Watering your Poinsettia

I get a lot of questions this time of year about watering poinsettias. Here’s the scoop (of dirt):

Poinsettias like to stay a little more on the dry side. They don’t like “wet feet”. The pots/containers of most poinsettias you buy this time of year are decoratively wrapped in colored foil. It has been my experience, the type of soil they are potted in can vary significantly. Sometimes the soil has a lot of peat in it, and if left to dry out, turns to what I call “compressed powder”. This makes it difficult for the water to absorb back into the soil, so you might find when you water, it runs right through it like a sieve.

Here’s what to do: If your container cover is waterproof, that is it didn't get holes in it, give it a good drink of water until when you feel the bottom, you can tell water has gone through and is in the wrapping. Leave it for about 30 minutes or so, come back and see if you feel it. More than likely it has soaked that water back up. If you still have water in it, pour the rest out. Don’t forget this step, as if left sitting in water, you probably won’t have your poinsettia by Christmas! You can use a dish or bowl if your wrapping leaks. Protect surfaces that could be damaged by water or moisture.

                                              Lots of varieties to choose from!

As you return it to its place of prominence, note the weight of the plant. It should not feel light anymore. Days later, pick it up. If it feels a lot lighter, you know it is time to water. You can also tap your finger on the top of the soil. If you have moist soil on your finger, leave it alone. Don’t kill it with kindness! If it is dry, do the weight test to confirm it is time to water. 

These don’t have to be disposable plants either! You can actually put these in a sunroom and keep them growing throughout the year with a few techniques to get them to bloom again next year!

                                                         Tip: When purchasing, look for the center yellow/red flowers to still be tight. 

          

                      The more open and the more pollen you see, the older the blooms.  

                   HAPPY GROWING and MERRY CHRISTMAS!                              TLC Floral, Indian Trail, NC

TLC Floral's Dream of a Little Shop

I've discovered in my 50+ years that life, or I should say, living, is all about taking risks. Some of us are bigger risk takers than others. Here at TLC Floral, we are low on the Richter scale of risk taking. I wish I could jump out of an airplane. Such freedom. But I can’t even trust a roller coaster to safely return me to the good old terra firma. I am grounded to the earth like a rock-no, a boulder- which may partially be why I love digging in the dirt. I can explore that independently later.

Because of my conservative nature, I hesitate to “go for broke”, as I have no desire to go broke. I would love to open a shop filled with unique plant and floral designs. Terrariums, not just your grandmother’s old fish bowl anymore. Nature-inspired home décor and more! Spend my days creating original oil and acrylic landscape paintings between customers, and pastel watercolors enhanced by exquisitely matted frames. Display prints of flowers and butterflies taken with my own camera. Note cards made from handmade recycled paper and adorned with pressed flowers grown from my garden. And, of course, Gardener’s Gift Baskets! With bulbs in the fall, seeds in spring, with cute floral gardening gloves, a trowel, a kneeling pad. A beautiful bow to top it off on the hand woven basket handle. Seeds procured from my own plants.  And of course, the latest rage-Fairy Gardens in my handmade hypertufa containers! Conduct monthly workshops on various gardening subjects. I am in heaven when my nails are dirty from designing an herb garden. I’m not hard to please.

Oh my, and Bonsai! I become absolutely immersed in crafting a bonsai tree from a bushy shrub. That tree will (potentially) outlive me, and be passed down from generation to generation until the gnarly trunk is thick, with roots exposed and beautifully aged as any tree out in the landscape. Some people consider the art of Bonsai cruel to the plant. I disagree. Adopting it gives it a chance at longevity that most shrubs will never have. My guess, most shrubs end up as foundation plantings which will be yanked out within 10 years, possibly by attaching a chain to it, the other end to a truck’s trailer hitch, and pulling it out with roots hanging on for dear life.

I have my ”roots” firmly entrenched into the ground like that foundation shrub. Well-grounded has been considered a compliment, but now I believe it to be more of a hindrance to growth. The passion to share my creations of all things horticultural has been pulling at me like I am attached to that trailer hitch, but the driver is scared to hit the gas. Unless I win the lottery (since I don’t waste money on tickets where my chances are slim to none, that is highly unlikely), I will never gamble on trying out my little shoppe.  

Enough of the metaphors (or similes?), here are the facts: Only 47% percent of (retail) small businesses are still operating after four years. Stats like that scare me more than a parachute failure…well, almost.

