During 2012 my production of blog posts has dwindled, averaging three per month, rather than the two a week I set as a goal in January. In fact I posted nothing here in July or August (so far), which means that the average has actually been four per month -- exactly half of the two-per-week goal.
Setting a specific goal may have been the actual culprit. This is something I have been doing differently in 2012. Taking an on-line workshop in the setting and achieving of goals has been beneficial in many areas of my life, but I think the workshop's focus on quantification has not helped me everywhere.
My Christian-Scientist friend Jean (gone off to Washington, DC, years ago) comes to mind. She said that naming a problem and "giving it a history" made it more real and harder to solve or cure. Jean was talking about an illness or injury that someone (perhaps myself) had endowed with history and thus exacerbated.*
Yes, Jean, this year I have given my procrastination a history, and it has loomed so large that curing it has become a preoccupation, leading me to read several self-help books. One of these has been The War of Art, by novelist Steven Pressfield. I, who so love to fold of phrases inside out (man of nature, spheres of music, science of advancement) fell in love with the title and waded right in.
Pressfield convincingly describes a mortal conflict between creativity and resistance, his name for the evil force behind procrastination. "Do the work!" he cries, "Turn pro!" In more specific chapters about the writing process, it's "Have a theme!" This sent me into a tizzy.
While I am good at identifying the themes in other people's writing, I have never thought about whether or not I could generate themes myself, and this started me on a long path of introspective lit crit.
At last I think my major theme is "getting things right." Often this means simply learning something new, but it is the kind of learning that frequently requires discarding a preconception. As the immortal Charlie Brown puts it, "Linus will have to go to school twice as long to unlearn all the things that Lucy has told him."
Sometimes unlearning is a long, slow process, but sometimes it is a flash of insight. On Monday evening we came home from a two-week vacation to see numerous buds and one spent blossom on what I always thought was a Euphorbia candelabrum, the cherished anchor plant at the northwest corner of our front garden. It's cereus, I realized at last. Cereus lamprospermus, to be as exact as I need to be right now.
- - - - - -
*Alas, the dark and dangerous side of Jean's philosophy is denial, which kept her from recognizing the dementia that finally made it impossible for her to live independently.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Friday, June 22, 2012
lilacs last
I love lilacs, and I love to prune, so it was natural that pruning the lilac would be a highlight of my mid-June stay at our Idaho 'vacation' home. Legend has it that the root stock of this lilac came from Bessie and Otto's farm in 1943, when Steve's parents, Alice and Homer, moved the half mile to what was then called "the Tom Johnson place." Steve, the youngest of three sons, was two at the time. I suspect that Bessie brought her start of the lilac from Mary and George's farm, and so I would be the fourth generation of women to marry into the family and tend a plant that probably came west with homesteaders in the 1880s. Who else do you know who could say: "Please say hello to my lilac-in-law!"
This was not the first time I had pruned the venerable shrub, but I hadn't had a chance to do it for at least four years. Though June may not be the best time to prune lilacs, I was seized by a feeling of "now or never" and spurred on by the purchase of a lovely new pruning saw. There was plenty of dead wood to remove, along with spent blossoms in various stages of desiccation, and so I spent parts of four or five days cutting. During most of this time I was closely monitored by chickens (four hens and a rooster) who like to spend their afternoons in dense lilac shade. They watched suspiciously at first, but their clucks became tolerant.if not actually friendly when they saw that I was scaring up masses of juicy earwigs for them to eat.
My modus operandi in pruning is to start at the bottom, identifying branches that cross each other in their quest for sunlight. This opens up the center of the plant and lessens the number of cuts that need to be made when I finally reach the top. Since this lilac is over eight feet tall, I bend each branch and hold it at eye level while I thin the topmost foliage to stimulate new growth and future blossoms.
Unfortunately, I have never been in Idaho when our lilac was in bloom. Based on Walt Whitman's When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd, I have assumed that this would be in April. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated on April 15, 1865, and the poem is a heartfelt elegy on him and, by extension, on the Civil War's myriad dead. I visited Idaho twice in April of this year, however, and did not see a single blossom.
