Letter to a friend in Minnesota:
Fortner:
Funny you should write today that you love the Master’s because of the azaleas. I’ve been mentally composing a note letting you know that after several false starts, Spring arrived here in earnest over the Easter weekend.
One day it was winter, and the trees were forlorn, almost lifeless; the next day, the dogwoods were in blossom, and the native azaleas couldn’t be outdone. Even the oak-leaf hydrangeas put out tender green leaves. (Our cultivated azaleas have buds that will open up any day now).
Along the roadsides, red bud trees are showing off, and on my walk the other day, I noticed that the violets have come out.
Perhaps the surest sign of spring was the snake I saw slithering across the highway just south of Walnut Hill the other day. And the carpenter bees. There has been a super-abundance of them. A friend gave me some desiccant powder that is supposed to kill the larvae, if I can find all the holes the bees have made and pump the powder into them. Meanwhile, I’ve been swinging away at the bees with an old tennis racket. I don’t know whether I’m getting better or the bees are getting dumber. Either way, I’m doing in a bumper crop.
I don’t know whether it has anything to do with Spring, but a mature bald eagle sat in the white oak tree just outside our bedroom window for five or six minutes one day last week. We have several nesting pairs on the lake, but that’s the closest that I have every been to one. And since our bedroom is on the second floor, we were at eye level, so to speak. It was a most impressive sight. Meanwhile, the gold finches, which had been packing away the bird seed at a prodigious rate, seem to have disappeared.
The blooming things include the pine trees, with their pollen that covers every surface with gold dust. It is amazing how the pollen can find its way into the most remote parts of the car. I have to hose off the windshield every day so I can see to drive, There is no point in giving the cars a thorough washing until the pollen stops falling.
There has been pollen floating in the lake, and rain today washed more of it in, and the wind formed it into windrows.
The oaks are putting out pollen, too. You don’t really see it, but it’s the kind that works its way into your sinuses and lungs. I’ve been snuffly for the past couple of days, and it's small comfort that the TV news reported tonight that it is an unusually heavy pollen season. Soon, the trees will begin dropping catkins, and it will be time to haul the blower out again.
I have been madly trying to get the place looking presentable. I’ve replaced some rotted cedar, and cleaned some of the decks and the flagstone on the landing and steps that lead down to the dock. The decks have just gotten a power washing the past few years, but every now and then they need a thorough cleaning. That means, in some places, tackling the ground in dirt with a bucked of TSP solution and a brush. Fortunately, we’re having the place painted this year, so the painting contractor will clean the mildew from the siding and soffits.
While I was scrubbing, the temperature was in the 80s, more like July than April. Today’s rain, though, was the harbinger of a cool front, and when I went down to the lake side to watch the sunset, it was considerably cooler than a day earlier.
I watched the first round of the Master's, too, and thought about our trip with you and Jerilyn to Callaway Gardens. You'll be envious to know that Adelaide's church group is talking about making a trip to Callaway soon. You just need to come for another spring.
Regards,
Brown
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A Better Gardener Than I
Written on Earth Day, 2009
As you crest a hill on Old Susanna Road just before it drops down to our short side road, the horizon stretches before you. In the distance the hills march westward. Most prominent is Smith Mountain, with its abandoned fire tower still standing watch over the lake.
From this vantage point you see more shades of green than the vocabulary can name. It is worthwhile to pull to the side of the road and drink in the scene.
On our half hill spring is rampant. Last week, I prepared a two beds for some flowers that I had started from seed a couple of months ago. I was beginning to think that the plants would become root-bound before there was enough of a break in the cold, wind and rain for me to set them out.
At last, though, sun appeared, the soil dried and the thermometer climbed, and I carried the tray of fledgling flowers down to the beds by the seawall.
The planting went quickly. When I finished, I stood erect and stretched and let my eyes wander. The native azaleas are past their prime, and the winds have stripped the flowers from the dogwoods. But the oak leaf hydrangeas have fresh green leaves, and wildflowers abound.
Violets are still blooming, and the flowers that look like tiny asters – according to Joab Thomas’ excellent wildflower book wild asters should not be blooming, so perhaps they’re daisy fleabane – abound. Small yellow flowers – I think they are eared coreopsis – abound on the hillside and on the flat path along the seawall. One of these days I will have to run the string trimmer along the path, but not until the flowering is past.
The attention getters, though, are the wild irises. They are small, even delicate. It seems impossible that they would thrive on their own, but there they are. I am reminded of one of my favorite Kate Campbell songs: “He used to call her Wild Iris; if you said don’t, she would.” Which in turn reminds me of my own wild iris.
All of these wildflowers and more are around the beds into which I’ve prepared.
I confess that I am only a semi-skilled gardener, and I don’t know whether any of the seedlings I set out will survive, much less thrive. My success or failure in this particular venture doesn’t matter, though. In the riot of shapes and colors around me, I recognize that God is a lot better gardener than I am.
Perhaps my – our – greatest contribution to our beautiful planet would simply be to avoid messing it up.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
As you crest a hill on Old Susanna Road just before it drops down to our short side road, the horizon stretches before you. In the distance the hills march westward. Most prominent is Smith Mountain, with its abandoned fire tower still standing watch over the lake.
From this vantage point you see more shades of green than the vocabulary can name. It is worthwhile to pull to the side of the road and drink in the scene.
On our half hill spring is rampant. Last week, I prepared a two beds for some flowers that I had started from seed a couple of months ago. I was beginning to think that the plants would become root-bound before there was enough of a break in the cold, wind and rain for me to set them out.
At last, though, sun appeared, the soil dried and the thermometer climbed, and I carried the tray of fledgling flowers down to the beds by the seawall.
The planting went quickly. When I finished, I stood erect and stretched and let my eyes wander. The native azaleas are past their prime, and the winds have stripped the flowers from the dogwoods. But the oak leaf hydrangeas have fresh green leaves, and wildflowers abound.
Violets are still blooming, and the flowers that look like tiny asters – according to Joab Thomas’ excellent wildflower book wild asters should not be blooming, so perhaps they’re daisy fleabane – abound. Small yellow flowers – I think they are eared coreopsis – abound on the hillside and on the flat path along the seawall. One of these days I will have to run the string trimmer along the path, but not until the flowering is past.
The attention getters, though, are the wild irises. They are small, even delicate. It seems impossible that they would thrive on their own, but there they are. I am reminded of one of my favorite Kate Campbell songs: “He used to call her Wild Iris; if you said don’t, she would.” Which in turn reminds me of my own wild iris.
All of these wildflowers and more are around the beds into which I’ve prepared.
I confess that I am only a semi-skilled gardener, and I don’t know whether any of the seedlings I set out will survive, much less thrive. My success or failure in this particular venture doesn’t matter, though. In the riot of shapes and colors around me, I recognize that God is a lot better gardener than I am.
Perhaps my – our – greatest contribution to our beautiful planet would simply be to avoid messing it up.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
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