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.”