Garden, First Week of June

Days seem to fly by.  Not enough hours [or perhaps not enough energy?] to do the many  tasks

 that 'want done'--let alone to tackle projects that intrigue me.

The abundant rains have made June weather, thus far, a bit cooler than the past three seasons--a welcome change, though surely the sweltering hot and humid days must arrive.

The orange tree lilies proudly withstood several pounding torrents.  Now the topmost buds are open and petals from the first blooms are falling, hot splashes of color.

I ruthlessly tore out some of the mint which was choking this patch of nigella and dianthus.

These were sown in place the first summer we were here.

The stripey seed pods of the nigella are almost as appealing as the lacy flowers.

Elder flowers, foamy green and white, are beginning to open.

I'm puzzled why all but a few poppies this season are this coloration.

Lovely as they are I miss the deep red frilly ones and the powder pink 'peony' type.

This coneflower stem was apparently bent when the plant emerged from dormancy in the spring.

I've enjoyed watching it stretch.

I have lost a lavender at the bottom edge of the herb garden, and the purple sage [behind the tri-color sage] has a strange wilt. This bit of ground is 'gritty' which should provide good drainage for herbs which don't appreciate wet feet.

Nellie is good garden company.

Poppies, and below them squash and potatoes in the veg strips.

Asclepias aka Butterfly Weed.

I spotted this growing wild in our north pasture. Now in its 4th season in the perennial strip it is making a respectable clump.  I've seen a yellow variant growing along roadsides--but never when I had a trowel with me!

A single pale poppy.

It has been so wet that 'seed wings' which lodged in a crevice of the box elder have rooted into the bark.

Weird 'toadstools' crop up in shady moist corners, crouching there for a day and disappearing overnight.

The former owners of our farm planted garlic in the oddest places.

Several stalks of it poke through violets and weeds under the grape arbor.

I am fascinated by the papery  husks which split to uncover the flower buds.

Garlic in bloom.

I expect that my posts and my opportunity to blog-hop and comment will be limited during the

next two weeks.

We are preparing for company and I'm attempting to plan ahead regarding food, as well as doing the cleaning and tidying which will make loved ones feel especially welcomed.

The 'guest room' also serves as my desk space, so it will be 'off-limits.'

My laptop is at the repair shop for cleaning and service--perhaps I'll be able to steal a few moments to post a line or two, but I don't have my photo program installed on it.

Perhaps you should brace for a barrage of photos during the final week of June!

Outdoor Work

I have wanted to spend every sunny moment puttering outside.

Many garden chores remain that couldn't be done during the weeks when the weather was so hot and dry.

D. came over on Sunday afternoon wanting 'something to do.'

I suggested he might mow the grass--roaring about on the lawn mower has a certain appeal for him.

He knew that I have been wanting to move some of the rocks that form the boundries of an old flower bed and this was the task that he chose.

Within days of arriving here in March 2010, I discovered the legacy of the two peony bushes at the edge of the area we chose for the main vegetable garden.  It wasn't until early July this year that I tackled clearing along the fence line with the thought of putting in more peonies and some filler plants.

I grubbed away, pulling out clumps of tangled grass, disrupting a mole run, wrenching at some tenacious and un-named prickly shrubs.  I persisted, laboring in an afternoon of 90+ [F] heat until I realized that I was becoming light-headed!

It seemed wise not to continue this project in the punishing heat of high summer.

Time was that I would have tackled moving rocks or digging up roots--and suffered the physical consequences with an air of 'mission accomplished.'

I can't say I am wiser now--I simply recognize that wishing and willing to do a task that requires physical stamina isn't realistic.

D. tore into clumps of grass and the wiry roots of the bushes with shovel and  the small tiller, while I followed on hands and knees to grub out and pile the loosened debris and unwind poison ivy vines.

Willis, as usual, joined us to inspect our work.

He behaves as though any turned earth is for his benefit!

The area isn't ideal for a flower bed.  The water maple on the other side of the fence sends out the vast shallow root system typical of the species. The utility pole must be worked around.

D. chose large flat pieces of stone and angled them around the base of the pole.  I will be watchful whether the poison ivy sends up new shoots around the rocks. 

