"twisted fruit"

Before moving to the farm I had a long history of growing African Violets. But not a single one would grow well for me here. I've tried and tried and not a one has survived. Very sad, I tell you.

Two years ago I came upon a lovely little flowering plant at an Amish greenhouse. Its name is streptocarpus. It's from the Greek via Latin meaning "twisted fruit." A relative of the African Violet it is often called a cape primrose. The Amish call it a lady slipper. 

First residing on the front porch, then inside at the upstairs sliders with the orchids, within a year it multiplied into a robust mound of half a dozen plants and remained in bloom without pausing even once. Despite a serious attack of mealy bug, it has lived to multiply again. You see it in the photo above.

Naturally, last summer I was on the lookout for another variety hoping to begin a collection. I found only one. This little charmer joined the family.

This spring, after a year, it too has multiplied into many individual plants and will be divided and shared before being brought in for the winter.

Of course, this spring again I looked and amazingly I found three more flower types! None of them were in robust health but that didn't deter this new addict.

Aren't they lovely? This fall they'll get a plant stand of their own and be watched very carefully for the insidious little fuzzy invaders.  

By the way, garden centers sometimes sell their little cousin, streptocarella. It's a cutie, too. Clusters of smaller violet hued flowers on dangling stems. Cheerful. Friendly. 

And the humming birds that visit the nectar feeder out the front porch love them too.

thinking on tomatoes and second chances

My relationship with, or more honestly, my passion for, plants began early. As children we were required to help in the garden, usually given the task of weeding designated spots in the flower beds or vegetable rows. Now this assignment could just as easily have caused me to hate the garden. It did the opposite. My conversations with plants developed in those early years. (I was a child after all.) My understanding that interaction with plants was good for me developed later.

My father especially loved to garden. It was a pleasure he never lost. The day of his heart attack, his first words to me as I hopped into the ambulance before he departed for the hospital were "Don't forget to water the tomato seedlings!" Unfortunately, though those seedlings lived to be given to friends and family at his wake, he never lived to eat of their bounty. Today, my brother in Colorado, still raises tomatoes from the generations of seeds that he has saved from those seedlings in 2006. So, I'm not the only one of us kids who inherited the crazy love of playing in the dirt. In fact, all 7 of us kids have gardened for joy as adults. 

It is this idea of "garden for joy" that guides what I expect of myself and the gardens here on our ridge meadow property. My responsibilities as steward of this little bit of land in my care. My honest acknowledgement of what I am physically able to do. My goals are not to fill the larder for winter. Not to harvest the first ripe tomato on the ridge. Not to turn my joy into burden. To develop a balance of what I am capable of with what needs to be done as I age. To have fun. To have time to see and savor the joy.

Am I the only one who apologizes to the seedlings that get culled when thinning a row? Does anyone else comfort a shrub or a tree when pruning it? 

(Can you identify the plant rooting in the jar in the photo above?)

Every summer I like to grow something I've never grown before. I like to experiment with methods of growing the tried and true.

This year I am growing my tomatoes on hog panel trellises. With the weather we've been having the tomato stems have become fragile, in need of very careful handling. I actually snapped off a plant at the ground just by easing it over toward the trellis last week. Was all lost?

The first year I gardened as a newlywed, a cutworm had toppled a young tomato plant which I discovered when the severed plant was still fresh with dew. I popped it into a jar of water, it rooted happily, and eventually was replanted to flourish and fruit for the season. And so, 46 years later,  I didn't hesitate to do the same with this little one. As you can see the roots are coming along nicely. The plant is perky and fully of flowers. Soon it will be planted and then reintroduced to the out of doors. 

Do you sense a parable? 

thoughts on a mid June Monday

I have a theory that as we approach the summer solstice the earth spins faster than at any other time of year. The days are the longest but for some inexplicable reason there seems to be less time for everything,

Add to this a long list of "what I want to accomplish this summer" and pretty soon it's like  being pummeled by waves. Not little, lapping, tinkling waves like minnows nibbling your toes. The sort that make you reach for handholds and cause you to check that your life vest is fastened.

I admit the heat and humidity really do me in. And the bugs?? eek, they love me. Truth be told the combination, if allowed, can cause me to forget all desire for being outdoors.
Yet the garden needs tending. The chickens require tender attention. Life on the meadow needs to be noticed.

I'm wondering if getting older I'm coming to realize there's no longer enough time for  everything on my "want to accomplish list." An idea, that if allowed, could immobilize.

Today, though, I choose to "do". Something. To allow myself my humanity. To let go of the falsity of being in control.
To acknowledge gratitude.
And to share with each of you some of the joy that hums its soft melodies if we but have the ears to listen.

Love and thanks to each of you for being who you are persevering in the face of your own challenges of spirit.

"Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard."  (Anne Sexton)