Though literary authority often takes precedence in my view of the real world, I also rely heavily on The Sunset Western Garden Book, which pronounces that lilacs bloom in May. Never having experienced Idaho much between New Years and Memorial Day, I at last reconciled my literary and horticultural sources by reference to Wikipedia, where I learned that Lincoln's body lay in state until April 21, 1865, and his funeral train took three weeks to get to his final resting place in Illinois.
Just as I cannot think of lilacs without conjuring up Walt Whitman, I cannot think of pruning without recalling the major surgery I performed on a row of lilacs that grew alongside our house in Evanston, Illinois. The house was built around 1902, and we had bought it in 1972 from an elderly couple (daughter and son-in-law of the builder) who had not done much gardening in recent years.
As a graduate student in English Lit at the time, I was delighted to find real lilacs in what I immediately defined as our door-yard! They shaded the back door, and ran all the way to the front door -- a distance of about 30 feet along an unpaved alley. The shrubs were at least eight feet tall and did not bloom significantly during our first spring there (1972). Disappointed to be missing the Whitmanesque moment, I surmised that they needed pruning, but did not do the work in time to see the fruits of my labors before we moved away in 1975..
You may think I am leading up to a complaint about being deprived of lilac blossoms. Au contraire! Sometime in the late 80s, we took Alice and Homer on a springtime outing to see poppies and lupines in the Lancaster (CA) area. We returned home through Bouquet Canyon, where we visited Margaretten Park, then home to 50,000 lilac bushes on 80 acres of private land bordered by graceful tamarisk trees. In one idyllic day, we saw and smelled more lilacs than most people experience in a lifetime. It was enough to convince me that lilacs are well worth the wait and whatever labor it takes to help them happen.
This was not the first time I had pruned the venerable shrub, but I hadn't had a chance to do it for at least four years. Though June may not be the best time to prune lilacs, I was seized by a feeling of "now or never" and spurred on by the purchase of a lovely new pruning saw. There was plenty of dead wood to remove, along with spent blossoms in various stages of desiccation, and so I spent parts of four or five days cutting. During most of this time I was closely monitored by chickens (four hens and a rooster) who like to spend their afternoons in dense lilac shade. They watched suspiciously at first, but their clucks became tolerant.if not actually friendly when they saw that I was scaring up masses of juicy earwigs for them to eat.
My modus operandi in pruning is to start at the bottom, identifying branches that cross each other in their quest for sunlight. This opens up the center of the plant and lessens the number of cuts that need to be made when I finally reach the top. Since this lilac is over eight feet tall, I bend each branch and hold it at eye level while I thin the topmost foliage to stimulate new growth and future blossoms.
Unfortunately, I have never been in Idaho when our lilac was in bloom. Based on Walt Whitman's When Lilacs Last in the Door-yard Bloom'd, I have assumed that this would be in April. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated on April 15, 1865, and the poem is a heartfelt elegy on him and, by extension, on the Civil War's myriad dead. I visited Idaho twice in April of this year, however, and did not see a single blossom.
Though literary authority often takes precedence in my view of the real world, I also rely heavily on The Sunset Western Garden Book, which pronounces that lilacs bloom in May. Never having experienced Idaho much between New Years and Memorial Day, I at last reconciled my literary and horticultural sources by reference to Wikipedia, where I learned that Lincoln's body lay in state until April 21, 1865, and his funeral train took three weeks to get to his final resting place in Illinois.
Just as I cannot think of lilacs without conjuring up Walt Whitman, I cannot think of pruning without recalling the major surgery I performed on a row of lilacs that grew alongside our house in Evanston, Illinois. The house was built around 1902, and we had bought it in 1972 from an elderly couple (daughter and son-in-law of the builder) who had not done much gardening in recent years.
As a graduate student in English Lit at the time, I was delighted to find real lilacs in what I immediately defined as our door-yard! They shaded the back door, and ran all the way to the front door -- a distance of about 30 feet along an unpaved alley. The shrubs were at least eight feet tall and did not bloom significantly during our first spring there (1972). Disappointed to be missing the Whitmanesque moment, I surmised that they needed pruning, but did not do the work in time to see the fruits of my labors before we moved away in 1975..