I applaud those who try. They are brave souls that live their dream.  They score high on the Risk Taking Richter Scale. Win or lose, they made the attempt, no matter how short-lived. They must have a passion that overrides odds and statistics, and push forward. Bravo! You are a braver wo-man than me, Gunga Din.

So, until the “T” of TLC Floral wins the lotto (he does spent a few bucks on it here and there), you can check our Facebook page: www.facebook.com/tlcfloral to find out where our one-of-a-kind designs and the aforementioned gift baskets and bonsai are sold.  We just opened an Etsy “shop” for our silk and dried floral arrangements that are postal friendly-http://www.etsy.com/shop/tlcfloral.

We did a show at The Metrolina Expo Marketplace in Charlotte, NC last weekend. My customers and all the wonderful fellow plant enthusiasts there made it a (albeit small), risk that was well worth taking.                                            

                           

You will find us safely tucked into a booth at Metrolina again, December 5^th-8th, in Building C. You can call it my “Portable Shoppe.”  If you do, I’ll give you 10% off your purchase.

TLC Floral, Indian Trail, NC                                                                                                        tlcfloraldesigns@gmail.com

Hibiscus Flower

Today marks the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death. I know people prefer “passing” which, in my opinion, is just to lessen the harshness and finality of “death”.  She “passed on” contrives images she just went somewhere else. But she died, and death is harsh, painful, and rip-your-guts-out hard. Oh, we try to dress death up in pretty clothes to make us feel better, but it’s just a façade.

Since I am a “plant person” (which I got through my mother’s genes I am sure), I find solace in planting flowers and plants and watching them grow. Seeing a tiny sunflower seed turn into a 12 foot giant over the summer, is nothing short of a miracle of nature. After all, it took 18 years for my son to grow to 6’7”. (Yes, he really is that tall.) Watching perennials return even bigger and better after winter knocks them out gives me hope I can get through life’s “winters” and come out on the other side too.

After my mother died, I wanted to memorialize her in some way. My mother did not have an easy life, nor a healthy one. If I can be half as strong as her, I will have done myself proud. She always said, “I hope I make it to 75.” She was a New Year’s Eve baby, and celebrated her 75^th birthday and the new year with all of us. It was to be her last.

Shortly after she died, I tore out a large strip grass in front of our walkway and feverishly planted 75 pansies. Under ¼” of topsoil it was pure fill dirt, yet they grew beautifully into a curving swath of watercolors that looked like butterflies when the breeze kicked up. I went out every day and picked off the dead blooms as some sort of therapy.  Yes, I talked to her, and I still do. Just not out loud anymore.

To mark the first anniversary, we planted a pear tree. I also began giving away plants as a way to memorialize her-to keep her love of plants and flowers spreading.  I have had lovely experiences in sharing my plants with others. They’ve told me they have planted them in her memory; said prayers when they planted them; call them “Lori’s mom’s plant”. They send/give me updates on how they are doing. Mom would be smiling, or maybe she is…

Because tonight, after my husband went to bed and I was working on some paperwork, I was sitting here alone. I became so sad, missing my mom-turned-best-friend in our grown lives, my eyes started filling with tears. I knew it would come before the night was out. I went on Facebook to distract myself, and immediately recognized a plant with a large red hibiscus flower on it posted by a friend I had given a plant to. Almost shining in the bright sun, her caption read, “The last hibiscus bloom of the summer.” If a flower could, it would have been smiling. How fitting that today would be the last bloom of the summer.

The Flight-or Fight-of the Hummingbird

Hummingbirds-Nature’s tiny wonders. Whizzing around with flights of fancy and stalling out in midair like little helicopters. Whether ruby-throated or not, they are all beautiful mini specimens of nature’s handiwork. Who cannot absolutely adore hummingbirds?  From what I have witnessed, other hummingbirds, that’s who.

We have several feeders around our house. They’re dangling off the eaves, our front porch and back deck, one in our maze garden.  As if all of our tubular shaped flowers aren't enough to attract them, I am dedicated to scrubbing out feeders and boiling water to dissolve sugar about twice a week, or it wouldn't be summer.  I've spoiled them and it seems the hummers don’t like to share-the dominants staking claim on them. Many times as an innocent makes his approach, another intercepts him and circles around him until the little one retreats, at which time the aggressor returns to the same spot in a tree and lays in wait. Like a dog protecting a bone.