[If so, I shall be ruthless and hit them with Round-Up!]

D. took advantage of the slightly sloping ground to create a rustic stone step up into the little garden.

We had to quit before we were quite finished.

There are a few more rocks to be placed on the far end of the wall and dirt needs to be

barrowed down to deepen and level the planting area.

I have two young peonies in the perennial bed to move here.  I have divided the clumps of iris which we rescued from the weeds; they will be set along the right side of the bed. I have two varietes of nepeta--Walkers Low and Sibirica-- which have gone rampant in the rose border.  I will plant some at the back of this new bed where it can do battle with the encroaching grass and spread itself along the fence.

I think that thyme or some low growing 'pinks' would make a nice edging.

Another summer I plan to till [have someone till!] along the fence on the veg garden side and plant sunflowers where they will have the support of the sturdy wire.

My kind of flower gardening is very informal, a rather rustic interpretation of cottage gardening.

D.'s creation in rough stone gives me the sense of a New England farm dooryard.

Mr. Rogers, the former owner of the place, stopped by today with a gift of

watermelon seeds for next year's garden.

He told me that the rocks we are using are some which he salvaged from a massive stone chimney, demolished, as was the old farmhouse on the site, to make way for our present small house, built in 1980.

I like knowing these bits of homely history.

Today was beautiful and sunny.

I had coffee and a bowl of warmed apple crisp while sitting on the front porch, then hauled out sacks of potting soil, an assortment of pots and such.

The rosemarys needed potting on as did the beefsteak and angel wing begonias which have spent the summer on the porch.

I consolidated three Christmas cactus into one large pot.

[The Christmas cactus is one of only two plants which survived the move from Vermont to Wyoming 13 years ago.  My large rosemarys, begonias, and an assortment of geramiums all turned up their toes and died in protest over the alkaline content of the water there.]

Sun splashed over the south-east end of the porch all morning.

I went down to the creek and picked up small stones from the gravel track, using them for drainage in the bottoms of the flowerpots.

I like to make a rather gritty light soil mixture for rosemarys, but found that the local Wal Mart has put away all their gardening supplies--no bags of vermiculite or builders sand--or even mulch, so all my plants

have to thrive, willy-nilly, in the all-purpose mix still available in ridculously small bags.

I made a grand mess on the porch: spilled soil, pots which needed to be scrubbed, prunings, clay shards from a cracked terra cotta pot which I bashed up to serve as drainage pieces.

The larger jagged shards are stuck in the soil around the repotted plants which will be coming inside for the winter, as Charlie Cat and his children have a love of making 'salad' from house plants.

The Angel Wing begonias are offspring of  one that came from Vermont.  Heidi took cuttings before the original plant succumbed to the alkaline water and gave me several small well-rooted plants.

They were quite battered after a winter of cat attacks, but  summer on the porch has given them new life.

I am hoping the bristling stakes of bamboo in the pots will deter feline interest.

A friend started the beefsteak begonias for me a year ago when I admired hers.

I have had these since late June and they were ready for larger pots.

Space for plants is a problem in this small house.

In Wyoming I had many large windows, but toxic water.  Here in Kentucky our water quality is good but space for indoor plants is minimal [and such as there is, invaded by cats!]

My Amish neighbor Delila grew a  garden row of the brilliant cockscomb [celosia.]

I brought home several of the flowerheads last evening and laid them on the porch to dry.

As I worked there today I noticed a pair of hummingbirds zooming close--I think they were attracted by the bright flowers.

I made the hummers a fresh batch of sugar syrup for their feeder.

Then, with the porch swept, two lavender seedlings set out at the edge of the herb garden, and

newly potted plants in a tidy row, it was time to sit with a mug of green tea.

If only I could learn the gentle art of sitting still--without a renewable list of "things to do"whirling through my mind!