You may think I am leading up to a complaint about being deprived of lilac blossoms. Au contraire! Sometime in the late 80s, we took Alice and Homer on a springtime outing to see poppies and lupines in the Lancaster (CA) area. We returned home through Bouquet Canyon, where we visited Margaretten Park, then home to 50,000 lilac bushes on 80 acres of private land bordered by graceful tamarisk trees. In one idyllic day, we saw and smelled more lilacs than most people experience in a lifetime. It was enough to convince me that lilacs are well worth the wait and whatever labor it takes to help them happen.
Friday, June 8, 2012
the color lavender
I've mentioned lavender several times in this blog, and have been trying to write today's post since February, when I set out the four-inch pot of white lavender we'd brought back from a fancy nursery in Oceanside.
After three months in the ground, the white lavender looks healthy but has dropped all its little blossoms. On-line gardening sites tell me it takes three months for a lavender plant to acclimate itself. Spanish White Lavender will spread along the ground once it's well established, and then bloom in spring and fall. This growth pattern will suit me fine. Our four other lavenders have been trained to stand as trees (see aftermath) , and could use something to hide their knobby knees. I visualize a little girl's light green cotton anklets with white lace ruffles.
If you think of lavender as a color (defined precisely by the Pantone people as PMS 15-3817) , white lavender is an oxymoron. But then the old song goes: "Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green." In fact, this lyric describes the hues of my English Lavender pretty well (perhaps a periwinkle blue, though). My French Lavender's flowers are closer to the Pantone standard for the color Lavender, and my two Spanish Lavenders bloom in a bright pink, not quite cerise.
So just what is lavender, anyway? The word can refer to a plant, a color, or a scent. It can connote an age group or a sexual orientation, and that's not all, according to Wikipedia's disambiguation* entry.
Focusing on the plant will actually lead us back to the color. Wikipedia handles the botany in great detail, differentiating the dentate English and French lavenders from their stoechas Spanish cousins. (The stoechas blossoms are shaped like little pineapples.) But when it comes to etymology I must quote a whole paragraph:
This week I drastically pruned our English Lavender tree and filled a green-waste bin to the brim. Aromatherapy awaits anyone who lifts the lid.
- - - - -
* This word is new to me. Wiktionary defines it as "the removal of ambiguity," which sounds like heresy! Clearly, a posting on the 'old' school of New Criticism must be forthcoming here.
After three months in the ground, the white lavender looks healthy but has dropped all its little blossoms. On-line gardening sites tell me it takes three months for a lavender plant to acclimate itself. Spanish White Lavender will spread along the ground once it's well established, and then bloom in spring and fall. This growth pattern will suit me fine. Our four other lavenders have been trained to stand as trees (see aftermath) , and could use something to hide their knobby knees. I visualize a little girl's light green cotton anklets with white lace ruffles.
If you think of lavender as a color (defined precisely by the Pantone people as PMS 15-3817) , white lavender is an oxymoron. But then the old song goes: "Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green." In fact, this lyric describes the hues of my English Lavender pretty well (perhaps a periwinkle blue, though). My French Lavender's flowers are closer to the Pantone standard for the color Lavender, and my two Spanish Lavenders bloom in a bright pink, not quite cerise.
So just what is lavender, anyway? The word can refer to a plant, a color, or a scent. It can connote an age group or a sexual orientation, and that's not all, according to Wikipedia's disambiguation* entry.
Focusing on the plant will actually lead us back to the color. Wikipedia handles the botany in great detail, differentiating the dentate English and French lavenders from their stoechas Spanish cousins. (The stoechas blossoms are shaped like little pineapples.) But when it comes to etymology I must quote a whole paragraph:
The English word lavender is generally thought to be derived from Old French lavandre, to wash, ultimately from the Latin lavare (to wash), referring to the use of infusions of the plants. The botanic name Lavandula was used by Linnaeus [and] is considered to be derived from this and other European vernacular names for the plants. However it is suggested that this explanation may be apocryphal, and that the name may actually be derived from Latin livere, "blueish".