I love to watch them at the feeders so close to the house. I can be right at the window and they hover up and take pause as if looking directly at me, hopefully saying thanks. So how can such a tiny and possibly grateful little creature scare me? That sounds ridiculous. But you come over here and start taking one of the feeders down in the midst of a hummer duel on who gets the last drop and one comes zipping out of nowhere right up to your face and see what you do. Without a window as a shield, you will find yourself eye to beak, and I wager your heart may skip a beat too. Tell me you wouldn't cringe or at least flinch thinking they are going to take that toothpick spike of a beak and make a move to stab you right in the eye! With wings beating faster than a good camera’s shutter speed can capture, my reflexes would never win against a dart toward me. On more than one occasion, I just close my eyes tightly until I am brave enough to open one eye hoping it has gone. I pray the eye I open is not the one he’s poised to pierce!

The hummer dance sometimes includes as many as five whirling around. Is that endearing chirpy sound they make actually them swearing at each other in hummer-speak when one has claimed dibs and the others try to stake a claim to it too? It’s fascinating to watch. We float quietly in our pool watching them like an outdoor movie. “Stop and smell the roses” has nothing on stop and watch the hummingbirds.

These little mini bundles of energy seem so tough during this continuous fight and flight. But we see another, weaker side of our hummers. A few times a month one will fly into our open garage, and having a minuscule brain, can’t figure out how to get back out. They bash their heads repeatedly into the high ceiling or the window. I’m sure they can’t understand why they are stuck, feeling like they are in Stephen King’s Dome. We fashioned a butterfly net on a long pole to catch them and lower them out the door.

On occasion, by the time we go out there and see them, they are so exhausted from battling our ceiling they've actually dropped to the floor and collapsed, wings splayed out. The three of us have each had the opportunity to pick up these exhausted and depleted hummers. Holding them, we stick their potential eye piercing dagger beak into some sugar water to replenish them while walking out to the driveway.  I figure I am safe with them in this state, gently holding them until they recoup.

Once they revive and collect themselves, they tighten up their wings and off from our hands they’ll fly. Like our hands are their helipads. They return to their lives of fight in flight.

And they never bother to look back.

Gardeners Beware!

If you think this is going to be a warning about Fire Ants, guess again.

Does the following scenario sound familiar?

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning and you go outside early to cut some flowers before it gets too hot. While out, you see the dahlias need staking. You quickly bring in the flowers and return with stakes and string. The seemingly random flight of a butterfly searching for the perfect zinnia to land upon catches your eye and while turning, notice the basil is becoming unruly. While trimming, the scent of basil releases to fill the air. The aroma makes you decide on tomato pie for dinner. Uh oh, weeds are overtaking your Better Boys. Taking the crabgrass to the compost bin, you see it needs turning and retrieve your pitchfork. When returning it to the shed, or your garage, you notice limbs and twigs rained down upon the lawn along with last night's storm. Some sticks/branches are large enough to impede the lawnmower’s progress. You must collect them in your wheelbarrow to deposit into the “brush pile” for burning later. What then? You pass the wildflower garden where briers are taller than the Holly Hock, and Carolina creeper moved from creeping to leaping. Next thing you know, hours have passed, and you are heavily into the heat of the afternoon sun.

Does this sound like you? Perhaps the names (of the plants) have changed, but the gist is there. No matter how small your plot, you can get lost in your garden. Now for the important question:

When you went outside in the early morning hours for that quick trip to retrieve flowers for the table, did you first apply a high SPF sunscreen and wait 20 minutes for it to sink in before going outside? If not, did you apply any when you grabbed a bottle of water when finding the stakes and string or reapply when grabbing the pitchfork? If you said yes, then BRAVO to you. No need to read further. But if you are like me, and all you put on were your clothes and garden shoes, please continue because-

I have cancer. Skin cancer. Basal Cell Carcinoma. Diagnosed last week. Not melanoma, so the first thought is one of relief. Relief? What an odd feeling with a cancer diagnosis-to be relieved. It’s only Basal Cell Carcinoma-BCC. Friends react to the news, “Thank goodness it's just Basal Cell Cancer.” I agree. Yet “Only” or “Just” in the same sentence with cancer seems like it would be an oxymoron of some type-Only…Cancer. But the … in between makes all the difference.

I asked my dermatologist to look at this irregularly shaped red spot about an inch inside my hairline I noticed two weeks earlier. I thought it looked suspicious, but tried to convince myself as much as I am in the garden, it was probably a bug bite and would go away. I pushed away the thought that bug bites are usually round. But if it had been growing there for awhile, surely I would have noticed it earlier, right?

I really, really wanted it to be a bug bite.

