Gardening Bug

It hits me every spring when the grass begins to green, the trees begin to flower or bud out, and the daffodils bloom everywhere.

Like a silent disease, it creeps into my mind and my body. I crave filling flower pots or planting living things in the ground. 

When I lived in south Georgia, USA, the growing season was long and began early. Azaleas could be blooming in late February and by March my big yard was overflowing with flowers.

My azaleas make a nice background for Nicki

I had a shady backyard, but the trees were mostly pines and my Azaleas loved living under those trees. I planted gardenias near the patio so I could smell that wonderful aroma. Inside my house which was perfect for plants with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides of the living area and one side of my dining area, I grew large plants that were right at home there. And outside I could watch the wisteria hanging from a small oak tree where birds delighted in hanging out.

I get nostalgic thinking about that wonderful place where I had thought I would live out my days. But I had twenty-five years there and in those years of happiness, love and laughter, sadness and grief, I built a house of memories. 

Within the walls of that, my dream house, we lost our beloved Brandy who had been my shadow for nineteen years. We lost Nicki, our first Samoyed, at only two years of age from an unknown illness. Barry insisted we find another Samoyed puppy and we did. He became the love of my life and Kodi lived to move to North Carolina with us.

My friend, Sue, gave us a tiny black kitten with white paws. 

He was so scared of the new place that he hid out under the freezer and would not come out. I was afraid he would climb into the motor or get caught in there and be killed. But when Barry came home that night, he moved the freezer and the little kitten came to him like he was grateful to be rescued. From that moment on Diesel, the name Barry gave him because he had a loud purr, was definitely Barry's cat. He cuddled in Barry's lap and followed my husband around. It broke his heart and mine when he had to tell the vet to euthanize his friend. Diesel had a large tumor growing in his mouth. We had it removed once, but it came back and he could not eat with it. We were told it would continue to come back and we had to put him down.

In the book I wrote with my friend and fellow writer, Estelle Rice, I tell the stories of some of these dogs and of the relationship Barry and I had with them. Animals are so special and smart and fun. My life has been filled with them and their stories.    Paws, Claws, Hooves, Feathers and Fins 

Today is a beautiful day here in the city. I watered my azalea bush and my jasmine bush, both of which are in pots on my small deck at my sister's house. I garden in small ways now. Soon I will buy some red geraniums for my upper deck in Hayesville where I hope to spend my summer. I doubt my hydrangea is still alive since we had some really cold weather up there. But I will plant annuals or grow a pepper plant so I can satisfy my inner farmer. 

I hope you will click on the following link and see how I feel about gardening. Maybe you do, too.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3FkaN0HQgs

City Girl? Country Girl?

I think I am officially a part-time resident of Roswell, Georgia. 

I now have a primary care physician here and I like him. Already he has made a difference in my health. Today I began a four-week schedule of physical therapy. I have joined a gym and I go there once a week to walk in the water at the pool. 

Tonight I realized I am truly learning to live as a city person. I called and ordered dinner for myself, drove over in the dark of night, and picked it up. I don't like to drive at night, and driving in the city at night is a little scary with all the traffic and bright lights in my eyes. But I made it and did not get lost.

If you live in a city or have lived in a city, you probably smile at my being concerned about going out at night and bringing home my dinner. But I have always lived a rural life and I love it. I can drive all over Clay County NC day or night with no qualms. And when we complain about the traffic it is because the summer people have arrived for a few months. I might have to wait a few minutes before I can drive out on Highway 64 and head to Hayesville five miles down the road. I admit, I don't drive at night much anymore even in North Carolina, because my vision is not so good. Here in Roswell, I ride with my sister or her husband driving. My car sits in the yard covered with pollen most of the time. 

But this week I decided to get out and do some things on my own. The exciting part of that is I have begun my deck garden here like the one I have at home. The shocker is how expensive everything is in the city. But I forgot that as I potted plants and got my hands really dirty again.

Got my hummingbird feeder up but so far no one has visited

I saw these cute little birds that hang on my pots and love the owl and the cardinal.

As you can see, a lovely little lake lies beyond my deck. Today the ducks were loud and flapping away.

Lexie loves our deck and is very happy to be outside when I am working with the plants.

In the big blue pot is an azalea with some creeping jenny at the base of it. It will be pretty. 
The yellow flower claims to be a pollinator and will entice birds, bees, and butterflies.

Although I plan to go back to Hayesville for most of the summer months, I will come back here often to visit, see my doctor and spend time in my comfortable apartment. I am so fortunate! Gay has a housekeeper come every couple of weeks and she cleans my place as well. In Hayesville, it has become very hard for me to find help. Wish I could do all my housework as I once did, but sadly I have to depend on others for the hard stuff.

Her is another of my poems for you. 

Gardening Then and Now, July 2015

                 By Glenda Council Beall 

Once tall azaleas sprawled
across my ground, pinks, whites
and lavenders. Outside my door,
blue hydrangeas bloomed.

Gardenias’ fragrance filled
my yard space, sent me back
in time to bell-shaped skirts,
verandahs in a fantasy southland.

Today I water red geraniums,
pink petunias in pots stacked
and spread across my porch perched
above tree limbs decorated with yellow
finches, Carolina wrens, and blue buntings.