Can it be that Linnaeus missed something? The English song "Lavender's Blue" comes from the 17th century, but Linnaeus, an 18th-century Swede, evidently did not know it. Nor did he know that the Greeks and Romans did not employ lavender infusion as a laundry product. (Just think of how much better those togas could have smelled!)
This week I drastically pruned our English Lavender tree and filled a green-waste bin to the brim. Aromatherapy awaits anyone who lifts the lid.
- - - - -
* This word is new to me. Wiktionary defines it as "the removal of ambiguity," which sounds like heresy! Clearly, a posting on the 'old' school of New Criticism must be forthcoming here.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
benchmark
Last June, I proudly placed my first yarn bombs under cover of darkness on the eve of the First International Yarn Bombing Day. Next morning, I walked out my front door to see a neighbor staring intently at the crocheted light-pole cozy that had appeared in his parking strip. That yarn bomb, along with a similar one across the street, is still in place, as are several of the small crocheted flowers I hung in neighbors' yards.
Indeed yarn bombing has turned into a year-long preoccupation. I have placed small motifs (stars, hearts, flowers, etc.) in various places along my pathway: chain link fences, hospital beds, car antennae, mail boxes, cacti, trees and shrubs, etc. The edges of my light-pole cozies are ideal for testing new motifs. Virtual yarn bombs have adorned my Facebook page as I post photos of notable examples, such as the steps of Helsinki Cathedral covered with afghans -- not technically a yarn bomb but a display of donated items to be distributed by Finland's Federation of Mother and Child Homes and Shelters.
Yarn bombing has also been a component of my household organizing effort. Reducing the size of a massive yarn stash will bring order to my designated crafting space while weeding out colors I would not personally wear, use for decor, or inflict on friends and relatives.
And that's not all! A yarn bomb in the form of a large rug-yarn granny square, elaborately fringed, will soon appear in our front garden to replace the stylized 'welcome spring' yard flag that has flown there a bit too long. Visions of a filet crochet jack o' lantern and a giant fluffy snowflake portend an endless sequence of seasonal yard flags to come.
With the Second International Yarn Bombing Day coming up in just under two weeks, I look forward to making a more complex and public installation: crocheted covers for the three arm rests on each of two local bus benches. The public transportation milieu seems uniquely appropriate for yarn bombing, as I have spent many hours knitting and crocheting on buses, trains, and planes. Ironically, arm rests on bus benches are not provided to give comfort or rest. Their purpose is to keep people from lying down. Who likes to recline across a 2" diameter piece of steel pipe?
It will take a long time to sew or crochet six heavy 30" strips onto the bus benches, and of course I'll have to sit on wire mesh while doing it. How long will I want to sit out there at night? Will it be too dark to see what I'm doing? I'm tempted to start my installation in advance. Two strips per night (one en each side of the street) seem like a reasonable quota and will test the venue.
Ars longa vita brevis, eh?
Indeed yarn bombing has turned into a year-long preoccupation. I have placed small motifs (stars, hearts, flowers, etc.) in various places along my pathway: chain link fences, hospital beds, car antennae, mail boxes, cacti, trees and shrubs, etc. The edges of my light-pole cozies are ideal for testing new motifs. Virtual yarn bombs have adorned my Facebook page as I post photos of notable examples, such as the steps of Helsinki Cathedral covered with afghans -- not technically a yarn bomb but a display of donated items to be distributed by Finland's Federation of Mother and Child Homes and Shelters.
Yarn bombing has also been a component of my household organizing effort. Reducing the size of a massive yarn stash will bring order to my designated crafting space while weeding out colors I would not personally wear, use for decor, or inflict on friends and relatives.
And that's not all! A yarn bomb in the form of a large rug-yarn granny square, elaborately fringed, will soon appear in our front garden to replace the stylized 'welcome spring' yard flag that has flown there a bit too long. Visions of a filet crochet jack o' lantern and a giant fluffy snowflake portend an endless sequence of seasonal yard flags to come.