She took one look at it and said, “Hmm, it does look a little Basal-y to me.” Basal-y. Sounds so innocent. Cute almost. Like my favorite herb basil. “Oh, that pesto was so good, very Basil-y.” I love basil. I grow lots of basil. I make so much basil pesto I freeze it in the summertime so we can have chicken tortellini with basil pesto mid-winter. Maybe I ate too much basil.

If it had been melanoma, would she have said, “It looks a little Melanoma-y?” Doubt it. So yes, I am extremely grateful and relieved I only have BCC.

She referred me to a Dermatological Surgeon for Mohs Surgery. They will shave the area and remove a layer of my skin around the now biopsied site, place it under the microscope and see if they have clear margins. If not, they go back in and cut a deeper, wider chunk and repeat the process until the margins are clear. Apparently basal-y cancer can be very small on the surface, but can spread underneath like an upside down mushroom. Once clear, they suture it back together. But any mom knows when your child tears a hole out of their jeans, it isn't easy to sew it back without the edges rippling, so how is that supposed to work? I am glad it is in my hairline. Could I admit to moving up from relieved and grateful to now glad and happy, in fact, that it isn't right out in the open on my face?

When my surgeon’s office called to schedule the surgery, I asked if the path report came back with any more information, like is it staged? She replied that they don’t stage BCC, but there are types. She offered this statement: “If you have to have basal cell, it is the best kind to have.” My admitted happiness is now escalating to elation! I have the good kind!  But then later the statement eked into the party I was having in my head. If I have to have…?  I pondered, “But why do I have to have..?”

I’ll tell you why. I answered my own query, “Because of all my sun exposure, that’s why.” I should be surprised if I didn’t get it. Growing up in San Diego, much of my youth was (mis)spent getting sunburns at the beach. Back then we called it suntan lotion. As a teen you didn't want any screening, you wanted that deep Coppertone tan. So much of the damage was already done. But it didn't help to continue my inattention to UV rays.

My husband had the same type cancer about two years ago, and had the same surgery I am about to undergo. After a long day in the garden, he would top it off by getting in the pool to cool off and float in a ring with the afternoon sun for company, sans sunscreen.

So, gardeners, please take heed! Wear that goofy looking hat and apply sunscreen! Consider this a reminder, a (lengthy) public service announcement. Apply sunscreen, even on overcast days when you are just going to run out and pick flowers. Don’t get lost in the garden without it. Otherwise, as John Madden used to say about a missed extra point in football, “It can come back to haunt you.” And I wager you don’t want to see an apparition while they are carving a hole in your head…

What Have You Done?

Oh, my deer, what have you done?

I have never considered myself the “earthy-crunchy” type, but I do admit to being a true nature lover. I still stop and pause to watch a couple of squirrels frolicking about high up in the trees.  I have nicknamed one GEICO that seems to want to run me off the road and into my own mailbox at least three out of five days of the week by darting out in front of me when I come home from work. Yes, I am sure it is always the same one, but I refuse to elaborate. Hint: There’s this wacky glint in his eye…

Every spring I delight in seeing, for quite a few years now, hawks building their nest high up in our trees.  Spying on the babies with binoculars later, sometimes difficult once the trees have filled out, somehow thrills me. My husband as well, the TC in TLC Floral, will proclaim when they have grown big enough to see their little heads popping out over the nest.  When in the garden, if I don’t hear the parents squawking , I am occasionally alerted to their presence instead by seeing a huge shadow cast upon the grass moving across the yard like a fast forward segment in a movie depicting a story line time lapse.  A few times when I have been very still planting or pulling weeds between rows, one has landed within feet of me, and am amazed how large they are from up close, and wish I had my camera. Such a regal looking bird.

Then there are the other birds, the bunnies, raccoon, occasional fox, multitude of turtles, frogs, lizards, and yes-my encounters with snakes, I've had a few- and OH, the butterflies and dragonflies…and I realize how lucky I am to live where I do. I have to thank my TC for that.

Notice I did not mention DEER! I used to include deer in my running list of Elly May Clampett animal loves. I took pictures when they strolled into our little plot of land. If I would spot them from our sun room, I would distract our dogs to the living room so they wouldn’t bark and scare them away. I would stealthily go outside to see how close I could get without them startling and bolting back into the woods.

