Goin' Down to Mama's

Lady Banks Has Arrived

Dave and I aren't always kindred gardening spirits. He likes order and evergreens. I like a little chaos and anything that blooms. But we're both fans of the Lady Banks rose that takes over our back yard every spring. AND I have recently learned that Dave likes wisteria as much as I do. I know, I know. It's so invasive, it can devour entire ranch houses. But I love the way it just appears in the woods, washing all the trees in fragrant purple. (We're especially grateful for trees in my neighborhood since we lost so many last spring.) Lady Banks was a gift. She was here when I bought the house. And every spring, she drapes over the pathway in our back yard and sprints up the hill by the Story Shack to climb a few trees. No thorns. Just long, graceful willows of pretty yellow flowers. With flowers like that, she can cover anything in my yard she wants to. Except maybe Hank the Cat. Hey, where is that cat, anyway? 

Who Dyed My Camellias?

One of my Super Gardener friends has always told me that I should shop for camellias when they're in bloom. That way you can be sure you're getting the color you want. But I thought he was just being a little Type A. There's a reason why they put plant tags in those pots, right? Well, last fall, Mama and I hit a sale at a local nursery, and we loaded UP. I found white camellias—just what I wanted—for $10 apiece. They weren't in bloom, but come ON! For ten bucks I can take a chance. I bought three. And now the buds are opening. Witness my beautiful white camellia. Oh, well. Dave will learn to love pink. 

Daffodils Under a Winter Sky

Most of our yard has that strange mix of greens, browns, and grays that you see this time of year, when winter is supposed to be firmly planted, but spring keeps trying to nudge it on outta here. (That's especially true in a year like this, when we've had very little true winter.) Amidst all of my bare trees and dormant azalea bushes is one small spot of pure joy. I've always been a little fuzzy on whether these are daffodils or jonquils—think I'll go with daffodils for now. I was tempted to gather them all into a bouquet for the Story Shack but decided, instead, to leave them in the yard so the neighbors can enjoy them, too. We lost so many trees in our neighborhood during last year's tornado, and the ones that are left look like this right now . . . 

So I think a little cluster of yellow will do us all a world of good. These particular daffodils are special because Daddy helped me dig them up from my grandmother's house. I'm pretty sure my Aunt Vivian planted them, with help from one of her brothers, many, many years ago. The daffodils used to run all the way up Grandme's driveway and spill out of two flower beds that flanked the steps leading up to the front porch. Every year when they bloom, I think of Aunt Vivian, who was what you might call a human daffodil. She had a way of brightening up any spot and bringing a smile to every face. And so, while I left most of her daffodils in my yard to share, I did pick one and laid it beneath her picture. Spring is coming. I just know it. 

Visions of Yellow Dancing in My Head

Twenty-plus years in the magazine business severely hampered my ability to live in the moment. You work on the Christmas issue in July, write about spring in the dead of winter—you're always ahead of yourself. So in this, my first year as a work-at-home freelancer, I was committed to embracing each season. I relished fall, looked forward to cold weather, and envisioned myself truly celebrating winter for the first time. But then right before we wrapped the last present, my seed catalogs started landing in the mailbox. And Mama's genes kicked in. The minute she took her tree down and I threw my Christmas tablecloth in the washing machine, we were on the phone: "Have you got your Burpee catalog yet?" This year, Dave and I have a totally different front yard, in terms of sun—the handiwork of a tornado which took out most of the shade trees in neighboring yards. So I'm thinking sunflowers and lanatana intead of hydrangeas and hostas. Mostly, I'm just thinking yellow. It's usually the first messenger of warmer weather in my neighborhood, the first sign that spring is almost here and summertime is just around the corner. Don't get me wrong—I still have the Yule Log DVD ready for the "Play" button and the makings of some killer hot chocolate in the kitchen cabinet. But I can't help myself. I've got visions of yellow dancing in my head.

Time to "Grace It"

A while back, I was on the phone with my Uncle Chick, and I had let suppertime slip up on me. I told him I didn't know if I'd have food on the table when Dave got home. And he said, "Uh-oh. Time to Grace it." Aunt Grace—his wife—has a knack for shortcuts. She can cook an entire meal in the microwave, have a tasty pot of spaghetti ready in 20 minutes, de-salt stuff that's oversalted . . . she's got a million kitchen tricks up her sleeve. She and our friend Patti are also the go-to flower arrangers at our church. So when Mama and I decided we wanted to make our own Christmas arrangements, we asked Aunt Grace to come down and give us a lesson. I wanted something natural—a pine wreath. Mama wanted silk flowers. (She and Aunt Grace are both great gardeners, but they have no problem with "permanent botanicals," as my friend Sarah J. calls them. They consider pretty silks to be perfectly serviceable, practical, and economical. And you've gotta admit, your fertilizer bill goes way down.) The idea was that Aunt Grace would coach while Mama and I arranged. But really—who were we kidding? We're both a little challenged in this area, so we happily gathered pine cones and floral picks and snippers and vases and watched Aunt Grace go to work. Here's what I learned: (1) start arrangements in the center and work your way out; (2) florist's tape, picks, and wire are musts for your toolkit, and it doesn't hurt to have a glue gun, either; (3) straw, moss, and other cover-ups can hide most of your snafus, so arrange without fear; and (4) if you want your wreath a little on the loosey-goosey side, you'd better hide the wire from Aunt Grace because she cannot BELIEVE you want her to leave it that way. (It's OK, Aunt Grace. It'll look fine once I add a bow. And I promise to fill in any gaps. And I'll wire down any branches I add so it doesn't look messy. And I won't forget to . . . )