With the Second International Yarn Bombing Day coming up in just under two weeks, I look forward to making a more complex and public installation: crocheted covers for the three arm rests on each of two local bus benches. The public transportation milieu seems uniquely appropriate for yarn bombing, as I have spent many hours knitting and crocheting on buses, trains, and planes. Ironically, arm rests on bus benches are not provided to give comfort or rest. Their purpose is to keep people from lying down. Who likes to recline across a 2" diameter piece of steel pipe?
It will take a long time to sew or crochet six heavy 30" strips onto the bus benches, and of course I'll have to sit on wire mesh while doing it. How long will I want to sit out there at night? Will it be too dark to see what I'm doing? I'm tempted to start my installation in advance. Two strips per night (one en each side of the street) seem like a reasonable quota and will test the venue.
Ars longa vita brevis, eh?
Saturday, May 19, 2012
trollope caves
In trollope galop, I wrote that Anthony Trollope's autobiography was "stashed on my Kindle,"* and not long afterward I started dipping into it. I'll admit that there are some long tedious sections, but along the way I have been moved to read two more of Trollope's novels: Orley Farm and The Way We Live Now. I just started on The Vicar of Bullhampton and am relishing the pace.
Trollope's definition of the novel is something like: "development of character over time."** Though he claims not to plan his plots, each character's story emerges and will be told as long as the author maintains his self-imposed writing schedule.
Much of Trollope's autobiography is taken up with detailing his literary standards and commenting on his contemporaries (he loves Thackeray, hates Disraeli, respects George Eliot, etc.). So far (and I think I am about two-thirds of the way through), one anecdote of Trollope's life has made me laugh out loud, and I must retell it.
After taking an early retirement from the Post Office Department in 1864, Trollope increased the rate of his literary output. Whenever he was in London for more than a day, he would write at his club, The Athenaeum. One afternoon when he was working on The Last Chronicles of Barset, two clergymen came into the room, sat down by the fire, and proceeded to discuss Trollope's novels. The author, of course, perked up his ears and listened very carefully while the two reverend gentlemen complained that he re-used the same old characters too often. In particular, they found Mrs. Proudie (the Bishop's wife introduced in Barsetshire Towers) to be most objectionable. Trollope was incensed. He stood up, introduced himself, and said something like: "Very well. If you don't like Mrs. Proudie I shall kill her off within the week!"
Accordingly, Mrs. Proudie's death scene is horrific. After orchestrating her sudden massive heart attack, and allowing several other characters to feel relieved by her passing, Trollope felt quite guilty, and was haunted regularly by Mrs. Proudie's restless ghost.
Personally, I love the way characters and places recur in Trollope's novels. I am happy to learn that Bullhampton is near the Chiltern estate, which I recognize from the six-volume Pallisers series. I could have handled more of Mrs. Proudie, and in fact was disappointed when Obadiah Slope, her evil minion, left Barsetshire.
- - - - - -
* Now all of Trollope's 47 novels are stashed on my Kindle in a single volume.
** Not a verbatim quote, but this is not a term paper and I'm not going to look these things up.
Trollope's definition of the novel is something like: "development of character over time."** Though he claims not to plan his plots, each character's story emerges and will be told as long as the author maintains his self-imposed writing schedule.
Much of Trollope's autobiography is taken up with detailing his literary standards and commenting on his contemporaries (he loves Thackeray, hates Disraeli, respects George Eliot, etc.). So far (and I think I am about two-thirds of the way through), one anecdote of Trollope's life has made me laugh out loud, and I must retell it.
After taking an early retirement from the Post Office Department in 1864, Trollope increased the rate of his literary output. Whenever he was in London for more than a day, he would write at his club, The Athenaeum. One afternoon when he was working on The Last Chronicles of Barset, two clergymen came into the room, sat down by the fire, and proceeded to discuss Trollope's novels. The author, of course, perked up his ears and listened very carefully while the two reverend gentlemen complained that he re-used the same old characters too often. In particular, they found Mrs. Proudie (the Bishop's wife introduced in Barsetshire Towers) to be most objectionable. Trollope was incensed. He stood up, introduced himself, and said something like: "Very well. If you don't like Mrs. Proudie I shall kill her off within the week!"