BUT, this year, they are dead to me! They have been taking way more than their fair share of what little grew in my yucky muck. (See “Muck Gardening” Post for more details.) “Come on!” I want to yell to the woods, “Even my second planting of tomato plants?” I guess that’s an old wive’s tale that they are poisonous because I have no dead deer lying around the neighborhood. And they are eating EVERYTHING! Flowers and veggies alike, including pears off the tree I had been looking forward to for months! I don’t mind sharing, but this is complete obliteration!

I admit I am not completely selfless in allowing caterpillars to have the majority of my parsley since I do so for my enjoyment of the butterflies. Growing organically, I do expect nature to get a cut.  The deer; however, are treating my garden like their personal smorgasbord. Though I am not an eyewitness to the events, I know I can’t blame rabbits, because they can’t strip green bean leaves to the height of five feet, even up on their little furry-cushioned Thumper back feet on a stretch. Not to mention, unlike Dexter, they don’t cover their (devilishly cloven hoof) tracks. 

So, to my two dogs I say-get ready for a good grooming my pups because out comes the dog hair for your scent to scare them off. Best of all, I am cooking up some good old homemade hot pepper spray to apply to (what little is left of) the plants so their buffet table will be a little too spicy tasting for them.  You’re in for a surprise, my deer. Take that, you Hosta thieves. That’ll teach you.

Finding Pure Joy in a Tomato Patch

The following post is in honor of my husband’s birthday today. The man who has since helped me find pure joy outside of the Tomato Patch.

 Finding Pure Joy in a Tomato Patch

I met my husband on a psych ward. Did that get your attention? It usually does. At parties, when asked the standard question, “Where did you two first meet?”, our answer is usually met with a quizzical look, and cocking of heads to bring an ear closer, hopefully to hear details of  some juicy story involving a psychopath and a manic depressive making a love connection in the middle of a group session.

OK, I won’t keep you in suspense. Sorry to disappoint. My husband was a Recreational Therapist on staff in the Psychiatric Dept of a large hospital, and I was doing my psychiatric internship in Occupational Therapy. At least that’s our story and we are sticking to it.

But it's not as if I couldn't have used some therapy myself. I believe most of us could use a little “talk therapy” at some point in our lives. I loved my Psych affiliation. People with issues are usually drawn to the field, from my experience.

I have always been a Type A+ nervous person by nature-and nurture. My family stock is bubbling over with highly seasoned bundles of nerves. So most all milestones in my life-occasions that should be filled with pure joy have included, at the very least, butterflies in my stomach.

Graduating, I feared I may trip. My wedding day, ditto. The birth of my son, having him prematurely, turned what should be a purely joyous moment, to one fraught with fear for his well being.  So you can see the pattern here. They say some ridiculously high percentage of what you worry about never comes to pass. So I feel it’s important to worry about everything, to reduce my chances of anything bad happening by gaining a statistical advantage. My mother always said, “The things that end up getting you are the unexpected. The ones that blindside you.” So like a boy scout, I was always prepared.

In the early evening before my last day on the psych unit, my husband-to-be called my dorm and asked me out for pizza. I was beyond thrilled, as I loved working with him. He was smart with a dry sense of humor and quick wit, and his piercing blue eyes didn't hurt.  All the women patients would show up for early morning exercise class when he was leading it, whispering how he looked just like Magnum PI.

So he picked me up and we went to a local pizza joint. Midway through a shared pitcher of warm beer and overly greasy pizza, he said he just thought someone should take me out before I left. That immediately dropped any “date” pressure.  But I didn't care if it was just a goodbye pity pizza, I loved being with him. No need for nerves, as there were no expectations.  I did not want to leave the restaurant, even when their a/c stopped working- not good for midsummer in the South.

Across the street from the stuffy restaurant, there was a little pop up parking lot amusement park. You know the kind. I never trust them for safety. Not completely tightening a few bolts here or there, and you could fly off and plummet to your most certain death landing on a car hood. But when he asked if I wanted to go, of course I said yes! I didn’t want the night to end. I was ready to risk life and limb for this man and head to the Ferris wheel.  Luckily I survived to tell this story.

 He was off the next day, my last day at the hospital. A part of me was hoping he would show up, ask me not to leave. As I packed my belongings right after work and drove back to my family’s home for my second internship a state away, I was saddened with the thought I would never see him again.

My second fieldwork was in my local hospital, and I hated it from the first day.  So, after day four, I went out to the garden to de-stress with the mind numbing action of pulling weeds and the satisfaction of picking red ripe tomatoes. The garden always takes me away like a Calgon commercial.  (Most may be too young to know that reference.)