Stuff We Like: The Garden Gallery

When I spotted this unusual concrete firepit/container at Charlie and Cindy Thigpen's Garden Gallery, I called Dave and said something to the effect of, "I know times are hard and, technically speaking, I'm unemployed. But I gotta have it." Once Dave saw it, he didn't want to change the look of it, which fire would likely do. So now we're thinking water feature. Every time we work in the garden, we ponder it together, imagining water filling it or spilling over the sides, on a pedestal or no, with or without lighting. But that's what's so great about shopping at Charlie and Cindy's. I always come away with ideas, not just stuff, which is what makes their stuff truly special. [Santa, if you're listening, pretty much anything from the Garden Gallery would work for me. Here's the contact info for Rudolph: 2805 2nd Ave South—B'ham's Pepper Place—charliethigpensgardengallery.com.]
Major Mama 'N'em Stamp of Approval

Still Like Winter

I know we haven't even had time to enjoy fall yet, but I'm already dreaming of winter, which I never EVER do. I am a lifelong summer person. I live for beaches. And tops down on convertibles. And cookouts and tomato season and fresh corn and green beans. But when I woke up this morning and felt a serious nip in the air, I actually got excited about winter. (Ask Dave. It won't last a day past Christmas. But for now, I'm revelling in it.) I think it's because this year, winter, for me, means slowing way down. And thinking a few things over. Friends and family keep asking me what I'm doing since I left the magazine, and the truth is, I'm still figuring that out. After years of knowing exactly where I was going to be, I'm now just following the roads I feel led to travel and trusting that they'll take me to the right place. And I'm trying very hard, after years of working and pushing and juggling and racing the clock, to just . . . be still. Still like winter. I want to take the time to see the true shape of things, the way you see trees completely differently once the leaves are gone and their trunks and branches stand out against a clear sky. (Thank you, Southern Living Gardens friends, for teaching me that:) Should be interesting. And if all else fails, I'll take a cue from Hank the Cat—when in doubt, nap.

The Pear Tree

Last time I was home, my mother and I paid a visit to Aunt Patsy's pear tree. (It's OK. She knew we were coming—we weren't snitchin' 'em or anything.) Years ago, there was a gigantic pear tree, planted by my granddaddy if I remember right, that stood watch over an equally gigantic vegetable garden shared by Mama, Aunt Joyce, and Aunt Patsy. About the time the garden was finished at the end of summer, pears would be coming in, and there was a lady named May Lou who would just show up on my grandmother's front porch, ready to gather some. Grandme would invite her in for a visit, and then May Lou would head for the pears. That tree is gone now, but Aunt Patsy's doing just fine with this one. Mama and Grandme always made the best pear preserves. I'm here to tell you, there's nothing better with hot biscuits on a cold morning. I asked Mama how she makes them, and she started with, "Well, I don't really go by a recipe," which always gets me into trouble. I pressed her for specifics. "How many pears do you slice?" I asked. "When I've got that cooker that I use about half full, I know that's enough," she said. Right.

Harvest Time

When you grow up on a family farm, you pay attention to the seasons. Wintertime is quiet, as crops are "laid by." Spring means the honeysuckle has begun to engulf pasture fences, and you can pull tiny drops of sweetness right out of the flowers and have a taste. Summer is all about the vegetable garden—planting, picking, canning, and freezing. And then there's the fall harvest. While I appreciate advances in technology, I miss the old cotton wagons that got replaced by giant mechanized modules. When I was a kid, cotton wagons were THE playground of choice. Most of the year, they were empty, but for about a month or two in the fall—after raising your right hand and promising your mother that you had checked your pockets three times to make sure they were empty and removed all jewelry so there was no chance you could drop anything in the cotton that might set the gin on fire—you could climb up in those wagons and tumble around on a huge puffy cloud. You could smell the fields on the cotton lint and look out at the world from high above. Soon the big machines will roll again, pulling soft white fibers from prickly bolls. I haven't been part of the festivities for a long time. But this year, I mean to take at least an afternoon or two and be there. Maybe I can even pester my cousins enough to get a ride on the picker:)

Rain, Rain, Rain

I love the cool, gray light of a rainy day. After the sweltering heat of summer, and day after day of a beating-down sun that wilted my toughest flowers, the sound of a drenching rain was downright musical. Water droplets on green leaves, water splashing off garden rocks, water chasing Hank the Cat into a cozy chair for a nap . . . And it's cool outside—blissfully, blessedly cool. Fall is coming. I just know it. I heard a caller on NPR ask whether there was a way for the folks in flooded Vermont to send their over-abundance of water to the drought-stricken West. A nice idea, if it were possible. We don't always get ideal weather. (I write this with our generator humming in the background.) But we get through it, and that just makes us all the more thankful for those days when rain falls exactly when and where we need it, and a cool breeze blows, and then a kinder sun comes out again.