Accordingly, Mrs. Proudie's death scene is horrific. After orchestrating her sudden massive heart attack, and allowing several other characters to feel relieved by her passing, Trollope felt quite guilty, and was haunted regularly by Mrs. Proudie's restless ghost.
Personally, I love the way characters and places recur in Trollope's novels. I am happy to learn that Bullhampton is near the Chiltern estate, which I recognize from the six-volume Pallisers series. I could have handled more of Mrs. Proudie, and in fact was disappointed when Obadiah Slope, her evil minion, left Barsetshire.
- - - - - -
* Now all of Trollope's 47 novels are stashed on my Kindle in a single volume.
** Not a verbatim quote, but this is not a term paper and I'm not going to look these things up.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
bulbine by any other name
At least fifteen years ago, I rehearsed for a play reading at the hillside home of one of the other characters. I think his name might have been David, and will call him so for purposes of telling this story.
David had a large and diverse garden including many succulents. I was drawn to one I'd never seen before, a grassy-looking plant with round leaves about ten inches high, and sprays of tiny yellow or orange-and-yellow blossoms borne on slender stalks rising up to twenty inches above the tops of the leaves. The stalks were so slender, in fact, that the flowers seemed to float above the plants, giving the illusion that they were hovering butterflies or tiny birds.
I asked the name of this fascinating plant, and David said, "I don't know. We always call them the little orange and yellow things." He gave me a generous handful of cuttings, and said, "Don't tell Marsha! She wants some of these, but I've refused to give them to her." Marsha, a mutual friend, was also involved in the play reading but wasn't with us on that day.
The little orange and yellow things did beautifully in my garden, and after having been tried in various places they've pretty well filled up the narrow strip between our driveway and our neighbor's driveway, interspersed with dogbane, various aloes, jade plants, and lion's tail, which supports the orange part of the color scheme. From time to time, I would continue to search for the name -- on line, in books, and at nurseries -- but the little orange and yellow things just had to do.
And then late last fall I finally joined the local garden club and took my mystery plant for identification. "It's bulbine!" said our knowledgeable president, and sure enough -- Wikipedia's illustration was a perfect match for the yellow ones (with some of its 160 species native to South Africa and some native to Australia), while the bi-colored ones turned out to be the rarer Hallmark variety.
I can't say I like the name bulbine very much, and so I'm going to call mine asphodel after their more poetic relatives.
BTW, I recently offered little orange and yellow things to Marsha, but she wasn't interested. Maybe she'd like some asphodel.
David had a large and diverse garden including many succulents. I was drawn to one I'd never seen before, a grassy-looking plant with round leaves about ten inches high, and sprays of tiny yellow or orange-and-yellow blossoms borne on slender stalks rising up to twenty inches above the tops of the leaves. The stalks were so slender, in fact, that the flowers seemed to float above the plants, giving the illusion that they were hovering butterflies or tiny birds.
I asked the name of this fascinating plant, and David said, "I don't know. We always call them the little orange and yellow things." He gave me a generous handful of cuttings, and said, "Don't tell Marsha! She wants some of these, but I've refused to give them to her." Marsha, a mutual friend, was also involved in the play reading but wasn't with us on that day.
The little orange and yellow things did beautifully in my garden, and after having been tried in various places they've pretty well filled up the narrow strip between our driveway and our neighbor's driveway, interspersed with dogbane, various aloes, jade plants, and lion's tail, which supports the orange part of the color scheme. From time to time, I would continue to search for the name -- on line, in books, and at nurseries -- but the little orange and yellow things just had to do.
And then late last fall I finally joined the local garden club and took my mystery plant for identification. "It's bulbine!" said our knowledgeable president, and sure enough -- Wikipedia's illustration was a perfect match for the yellow ones (with some of its 160 species native to South Africa and some native to Australia), while the bi-colored ones turned out to be the rarer Hallmark variety.
I can't say I like the name bulbine very much, and so I'm going to call mine asphodel after their more poetic relatives.
BTW, I recently offered little orange and yellow things to Marsha, but she wasn't interested. Maybe she'd like some asphodel.