 As I sat in the tomato patch, I was feeling better after just a few minutes, when my mother came out with mail in her hand asking if I knew a “Tracy Cleghorn”. There you have it: Finding pure joy in a tomato patch. I quickly got up stumbling out through the maze of tomato cages like I just sat in a Fire Ant nest. Pure unadulterated feelings of joy emanated from somewhere deep inside where no butterflies had room to flitter about.  No nerves accompanying my elation like a side dish.

We didn’t have texting and email back in the Stone Age.  It was a four page handwritten letter filled with funny anecdotal stories that made me laugh throughout. Maybe that is why a once gardening hobby turned into my passion. And that’s how, decades later, TLC Floral was born. Out of a tomato patch.

Muck Gardening

Muck-that’s right, I said it. MUCK! That's the best word to describe what the lower 40 of my yard/garden is right now. It is raining AGAIN. Never, in all my years of gardening in the South, would I have ever even dreamed of dreading to see rain in the forecast toward the end of July. Usually the ground is cracking about now. Makes my head hurt from just the mere twisting of my thought process to incorporate NOT wanting to see rain in July-almost August actually. But yes, it is true. I was saddened to open the back door to let my dogs out for their evening “constitutional” shall I say, and see rainfall.

I am not one who doesn't like rain. In fact, it makes me happy. I love rain. Not just because it makes my life easier by being able to skip dragging heavy hoses all over the place in 90 degree summer days, and feeling guilty I am using up my well water. I do love what rainfall does to my flowers, plants, vegetables and grass. Everything grows and greens up beautifully after a good rain. A water hose just can’t do what nature can.

I also love rain for the smell of it, the feel of it. It is never a dismal day to me. I like to walk in the rain when others run from it. I ponder over how people stand at storefront exits waiting until it lets up before they feel they can make it 30 feet to their car in the parking lot. Huddling together at the exit, they strike up the standard, “I shoulda brought my umbrella, it’s really coming down” conversation starters. OK, I don’t fault the over 65 crowd. They should wait for a let-up. Don’t want an elderly person slipping in a puddle and falling in the parking lot and breaking a hip. AARP, settle down. But I could run out there and do a Gene Kelly dance and my best “Singin' in the Rain” impression and be delighted with myself-that is if I could sing, or dance as if no one is watching. Sadly I cannot.

But I CAN be out in the garden hearing thunder’s low growl in the distance, ignore the warnings, and remain steadfast in my pursuit of ridding my garden of just a few more weeds. As I begin to hear the rain hitting the tree line as it approaches, I await with anticipation for those first big fat cool drops to hit my back as I am bent over a stubborn dandelion root. (When I hear a loud crack of thunder, however, I do pick up the pace to retreat indoors, I am not that careless.)

So, with my affinity for rain and all it gives, one would assume I would be happy with this inordinate amount of rain. However it has been raining so much it feels like soon they will be measuring cumulatively in feet, and not inches of rainfall. It befits the, “too much of a good thing…” adage. Consequently, it has turned my garden into the aforementioned MUCK. Yucky muck. I have never seen anything like it.  I used to do rain dances in the summer. I now sing, “Rain rain, go away…” from my childhood. Sometimes the rain dances worked.

 I gave up planting seeds after three sets were washed away by deluges. My straight row of basil seeds washed into forming a little clump. Our rocky base under our amended soil doesn't perk like normal soil, so we have puddles. Literally puddles are all through the yard and garden. I wear my galoshes and my feet get swallowed up and stuck. My zinnias and cucumbers are getting powdery mildew, my tomatoes are drowning, my corn has fallen over, (and became deer food), and my artichoke plants are turning black. I dug holes here and there by some plants to wick away the water and with a strike of my shovel, water poured out of the soil and I have a series of mini ponds. In desperation, I left weeds to grow so they could help soak up some of the water. I added shredded newspaper to my mini ponds and added dirt back into them.  We have gotten our tractor stuck in the mud. Rain, rain, go away for just a week, please!

Mosquitoes love this, I am certain. I know because I have seen them dancing around me like joyous garden fairies. They love me, and I don’t fit the categories of what mosquitoes are drawn to. Though why would they look elsewhere for a tastier meal when I am available daily for them to feast upon if I forget to take my mosquito fan? If you don’t have ice cream, might you settle for yogurt if it’s right there in the fridge?