Cinnamon Roses

Cinnamon Roses photo from Cornhill Nurseries

In summer the back door of Grampa Mac's farmhouse stood open all day.  The narrow porch faced north and ran the length of the kitchen ell. It was a cool and sheltered spot on a hot day, flanked by the bulk of the house wall to the west and with the flat expanse of hay meadow lying below to the east. A clothesline took up much of the grassy space, and in my earliest memory a sour cherry tree leaned from the house wall toward the morning sun.  Rounding the corner of the main house a grassy strip was bordered by a bed of common orange daylilies--which had to occasionally be ruthlessly scythed back lest they take over the yard.

There were currant bushes at the bottom of the vegetable garden and the remnants of a fruit orchard shaded the chicken coops beyond.

A footpath began at the old pear tree, meandered past the plum trees which were already succumbing to black knot fungus, and emerged on the dirt road halfway to my parent's small house a few hundred yards away.

A huge maple dominated the bit of  yard below the westward looking front door. From one of its sturdy branches Grampa Mac had hung a rope swing. Between that green lawn with its stone well curbing and the path was a dense tangle of Cinnamon Roses.

Though the blossoms were prolific and had a pleasing spicy scent, they didn't often find their way into bouquets. The canes sprawled untidily and were viciously thorny. Any foray amongst them meant being raked bloody as the branches seemed to reach out and snatch at my scalp, my bare legs and arms, even ripping the fabric of my shorts or pinafore.

My Uncle Bill attacked the Cinnamon Roses from time to time, armoured in his patched Carhartt pants and wielding well-honed pruners.

At some time during the 1970's they were cut down and the area was bush-hogged, removing the last trace of the invasive canes.

A neighbor of my parent's generation, Sally Phelps, whose family farm was a mile or two from Grampa Mac's, to the east, mentioned Cinnamon Roses.  She remembered how prevalent they were in her childhood, growing in wiry sprawls along the roadsides. Her nostalgic words conjured a picture in my mind of Cinnamon Roses mingling with orange daylilies on the roadside near the old Cheney place. The grey ghosts of old buildings there were razed, the lot graded and a new house built on the site in the 1960's.

I was surprised to find a nursery offering Cinnamon Roses for sale as their invasive ways and rather clumsy form don't favor a neat perennial garden.

In sorting gardening books last week I found I had marked the following paragraph in my

copy of 'The Fragrant Garden" by Louise Beebe Wilder.

The book was first published in 1932 and in this excerpt it appears that

Mrs. Wilder was quoting an earlier source.

"R. cinnamomea, Cinnamon Rose.  Candace Wheeler speaks of the Cinnamon Rose, 'braiding its odors with those of the sweet white Syringa blossoms, quite undisturbed by a new generation of rose-lovers.' 

It is a small, flat, tumble-headed pink rose of fine, if faint spicy scent, often found flourishing by the dusty highway, or pressing its quaint blossoms through the broken palings of old and deserted gardens.  Not now found in Rose lists but it was popular with our grandmothers who cherished many sweet and simple things."

My Google search for Cinnamon Roses turned up the short story linked below.

The author's name, Mary Wilkins Freeman, set off a clang of memory in my rag-bag mind.

A bit of pawing in a box of books and I had my hands on the above pictured paperback.

"Cinnamon Roses" isn't included in that collection.

Mary Wilkins Freeman's 'characters' speak in the verncular of New England, a speech with which I am familiar in several of its variants. She was complimented by later reviewers for a less cumbersome use of regional dialect than many of her contemporaries, still the dialogue must have been awkward to transcribe.

If you enjoy old stories, take a moment to read 'Cinnamon Roses.'

http://home.comcast.net/~MEWF_Short_Stories/CinnamonRosesE.htm

My Favorite Things [Answering a Challenge]

Leanne gave us a tour of her home last week and issued a challenge for her readers to do the same.

Bovey Belle posted her response here.

I haven't seen those of other readers, but have prepared a photographic gathering of my own favorite things.

Most of the photos were taken during the past few days especially for this post, for others I sorted through my photo archives.

The marriage certificate of my g-grandfather and his second wife, the lady I knew as Grandma Eliza.

They were married in 1892. I was just past my 5th birthday when she passed away.

I treasure items which have been handed down in my family.

I found the framed certificate leaning against a bedroom wall in my parents' home after my Mother had to go into a nursing care home.

