Thursday, Jul. 25, 2002
Dear Diary:

There are these moments when nature sweeps in and reminds me that no matter how much I work at making things beautiful she can trump me with a wave of her hand.

Mist rising from the pond, low lying cloud kissing the mountain and sunlight peeking through.  It doesn't get much better ehI love these mornings of light and mist.

I would love them even more if my spousal unit hadn't dumped this huge honking load of gravel he needs for a project right in the middle of our yard. The funniest part of it is that he just doesn't understand why that fries my circuits.

"It will be gone in a few weeks," he said.

"So will this stage of the garden," I retorted.

There is much eye rolling from him because as far as he's concerned the garden's always pretty. There is much eye rolling from me because I know it's always different and I live for these differences. This is one of the peak stages of my garden for me.

From the yellows and blues of spring to the pinks of summer

Now a mature woman would try to avoid the annoyance and figure out ways to ignore the gravel pile. I, on the other hand, can't seem to avoid it. I'm like a kid wiggling a loose tooth with my tongue even though it hurts like the dickens and I know nothing good can come of frigging around with it.

That said, I walk around the gravel. I stand on it. I kick stones from it. I fume. I fuss. I sputter. I say rude things about the spousal unit to the kitties, who have joined me in scaling the gravel pile. As the three of us stand upon Mt. Gravel and gravely survey our domain, I mutter darkly about how it BETTER be gone and gone soon.

Yes, yes I am THAT mature.

Yes, Annie, I got one of the dark purple ones and I will save seed for youOn a happier note, after two years of waiting this is the year that Annie's hollyhocks have flowered. They make me stupidly happy in a way I find hard to express.

The thing about my gardens is that a lot of the plants have come either as seeds or as hunks o' plant from the gardens of friends and family. For me they are as much a scrapbook or a photo album as a landscape.

Annie's hollyhocks are doubly sweet for me because not only do they remind me of a friend of nearly 30 years, they are also heritage hollyhocks. To my delight, they are the single-bloomed antiques I remember from my own childhood and not the obscene pom-pom flowered monstrosities the hybridizers are pawning off on us today as hollyhocks.

Pom-pom flowers on hollyhocks. Sheesh. Let's all just take a moment and savour the insane wrongness of that.

Okay, moment's up. Please feel free to go back to whatever it was you were doing before.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (0 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.