I read mosquitoes can breed in a tablespoon of standing water. So if anyone has a great tip on an organic way to stop my “muck” from turning into a breeding ground for them, please let me know! Something I could add to the puddles perhaps? Lemon balm, eye of newt…I need something. Otherwise, the term “muck” might change by a letter, and I am not one to utter such things.

What’s Your Zone and Where’s Your Sun?

Two important questions to ask yourself when starting any new planting bed are:  1. What’s your zone? 2. Where’s your sun? No, I’m not referring to bad pick up lines relating to the Zodiac. Though these would be great conversation starters at any garden group function you might be attending out of state.

It is essential to know what zone you live in, in order to know when to plant what, and what grows best in your area. Finding your zone is easy to Google up. There are maps that are lined out where each zone is across the United States. Here in the Charlotte, NC area, we are  Zone 7. This info will also help you determine what will overwinter outside. Some plants that will grow throughout the year in Florida will die here, as it gets too cold and the plants will freeze.  I don’t know when it came about, but noticed over the past few years, they have split up zones even more, and I am now specifically located in 7 B. With that info in hand, you can find out when to plant what.  In zone 7, you have to plant cool weather crops early. For instance, cilantro, lettuce, broccoli and peas better be planted by now. Cilantro bolts quickly (goes to seed) in hot weather, and lettuce will become too bitter to eat once our hot as Hades weather hits.  Dare not leave that beauty of a Mandevilla to continue wrapping its’ flowered vines around your deck railing when freezing temps start or you will not see it next year. At least not alive, anyway.

Secondly, before deciding on where to start a garden, you have to know where your sun is, and for how long. Some plants need full sun to grow best, some need shade, and there’s a huge array in between. Dappled sun, part sun, part shade, morning sun and afternoon shade. Look at your yard throughout the day and graph it out on paper. Keep in mind the sun is higher in the sky in the summer and lower in the winter. Now is a good time to take a look throughout the day and mark where there is sun, since the trees are now green once again. If you look in the winter, of course you will have much more sun documented with all the deciduous trees having lost their leaves. But once they have returned to filling out their bare branches with leaves, you will see how quickly sun can disappear. Tomatoes and peppers need a good 8 hours of sun for best production. Sure, you will get some tomatoes and peppers for your pasta sauce on less than 6 hours, but not what you will get with 8 or more hours. And don’t dare plant your beauty of an ostrich fern in sun, or else you will cook it and it won’t taste like chicken.

So, once you find out what zone you are in, and how much sun you have where, you can decide where to plant that vegetable garden, that woodland shade garden, and everything in between.

And as an Aquarian, I must add a #3. The water factor. You can’t plant tomatoes in a bog, no matter how sunny it may be. And don’t bother planting a papyrus in a bone dry desert area, or you will be highly disappointed. Once you have picked your new garden spot, grab a shovel. What’s that? Hard red clay? I hear you. That’s why all the tips of our shovels are broken off. That and rock and shale and…So I say to that, “AMEN-D.”

The Festive Five

Most people have heard of the “Freshman Fifteen”, those unwanted pounds packed on in your first year of college. But what about what I dub, “The Festive Five”? The pesky five pounds put on in just a few months of party-going during the holidays. Those delicious pumpkin and pecan pies offered up or worse yet, made by one's own hand, quickly render your favorite jeans unwearable. Or at the very least unable to don without jumping up and down for some extra propulsion, or flipping practically upside down on your bed for gravity assistance, as you try to convince yourself they must have shrunk in the dryer. Come January 1, there's the obligatory resolution: To lose the Festive Five.  An annual tradition, along with putting out cookies and milk for Santa. You see where that got him. Sound familiar?

But January and February, cold months here in the South, are not conducive to outdoor exercise for weight loss. So here we are in March, coming out of winter hibernation, still packing the winter insulation, and feeling disappointed in oneself. Still wearing those five pounds. Even after you cut out the pies and Christmas cookies! No longer devouring the mountain of sour cream enhanced whipped potatoes or cornbread stuffing. No tiers of petits fours or imbibing in the spiked (or just spiced), eggnog. The only thing remaining is the last cookie no one wants to eat. Oh, and the muffin top you encounter around the top of your Levi's waistband. They are both stale and old, and no one wants either.

What to do? Now that it's (barely still) March, trade “dig in” at the dinner table with dig in some dirt and create a healthy backyard veggie garden. Sure, treadmills have their place. But does that activity produce healthy peas and beans for you and your family? Exercise and healthy produce packaged into one fabulous endeavor. That’s a recipe for success. Brush the cobwebs off of your shovel. Ignore the chocolate Easter bunnies. And if several years of Festive Five have accumulated, and you are now at Festive Forty or Fifty, no worries. Take it one broccoli plant at a time. You will be able to once again not only fit into those jeans, but fasten them without the use of a rubber band, AND be able to bend down without fear. Go ahead and get your denim dirty planting some loose leaf lettuce seeds! It will all come out in the wash.

