A test of the gardener's patience

Photo is from a couple of years ago, before the campaign of death was begun

There's nothing quite like digging in the garden in the rain.

We've had some volunteer rambling roses in our yard since day one. Pop decided it might be nice if he moved them to near the back door, but in the space of about two years, they took over the back door, so he dug them up and put them between the windows on the south side of the house, whereupon they proceeded to grow to block the satellite dish signals – plus, the invasion of Japanese beetles chewed them into scraggly, spotty skeletons.

Disgusted, annoyed, and frustrated, he decided a year ago last spring to just hack them down to their roots, and dig out what he could of those.

They came back.

He cut them down again.

You already may have guessed the result.

This afternoon, I moved those stubborn weed roses out of Pop's flower patch and into the Zone of Doom by the porch (in the shade, next to the bird bath), where my other wee roses, the oxalis, and his first rhododendron had all met their demise. If the roses survive this, we'll have a nice, lightly aromatic privacy screen in a few years – plus, we can probably grow offshoots on the moon and points beyond.

Fruits of our labors

I'm picking and pitting cherries again, this week. There's another bumper crop in my back yard. One of my two dwarf Northstar cherry trees has already produced five quarts, perfect for a pair of pies, (I've consigned the other tree to my bestest friend, Mari, in exchange for her mowing my ever-shrinking lawn -- since we've been mulching and converting the grasslands to vegetable and flower garden). The great thing about that is, I've probably picked less than a third of the total on that one tree, and have pitted them and popped them in the deepfreeze until later this summer.

Last year, we got less than a pint off the pair of trees --the ice storm in early spring killed most of the blossoms, and what was left got blown off during a couple of storms. This year, the mild, wet spring has brought me a bumper crop, and I'm feeling smug. We shall have the juiciest, tastiest cherry pie in town.

I might even share a bit of this, when a certain musically-inclined professor comes to town. We shall see.

Strolling through the spring garden

Along the driveway I share with my neighbors, I've managed to get a few flowers to grow...

toward the back end of the drive, just shy of the garage, is the darkest of my iris blossoms


then, a few steps toward the front of the property, the peonies are threatening to open, and the ants are encouraging them to go there.

Meanwhile, right up next to the front porch rail is the bridal wreath (spirea) bush

and up near the street, leaning against the telephone pole, one of the pale iris blooms I transplanted from their place eating away the bulkhead to the basement.


We're all getting spiffed up for my seester's visit this week.

Seester is icumen in
Lhude sing wuhhu!
Cleareth hed and maketh bed
And cleanth the fridge nu –
Sing wuhhu!

Friday Catblog: Out of Africa (or something like it)

Due to the age of my mower and the quality of my lungs, I can only mow my lawn in sections -- about fifteen minutes at a time. My yard is quite large, and with many obstacles, such as dwarf fruit trees, full-sized shade trees, raspberry canes, rhubarb plants, blueberry bushes, cherry bushes, rosebushes, spirea bushes, holly bushes, and assorted other bushes (none, that I know of, are from Texas, though). This challenging yard means that, quite often, a section gets to looking neglected.

Cats like this.

There is something both thrilling and comforting about a wild place.



AyeAye and Shy Sister have effectively taken over The Veldt.



I am afeard.

I hope I'm safe, sitting here in Mom's little neon. Safari can be dangerous.

Be sure to visit other wild (and less so) beasts, at Modulator's Friday Ark # 138, and, on or after Sunday evening, stop by the Carnival of the Cats for even more felines.

There's a reason for wearing gloves in warm weather

I keep forgetting that weeding and pruning in the garden are tasks not so much like moving boxes of books. I kept myself fit all winter by lifting and rearranging my many boxes of auction successes, expecting that my muscles would be ready for springtime.

My skin isn't. After only about 45 minutes of lopping away bits of brush I should have cleared last fall, I discovered I was developing tender spots on my fingers. I quit, came indoors, washed up, and discovered I have three blisters -- one in particular, a little more than a centimeter in diameter, is on my automobile-traffic-communication finger.

I didn't have this problem last spring. Last spring, I was ready for work. Last spring, I wore gloves all season. This spring, I will find my gardening gloves or buy new ones. Meanwhile, I'll be using the emergency version.