Glory of the Snow

It's called ipheon - glory of the snow. At least that's what the label said. We don't have snow but we do have a carpet of palest blue flowers with greeny-yellow eyes. It's considered one of the minor bulbs. What minor person made these decisions? short people are not minor people, why are low bulbs considered minor? It has spread from just a few bulbs tucked into an open corner a couple of years ago. Not the right sun exposure, not the right soil, but it was an empty space and there was a rainstorm coming, so in they went. And they clearly didn't read their own planting instructions, for they are thriving. In fact, one came up in the lawn, braving the weekly beheadings inflicted by the mow-blow-and-go crew.

I know it's not what most think of as bulb planting season, but it is bulb-blooming season, and there are lots of summer blooming bulbs you can tuck in now, while you're thinking about it. And when you're thinking about it is always the best time to do it. Check out Van Engelen for bulbs - they have good prices and top quality. I've never had to take advantage of their fantastic guarantee but I'mawfully glad it's there

Let them eat cake

It was on my birthday a few years ago. Wally asked my mom if she could pick up my birthday cake, and told her “I’ll give you the money for it, it’s sixty-five dollars. Can you pick it up from Katrina Rozelle?”

My mom said she would, but didn't have room in her refrigerator and asked to drop it by on her way home from the bakery.

Knowing my mom and her always well-stocked refrigerator, Wally of course agreed.

Next my mom called Katrina Rozelle.

Katrina Rozelle is a wonderful (and wonderfully expensive) pastry shop in Alamo, CA. My mom is a retired school teacher. School teachers get their birthday cakes at the supermarket, and for sixty-five dollars you get a cake the size of the kitchen table. Maybe even the size of the kitchen.

My mom called Kartina Rozelle and said “This is Mrs A, and I’m picking up a cake today.  I have a very small car and I need to know - how big is the cake?”

They checked, and said “It’s a fourteen inch round.”

Mommy said, “Oh. Thank you. I will send my housekeeper to pick it up.” Retired teachers don’t have housekeepers.  But they do have their pride.

She didn’t tell them who she was when she went to pick it up. And they didn’t let on that they knew. 

Today we stopped into Katrina Rozelle for a cookie, after going to the market together. I didn’t call her by her last name and she pretended to be someone else. The cake has become a bit of our family’s story, a chance to laugh at ourselves. And we could all use more cookies and more laughter.

Ian's Peach

Ian's peach is blooming - the one he and his mom started from a pit. The whole story is in my book, Postcards From The Hedge, available soon on Amazon. The bees are busy, the soft sweet fragrance fills that corner of the garden. I can see the flowers out the bathroom window, and a hundred times a day I walk by and smile.

One good urn deserves another

It's a flax, Cream Stripe. It's been in this Haddonstone urn for ten years, and it's still happy. Watch, tomorrow it will begin to pout. It's been through one move, two dustings of snow, one whack job by someone I hired to help me clean up the garden. It's crown has grown so high the drip irrigation runs off. No food, not nearly enough water, this level of neglect cannot be considered benign. And it still looks good all year. Plus it keeps us (and our guests) from falling off the corner of the terrace and landing on the stairs. That's Loropetalum 'Plum Delight' behind it. Aren't they stunning together?

I highly recommend investing in at least one really great urn - check out Haddonstone, they are pricey but they make gorgeous stuff and it lasts and lasts...

The neighbor kids came over today - I thought to make gift tags and bake cookies, but the main activity seemed to be pairing corks from our extensive collection (it's been a busy week) and discussing the mushroom shape (champagne is still a foreign concept to them - lucky parents! more for them) and the fascinating little wire baskets. The kids see hours of fun to come, what with stacking and sorting, finding twins and double twins, while I see reminders of hours of fun. Some of those hours were even shared with others.  Just kidding - where did you leave your sense of humor?

Too wet to go outside -  even the birds look a bit waterlogged. The garden will have to fend for itself. I got a handy tip today from a very English garden designer and author, David Stephens. He said to grow hosta in pots, on pot feet (to keep it safe from the snails and slugs, the only creatures enjoying this beastly weather), and put a bit of vaseline around the rim. Of the pot, not the snail. Anyone tried this yet? If it ever dries up enough for the vaseline to stick I'm giving it a go.

Parma Violets

I finally found them - the violets I wrote about in Where The Heart Is - available at this link:  ABE books online  They were at Sloat Nursery and they filled my car with their sweet gentle fragrance. It is raining so I can't plant them, but I may bring one in (in its ugly nursery pot) and set it by my bed. I will fall asleep to the scent of violets...and wake to their sweet ruffled lavender faces. Go get some!

When we were building our house he would ride his horse up the hill to say hello, to chat. It would be at dusk, as he and Max were finishing their ride, and it would eventually get too dark to see and he and Max would pick their way down the hill and across the street, and we would go home to our old house.

When the fence went up he and Max would ride up to the fence and he would holler at us. We would come out and talk when we could, when we weren’t doing something like holding the lamp for the tile man who was trying to finish the job in the dark.

There was a flurry of long busy days when we were moving in - first it was “Where does this box go? How about this chair?” Then it was “Where shall we put the silverware? The coffee maker?” It was several days before we saw him. We were walking our dog -  he was lying in wait.

“You sure have one stubborn horse” he pounced as we walked by. “I stood at the fence with carrots for ten minutes, talking and clicking. He wouldn’t budge. Can’t believe you’d keep such a cussed stubborn animal.”

We looked at each other, stupefied. At first we couldn’t believe he was serious. Then we couldn’t believe he had been sober. 

One of the big moving-in decisions had been where to put the metal horse. The life-sized metal horse. He was a blue-gray color, and apparently we had put him too close to the fence. Or not close enough.