The glass was shattered; I picked out the shards, wrapped the piece in an old blanket and took it with me to Wyoming where I had a frame shop install protective glass.

The certificate is currently resting on a chest of drawers which I stripped, sanded and

painted in this dark red.

Refinishing furniture is an activity which I have enjoyed in the past.



A friend in Vermont helped to administer the estate of a beloved elderly lady of our church.

Esther Jane had lived very frugally and never thought of selling the vintage items which had been lifelong furnishings of her home.

I was living in Wyoming when EJL passed away.  I sent funds, hoping that my friend could bid in this oil painting. It depicts a part of EJL's dooryard.

I was told by the framer that it wasn't proper to use a mat with an oil painting--but I wanted the rust-red border so I defied convention.

This painting was created for me by a friend who has since made a name for herself in the artistic community of Brandon, Vermont.

She worked from a photo of my beloved Katy-did Cat.

Several years ago I found an on-line source for reproduction maps of various towns in New England and upstate New York.

This is the town of Hague, NY where my mother's ancestors settled in the late 1700's. Several of my cousins still live there.  With their help I was able to verify the location of several family homes labeled on the 1876 original.  I also have a map of my own Vermont hometown [where my parents were born, lived and died] and one of the central Vermont hamlet J. thinks of as "home."

I placed tiny dots of red ink at each family homesite before having the maps framed.

They hang in the hallway of our home.

Family tradition has it that g-grandmother Eliza pieced these quilt blocks from salvaged segments of aprons, "house dresses" and shirts. Her hand stitching is neat and precise.

The quilt top languished in my mother's dresser drawer for years until I backed it with muslin and tied it as a surprise birthday gift for her.

She loved the quilt--and loved using it folded at the foot of her bed.  As often as one of the cats muddied it, the quilt went into the wash. The old materials softened and frayed. The pink-checked sashing gave way.

Mother washed it one last time and put the tattered treasure aside with the note, in her now shaky handwriting, that the quilt was to be saved for me.

I rescued the best of the blocks and hand quilted them to squares of an old white sheet. I added the setting triangles of washed muslin.  J.'s cousin Lorraine, an artist and needlewoman, suggested the type of framing.

My son and daughter each have a framed block; my girl cousins and several other descendents of our g-grandparents also have finished blocks.

A double panel of the quilt blocks. Reflections on the glass make for a less than sharp photo.

J.'s sister-in-law took these photos [and many more] when the family went on pack trips into the mountains..

I chose a number of them, scanned, cropped and printed them on photo paper, then framed them as my Christmas gift for J. in 2010.

This rocking chair belonged to my Grampa Mac.

I grew up next door to his farm and remember how many evenings he spent in this chair, twitching the radio dial from one station to another. After his death and that of my uncle, my mother gave me the rocker.

The woven splint areas were in bad shape and I used it for several years by folding a blanket into a pad.

J. learned that a friend could create a replacement for the damaged seat and back..  He had this done as my Christmas gift one year. The cushion is a favorite one which I made.

The making of this appliqued quilt happily occupied my evenings for most of a Wyoming winter.

A friend at the quilt shop where I worked taught me to do hand applique.

A new friend in Kentucky brought me the quilt rack.

It is topped with some old wooden spindles, ceramic cats from my collection and a reproduction lantern.

As a child I loved to bring home wildflowers, interesting rocks, bits of moss, bird nests.

My Grampa Mac placed an old table on his front porch where my ever-changing found items could be displayed.  I still bring in fallen bird nests. This one belonged to a pair of cardinals.

The bits of petrified wood were picked up on a Wyoming camping trip.

Vintage kitchen collectables parade along the top of kitchen cupboards.

Some, such as the wooden bowl, came from my g-grandparents' house.  Others have been purchased at flea markets and antique shops.

More kitchen and farm utensils.  I like stoneware jugs.

The old torch came from Grampa Mac's shed.

I bought the large round tin as it reminded me of one which reposed in his kitchen cupboard.

I am a tea drinker and have a collection of teapots in various sizes and shapes.

The center beauty was made for me by a dear Wyoming friend.

She and her Mom collaborated to give me the two flanking Fiesta ware pots.