Join me and let's get growing.

What brought me here-A preface of sorts

I always loved to write. When I would receive my creative writing papers back in school with those beautifully penned comments, “Great Work” or “Fantastic,” sometimes even underlined for emphasis, I would be thrilled. Yet no teacher fostered my love of writing beyond those blurbs written on my hammered out efforts to express myself on my mother’s old manual typewriter. Don't let me overstate. I also received my share of little red marks speckled about like chicken pox noting grammatical errors. So please excuse any you may find here.

For some reason (practicality in my blood perhaps), I never thought about writing as a career choice. I suppose I didn't want to become a cliché. A starving (literary) artist working at the local diner. So life proceeded, and I never doled out a slice of my pie-of-life for writing.

About a decade later, I saw a writer's workshop listed in the newspaper. They were to meet once a week for several weeks. It struck a chord in me. Reawakened the longing to express myself on paper. Just a few blocks from my home, they would be meeting at one of my favorite places- the library. Any surface excuse not to go would really have the underlying cause: Too chicken. So with fears in check, I thought it would be great to push myself forward, and signed on immediately with my husband's encouragement.

Ah, how brave I was when it was a month away. For when the day came, I went with nervous hesitation as I am, what I would envision many writers to be, quite the introvert. Will I have to stand in the middle of the class, baring my inner self and do a reading of my work? Will I still get glowing comments on my papers? Or instead, receive as little Ralphie in A Christmas Story did- my version of, “You'll shoot your eye out” type feedback? Life is a crapshoot. I rolled the dice.

There were about a dozen of us. Fellow pen and ink wannabe's together in a tiny room, sitting around two long tables pushed together. They were, I observed, mostly dressed in stereotypical artsy garb of the time with fanciful scarves, chunky necklaces, head wraps and leggings. Outwardly, it appeared the desire to write may be all I had in common with the group. Still, I hoped to connect with our mutual interest.

We were given five minutes to write out our answer to, “Who am I?” as an icebreaker. I proudly began writing I am a wife and mother...blah blah, practice Occupational Therapy, (we are so defined by our career choice, aren't we?), blah blah, love dogs and gardening, and more blah. I might as well have been writing my eulogy.

As they began around the room reading what they wrote, panic set in. They were saying they were essentially, “...orbs bouncing around the universe...” types. Oh no! How can I change mine before they call my name and stare at me and tell me to loosen my restraint and open up to said universe? I was nothing like them. I didn't realize that's what they meant. Is this the second part and I missed the first workshop? Quite a few did seem to know each other… While my mind was scrambling to think about who I am in a metaphorical sense, I heard my name through the static in my head.

I prefaced my reading with an apology, sheepishly stating I misunderstood what they wanted. The instructor was quick to interrupt and reassure me. Oh, there was nothing they wanted, except to hear my voice. They all nodded in unison. It seemed they were all together and in the know. I was the lone wolf here. Or was I the lone lamb among what I perceived to be the wolves?

After reading, I looked up to see blank stares and worse yet, tilted heads with patronizing grins. The clanging of multiple bangles on a woman's wrist as she moved her arm was all I remember hearing, harkening it to the sound of an animal ready to attack! Was that a growl? I do believe I saw, “Oh, poor darling, she has a long way to go,” written in bubbles over their heads. They could just as easily been an actual pack of wolves, tearing at my self confidence.  I wondered if I left running and screaming, would I get my forty bucks refunded?

Since that writing workshop, another couple of decades have gone by. Can I be that old? I realize I don’t have the great American novel in me. But I still have a desire to write, so it's about time I start before my vision goes, or arthritic fingers inhibit my progress at the laptop. I am too factual for fiction. There will be no gelatinous orbs milling about in my universe. Alas, no Margaret Mitchell will be found here either.

I will be writing about what I know and love: My passion of all things horticultural. I carved out a huge hunk of the life pie to gardening over the decades since that workshop. I hope my writings will find their way through the overdone complex series of tubes to people who have this love in common with me. Hopefully we can learn from each other. If you have to use a nail brush to scrub the dirt out from under your nails, you are speaking my language. I’d love to hear from you.