I watch tomato vines, squash blossoms,
a spineless melon plant climb up wire cages.
No longer do I wipe sweat, kneel on hard soil,
bend to dig in dirt, and pray the deer don’t eat

my seedlings. From my easy chair, I observe
my favorite things in my container garden—hovering
hummingbirds, butterflies, and squirrels. I smile
as a doe and two young fawns pass by below.

Gardening above ground, bluebirds and poetry

My friend, Mary Mike, works in her yard all the time. She has the most energy of anyone her age that I know. I noticed recently that her bushes have become trees. Her trees have spread all over, and she has plans to take some of them down. I had two trees cut this spring. Both were dead. I didn't even realize it. I need others trimmed or cut down, but decided to wait until winter when the leaves are gone.

I once could see Lake Chatuge from my upper deck. Now trees have hidden my view. I am a tree lover. Cutting down a tree hurts me, makes me sad, but I am being smothered by these beautiful giants. 

My gardening is all done on my upper deck these days. This year I was late buying my favorite annuals, but I planted marigold seeds given to me last year and I planted Jalapeno pepper seeds.  I also planted a potato and the plant has done well.

First pepper on my plant. I chopped it and added it to spaghetti last night. 

                      Background is my drive down below and the woods to the east of my house. 

I tried to grow tomatoes on my deck, but I get very little sunshine and my brother, Rex, who was quite a gardener, said the shade was my problem. Lucky for me, the peppers don't seem to mind.

In the twenty-five years since we bought this house, the dogwood trees, the oaks and pines have grown so large around the property that I only get a small patch of midday sunshine. My Azaleas that were beautiful a few years ago are pitiful now. Only one plant blooms and seems to thrive. My Knock Out roses are not doing well although we have had lots of rain. 

My roses should look like this.

My yard is on a slope and I can't walk there safely now. Down in south Georgia, when I was younger, I grew the most beautiful Azaleas. I had a green thumb, but I seem to have lost it somewhere.

Behind Kodi are my Azaleas in my yard in south Georgia

I, like many others these days, have problems keeping my spirits up, staying positive. My little deck garden helps. I have hummingbird feeders there and I hang suet feeders near a window where I can watch the birds feed.

Eastern bluebirds 

I have a bluebird box in my yard, and in the spring, they usually produce two hatchings. My problem is that I have to ask someone to clean out the old nests or they won't lay eggs in the box. It is not easy to find someone when I need them.

This poem about bluebirds is by Mary Oliver, one of the most loved poets in recent years. 

WHAT GORGEOUS THING

I do not know what gorgeous thing

the bluebird keeps saying,

his voice easing out of his throat,

beak, body into the pink air

of early morning. I like it

whatever it is. Sometimes

it seems the only thing in the world

that is without dark thoughts.

Sometimes it seems the only thing

in the world that is without

questions that can't and probably

never will be answered, the

only thing that is entirely content

with the pink, then clear white 

morning and, gratefully, says so.

  --- Mary Oliver

Poems about My Father on Father's Day

A young couple live in Florida during the Great Depression when jobs are scarce and a young man must do what he has to do to keep his family housed and fed. 

The Ice House Job

After working 9 hours in the hot Florida sun,

he came home to eat a meal with her and his kids.

She told him how she wished he could stay with her

and rest, let her rub his back. I get scared here without you.

But he said he had to pay the rent, put food on the table.

As the kids were tucked into bed, he climbed

into his old truck, headed to work.

It should have been a relief after the sun burned

his skin to dark brown leather, but he wore his ragged

jacket and a cap with flaps over his ears

as if he had walked into dead of winter in Wisconsin.

Alone in the quiet he wondered how long could he go on

working two jobs, getting little sleep.

His back, tired from plowing mules all day,

his hands cold and chapped, he chopped

the fifty pound blocks. With both hands he clamped

the tongs that griped the slippery squares, swung his shoulders

tossing his burden up on the platform, over and over

until the clock said midnight, quitting time.

He climbed into bed too tired to bathe.

Her hand reached through the night,

touched his face. He slept but she lay awake

thinking of going home to Georgia, seeing her folks,

hearing him laugh again, and tell his stories to the kids.

After forty years of farming, a man can't just sit down and quit. He rises early every day and works a large plot of ground that feeds his children and grandchildren all summer, if only they would come and harvest his crop.

     

Daddy with his granddaughter, Carrie, on his birthday. Note the baseball player and the baseball on the cake. He loved baseball and was a very good player when he was a young man.

 Gardener

Once he cultivated vast acres of cotton,

peanuts, harvested bounteous crops 

Grey haired, now he sits in his frayed lawn chair,

sweat staining his chambray shirt, pock-marked

with burn holes from his Pall Malls.

His stooped frame rests from a morning

spent spraying tomatoes, trying to murder

small bugs who battle him for his harvest.

His eyes survey a pristine garden.

Tall corn and green beans climb twine

strung on poles in rows equally distanced.

Piles of summer squash strewn on clean straw

hide under leaves large as sun hats.

He caresses the cropped ears of his canine friend.

The cigarette ash grows long. He hardly notices

the shortened smoke, the fire against his callouses.

            ---Glenda Council Beall