It is thanks to the same two generous women that I have my Fiesta dishes.

Louise spent much of her working life at the Homer Laughlin factory.

When she retired she had lifetime privileges to buy Fiesta at factory prices.

I would tell her what I could spend and she surprised me with an assortment of the colorful pieces.

It is no secret that I adore cats.

Over the years friends and family have given me cat-related gifts.

Here are some of my cat mugs.

I have a collection of jugs and pitchers.

The one in the center was a thank-you gift from a dear friend.

I fed her family cats while she and her husband were in Quebec.

The handsome jug was purchased there.

On the right is the tall "chocolate pot" with an Oriental scene.  It belonged to my grandmother.

I have wondered if it was a wedding gift to her and Grampa Mac--or maybe something she brought from her family home.

More cat mugs, a bone china rose mug [found in a charity shop] and an overflow of Fiesta mugs.

I have always used scented soaps and lotions.

At one time I enjoyed some rather sophisticated perfumes, but have returned to my first simpler loves such as lavender and rose.

I began making quilts in 1980.

My skills were honed by my job in a Wyoming quilt shop and membership in a quilt group which thrived on

"show and tell."

 Log Cabin Star created in Robyn Pandolph's Folk Art Christmas fabrics.

This quilt, like so many I have made, was given to someone special.

Sampler quilt made as a wedding gift.

I enjoyed the challenge of fitting all the elements together.

This one was made in beautiful batik fabrics and machine quilted by a woman with wonderful design skills.

It was displayed and sold at the quilt shop.

A scrappy 9-patch quilt made for a benefit "silent auction."

Music has always been an important part of my life.

An evening of song shared with good friends in our Wyoming home.

You will spot J. and me at the left of the photo.

I can belt out a solid harmony to gospel, bluegrass or country tunes!

Genealogy is one of my passions.

While family lore interested me from childhood, it is only in the past decade that I have been serious about collecting data and assembling it to share.

One of the first photos taken with my first digital camera: the tiny graveyard in Bolton, NY where many of my maternal kin were laid to rest.

J. with his dear Pebbles horse in her Wyoming pasture.

Animals are a special part of our lives.

Teasel, aka "Momma's Darling"

asleep on an Autumn Leaves quilt in our Wyoming bedroom.

Sweet Eggnog kitty on a quilt which now lives with my sister.

When haven't I been sewing something?

I learned to do dressmaking and tailoring quite skillfully before I grew tired of fussing and fitting and turned  to piecing quilts.

Here is a quilt in progress--the last one made in our Wyoming home before the sewing machine was packed up for the move to Kentucky.

Two more cherished vintage items: my Dad's shaving brush and Grampa Mac's shaving mug.

He used a straight razor with a yellowed ivory handle.

I learned to make bread when I was 18. I love to bake, especially bread and pastry,

These photos have gone up in rather random order as I sorted through my archives.

I have a number of Grampa Mac's diaries. His entries are brief--notes on the weather, farm work, rare trips to town, and in later years, always the mention when my sisters and I trotted next door

to spend time with him.

Canning and preserving food is an extension of my dedication to gardening.

I'm glad to be living again where we can grow and put up good food.

A view of my Vermont garden taken in the mid-90's.

I seem to remember I had levered that huge rock in the background to that spot and was awaiting the help of a strong male to heave it out of the garden!

The lower veg garden. 2011

The new planting of herbs at the side of the house.

Gardening is not merely something I DO--its a large part of WHO I AM!

I don't think I've forgotten any of the felines who have lived with me since earliest childhood.

Cats: dear, funny, intelligent, interesting, exasperating.

Teasel investigates some of my stash of quilt fabric.

Music is a vital force in my life, and I am thankful for the gift of music which is a legacy

of my Mother's family.

Have I mentioned books?

My books have not all been unpacked at once in one house for nearly a decade.

At present most of them are in horrible tipples here and there.

Here are a few of them in a slightly tidier mode in the Wyoming house.

I hope some of you have persevered through this lengthy tour of my favorite things.

I hope others will take up Leanne's challenge to portray how our homes tell something of our personal stories.