Friday, April 27, 2012
invaders appeased
Last Saturday's garden tour, held on the day before Earth Day, was appropriately advertised as a 'green' garden tour. This epithet referred not so much to color as to sustainability. Indeed, plants with grey, blue, dark purple, or cream colored leaves were standouts among the water-wise cacti and succulents.
Politically and environmentally correct practices abounded: rain barrels, drip irrigation, hydroponics, permaculture, cob building techniques, etc. Birds, bees, and butterflies were attracted, invasive species repelled. Literature was distributed, but not lavishly, as attendees had been enjoined to follow interactive on-line maps to the garden sites. It was a day for feeling responsible and resolving to continue along one's righteous pathway, paved with permeable materials so as not to overburden the storm drains and pollute the ocean.
I picked up a few brochures and cards, including one on invasive plant species, a favorite topic on this blog during my recent wars on Sprenger asparagus fern and Confederate jasmine plus pre-blog struggles with Algerian ivy, plumbago, Cape honeysuckle, and Banks rose. But wait! This 'Weed Watch' campaign -- sponsored by the worthy California Invasive Plants Council, Los Angeles and San Gabriel Rivers Watershed Council, and SMSLRWMA -- includes nasturtium (Tropaeolum majus) among the species NOT to plant if we are to "Stop the Invasion" of plants that "fuel wildfires, degrade grazing land, contribute to soil erosion, clog streams and rivers, and increase the risk of flooding."
Having posted nasturtiums rampant just over a year ago, and being delighted with this year's stand of the cheery yellow and orange blossomers,* I took umbrage.
One of the things I love best about nasturtiums is that they are so easy to get rid of after they have run their course, or at any time they become tiresome (yes, it occasionally happens!) . Nasturtium roots are so inconsequential as to bring Marvell's On a Drop of Dew to mind: "How loose and easy hence to go, / How girt and ready to ascend."
I do not plant nasturtiums, but I welcome their annual invasion, in my garden and along the highways and byways. Sometimes appeasement seems appropriate.
- - - - -
* My spell checker disapproves this word, but Yeats used it in the majestic Among School Children ("O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer, / Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?") I can't resist a parody: "Nasturtium, small-rooted blossomer / your leaves and flowers feed my soul!"
Politically and environmentally correct practices abounded: rain barrels, drip irrigation, hydroponics, permaculture, cob building techniques, etc. Birds, bees, and butterflies were attracted, invasive species repelled. Literature was distributed, but not lavishly, as attendees had been enjoined to follow interactive on-line maps to the garden sites. It was a day for feeling responsible and resolving to continue along one's righteous pathway, paved with permeable materials so as not to overburden the storm drains and pollute the ocean.
I picked up a few brochures and cards, including one on invasive plant species, a favorite topic on this blog during my recent wars on Sprenger asparagus fern and Confederate jasmine plus pre-blog struggles with Algerian ivy, plumbago, Cape honeysuckle, and Banks rose. But wait! This 'Weed Watch' campaign -- sponsored by the worthy California Invasive Plants Council, Los Angeles and San Gabriel Rivers Watershed Council, and SMSLRWMA -- includes nasturtium (Tropaeolum majus) among the species NOT to plant if we are to "Stop the Invasion" of plants that "fuel wildfires, degrade grazing land, contribute to soil erosion, clog streams and rivers, and increase the risk of flooding."
Having posted nasturtiums rampant just over a year ago, and being delighted with this year's stand of the cheery yellow and orange blossomers,* I took umbrage.
One of the things I love best about nasturtiums is that they are so easy to get rid of after they have run their course, or at any time they become tiresome (yes, it occasionally happens!) . Nasturtium roots are so inconsequential as to bring Marvell's On a Drop of Dew to mind: "How loose and easy hence to go, / How girt and ready to ascend."
I do not plant nasturtiums, but I welcome their annual invasion, in my garden and along the highways and byways. Sometimes appeasement seems appropriate.
- - - - -
* My spell checker disapproves this word, but Yeats used it in the majestic Among School Children ("O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer, / Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?") I can't resist a parody: "Nasturtium, small-rooted blossomer / your leaves and flowers feed my soul!"
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