all expressed in words of one syllable. Oddly, "sing" was omitted from the list of five things, though Sankovitch clearly states that one should sing while walking, and so I added "sing" to the five when I used them to title my own post today.
I cannot count the ways in which "read talk walk [sing] write smile" resonates with me at this very moment, but I will outline a few that come to mind in addition to the aforementioned 'to-do list' coincidence.
1. Reading as therapy has worked for me, and it's the subject of a poem (titled Palliative) I wrote about a friend who was dying of lung cancer. Here's an excerpt:
With six months to live,
and having renounced an aggressive program of care,
she sets out read or re-read
all the novels of Dominick Dunne.
2. Talking with friends and family (strangers, too!) is an important activity for me, and books come up in many of my conversations. My birthday and Mothers Day provided the occasion of numerous phone calls, and yesterday Ruth recommended Donna Leon's mysteries, set in Venice (Italy, not California!). These will make a welcome respite from the heavy Doctorow (City of God) and Atwood (Before the Flood) now at the top of my Kindle menu.
3. Walking while singing was part of the all-day choral rehearsal I attended on Saturday, and walking while watering with reclaimed wash water has become an important part of my gardening routine. More to come on that one.
4. Writing? Duh!
5. Smiling is not something I do intentionally, though I laugh a lot.
As part of explaining her five things to do, Sankovitch describes instances of their application in her own life. Something she had written about a walk in the park with her son (then under a year old, now 18 and getting ready for college) reminded me of a time when my then 4-year-old younger son wanted me to take him to the park. He said, "You can sit on the giant turtle and read." So we went to the park, and I read, though not on the giant turtle, and his negotiating skills have continued to be a big factor in his success as an entrepreneur.
Finally, the sheer phenomenon of being reminded reminded me of something Ludwig Wittgenstein said about aesthetics. Not something whereof I'm qualified to speak at this time, but Wittgenstein has been on my mind because he's a minor character in Doctorow's City of God.
Now I must re-read Wittgenstein along with the Donna Leon mysteries. The idea makes me smile.
4. Writing? Duh!
5. Smiling is not something I do intentionally, though I laugh a lot.
As part of explaining her five things to do, Sankovitch describes instances of their application in her own life. Something she had written about a walk in the park with her son (then under a year old, now 18 and getting ready for college) reminded me of a time when my then 4-year-old younger son wanted me to take him to the park. He said, "You can sit on the giant turtle and read." So we went to the park, and I read, though not on the giant turtle, and his negotiating skills have continued to be a big factor in his success as an entrepreneur.
Finally, the sheer phenomenon of being reminded reminded me of something Ludwig Wittgenstein said about aesthetics. Not something whereof I'm qualified to speak at this time, but Wittgenstein has been on my mind because he's a minor character in Doctorow's City of God.
Now I must re-read Wittgenstein along with the Donna Leon mysteries. The idea makes me smile.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
three score and ten
Today I am turning seventy! It's a milestone.
Celebration will not be elaborate, as I have an all-day rehearsal with my chorale. Singing is always a celebratory act for me, even if it involves hours of exacting repetition..
Steve and I went out for a lavish dinner last Sunday night, and designated that as my 'birthday dinner.' It was early, so as not to conflict with Mothers Day tomorrow. Somehow we feel compelled to space the celebrations in a seemly manner.
For many years now, I have organized birthday parties for myself in the years when May 7 falls on a Thursday or a Sunday. Thanks to the phenomenon of Leap Year, this policy creates a quasi-random schedule that I like very much. Birthday parties are (actually should be) narcissistic affairs, and I don't really need that every year.
Generally my Thursday parties are ladies' luncheons, and the Sunday ones are raucous picnics. All have artistic elements: poetry reading, music, videos, etc. Once I put modelling clay in the luncheon centerpieces, and it was great fun to see a bunch of middle-aged women happily sculpting flowers, implements, and life-like figures both human and animal..
My most recent Sunday party (in the year 2000) was an 'old hippie' picnic at a large city park. Guests were encouraged to dress up (most did!). Extra flowers and beads were available to embellish everyone's outfits. Steve made his signature shish kebabs, and fortunately the cake was NOT "left out in the rain" as in MacArthur Park.
I resist the temptation to check the calendar and figure out when my next party will be. I look forward to the next one(s), and look back fondly on the last one(s) without much specificity..
Upon turning seventy, Steve's mother, Alice, alluded to the Biblical concept that "three score and ten" was the normal human life span (Psalm 90, verse 10). She lived to age 85, and the intervening years were definitely not all "labour and sorrow," as the King James Version expresses it. Nevertheless she would allude to her mortality with remarks such as "Well, I guess this is the last time we'll have blueberry pie!" She also wrote her own obituary, with a charming allusion to The Deacon's Wonderful One-Hoss Shay by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894).
Today I am thinking not so much about my own mortality as about ways to stay young. Sadly my own parents, aged 95 and 96, have lost interest in just about everything except their own aches and pains. They are role models only in a negative sense. I have vowed not to emulate them.
Keeping up with friends and family, learning new things, and finding more ways to celebrate are on my agenda for coming years. These are the stuff of postoccupations for sure.
Celebration will not be elaborate, as I have an all-day rehearsal with my chorale. Singing is always a celebratory act for me, even if it involves hours of exacting repetition..
Steve and I went out for a lavish dinner last Sunday night, and designated that as my 'birthday dinner.' It was early, so as not to conflict with Mothers Day tomorrow. Somehow we feel compelled to space the celebrations in a seemly manner.
For many years now, I have organized birthday parties for myself in the years when May 7 falls on a Thursday or a Sunday. Thanks to the phenomenon of Leap Year, this policy creates a quasi-random schedule that I like very much. Birthday parties are (actually should be) narcissistic affairs, and I don't really need that every year.
Generally my Thursday parties are ladies' luncheons, and the Sunday ones are raucous picnics. All have artistic elements: poetry reading, music, videos, etc. Once I put modelling clay in the luncheon centerpieces, and it was great fun to see a bunch of middle-aged women happily sculpting flowers, implements, and life-like figures both human and animal..
My most recent Sunday party (in the year 2000) was an 'old hippie' picnic at a large city park. Guests were encouraged to dress up (most did!). Extra flowers and beads were available to embellish everyone's outfits. Steve made his signature shish kebabs, and fortunately the cake was NOT "left out in the rain" as in MacArthur Park.
I resist the temptation to check the calendar and figure out when my next party will be. I look forward to the next one(s), and look back fondly on the last one(s) without much specificity..
Upon turning seventy, Steve's mother, Alice, alluded to the Biblical concept that "three score and ten" was the normal human life span (Psalm 90, verse 10). She lived to age 85, and the intervening years were definitely not all "labour and sorrow," as the King James Version expresses it. Nevertheless she would allude to her mortality with remarks such as "Well, I guess this is the last time we'll have blueberry pie!" She also wrote her own obituary, with a charming allusion to The Deacon's Wonderful One-Hoss Shay by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894).
Today I am thinking not so much about my own mortality as about ways to stay young. Sadly my own parents, aged 95 and 96, have lost interest in just about everything except their own aches and pains. They are role models only in a negative sense. I have vowed not to emulate them.
Keeping up with friends and family, learning new things, and finding more ways to celebrate are on my agenda for coming years. These are the stuff of postoccupations for sure.
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