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Deck Post

Deck Post

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It’s the first post of the season that I’m writing on the deck before leaving for work. It’s warm enough to sit out here in shirtsleeves, a delicious reversal from months of chilly mornings.

The windows were open so I woke this morning to the slap of the newspaper on the driveway. An almost full moon was setting as I left the house.

It’s a different kind of day when I have a chance to walk before work — more expansive, softer around the edges, routine on the run.

So even though I should be leaving now, I take another sip of tea, linger a little longer with the birdsong and the faraway traffic noise. In a moment I’ll get up, shoulder my bag, leave the house, drive to Metro.

But not yet.

Baby Trees

Baby Trees

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“A society grows great when people plant trees in whose shade they will never sit.”
Greek proverb

Last winter I sent a $10 donation to the Arbor Day Foundation, which promised to send me an American redbud, crape myrtle, crabapple, Washington hawthorn and white dogwood in exchange.

And that they did.  The trees arrived last week in a little bag, their roots protected with a watery gel. Here they are in a jar of water, looking more like a dead plant that a bunch of potential trees.

It’s not that I expected lush greenery for my tiny investment. But I was still a bit shocked by the meagerness of the saplings.

Still, they have potential. One day these sticks will grow roots and leaves, trunks and boughs. They will turn their faces to the sun, rustle their leaves in the wind. One day my grandchildren may sit in their shade.

At this point, though, I have modest expectations for the baby trees. Given the number of tall oaks we’ve lost the last few years, I just hope that they bend rather than break when the wind blows.

Deck Thoughts

Deck Thoughts

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It’s my first work morning on the deck since last fall. I’ve cleaned the glass-top table and brought out the old seat cushions.

Now, instead of the clickety-clack of computer keys, I hear the drone of a chain saw, distant traffic noise, small birds chittering.

There is plenty of mental effort required for the writing I do, but once outside all I see are the physical chores: tying down the climbing rose, chopping up the dead wood, preparing the garden for spring.

It’s a bit overwhelming until I remind myself of this: We’re here to labor, to try and fail, to wonder and to grow.

The Aftermath

The Aftermath

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They came yesterday to see about the wood, the two straight trunks bisecting the back yard. Did they pass muster as lumber, or must we bring in the tree guys with their whirring chainsaws and chipper?

Don’t know the answer yet, but I wonder if they saw the potential, the long straight boards locked into those twin trunks, the 80-foot expanse of prime oak.

What I see is the chaos, the splintered branch, like bone through skin, the errant stick impaled in earth. I see the volunteer cherry uncentered and the earth ball like the underside of a mushroom.

I can barely stand to look at the trampoline. Of course, I can barely see the trampoline, so lost is it beneath the branches.

I see the heft, the waste, the terror. I see everything you don’t expect and some of what you do.

In from the Cold

In from the Cold

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The ferns came in 10 days ago,  the cactus mid-week, and one big pot of begonias a few nights ago. The plants that bloomed and thrived for almost six months on the deck are now huddled by the fireplace or hogging the light of the two small basement windows.

And it’s good that they are, because over the weekend came a killing frost, a hard freeze that nipped the dogwood leaves left on the tree, shriveling them overnight. The begonias
still standing on Saturday morning took a a graceful bow as the day progressed and by Sunday morning had folded and fallen.

If autumn is a gentle reminder of our own fragility, a hard freeze is mortality’s slap in the face. So, even though I’ve been expecting it, even though it’s overdue, this shift of seasons leaves me vaguely melancholy. No wonder we plan feasts for these dark hours, one day for gratitude, another to celebrate the light and our hope in its return.

Dutch Wave

Dutch Wave

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The headline caught my eye yesterday. “An inspiring green space in the concrete jungle.” Could it be the High Line? And yes, it was.

Gardening columnist Adrian Higgins wrote about the verdancy of New York City’s linear park, its stunning perennials and the way the wildlings (I love that word) mimic the flowers and weeds that flourished on the abandoned train line before it became an urban rooftop garden.

Higgins focuses on the plants themselves and the style of their plantings, as well as the man behind the beauty. Landscape designer Piet Oudolf is a leader of the “Dutch Wave” school of gardening, which is heavy on perennials and herbs and pollinators.

It’s nice to have a name for the pleasing combination of shaggy grasses and delicate flowers. Not that I will try to create it at home but so I can roll it around in my mind as I stroll, recreating the walks I’ve taken on the High Line, a place where plants and people come together so admirably.

(The perennials in my garden are not Dutch Wave.)

Being Outside

Being Outside

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Working on the deck this morning I have a ringside seat on the busy life of the backyard. The stars of the show are the hummingbirds (a male-female pair, from what I can tell) and a little chipmunk that scampered within three feet of me, then paused for what seemed like minutes (but was probably only seconds) perfectly still.

Given that Copper is now back here with me I doubt I’ll see that little guy again, but the hummingbirds are making regular passes at the nectar. A pair of goldfinches are doing the same with their feeder. Farther out in the yard a cardinal soars from branch to branch, and the summer perennials are just starting to bloom.

Pausing even a minute lets me see the dramas that play out here: the battles for territory, the courting and sparring. It’s a big wide world we live in — and, as always, it’s easier to remember that when I’m outside.

Flowery Bower

Flowery Bower

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Early on in my almost three decades (gulp) in this house, I tried to plant an English cottage garden. I’d seen the photos in catalogs and they struck my fancy. I liked the informality, the abundance, the palette.

So with the ardor of a novice gardener I ordered peonies, daisies, astilbe and climbing roses. I hacked my way into the clay soil, added lime and peat moss and gave those plant babies a chance. I watered and mulched and fussed.

The peony produced one flower (with the requisite ants) but never thrived. The astilbes barely lasted a summer. I learned quickly that I needed coneflowers rather than daisies.

But the climbing roses were a different matter entirely. The climbing roses “took.”

So now I have a flowery bower, courtesy of an English cottage rose.

Dining with Roses

Dining with Roses

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There could be worse company, I think to myself as I stand at the deck railing with leftover chicken and salad. The roses are budding and blooming. They are walling off the deck from the rest of the world, forming a flowery screen. And I’m alone with a modest meal, tired of sitting from a long day and even longer commute.

The roses are an antidote. They ask nothing of me other than my gaze. And so, I oblige. I lose myself in their mesmerizing centers, their pink whorls slightly darker than the outside petals. But the overall picture one of pastel loveliness.

Pastels and spring, after all, go together. The color of new life, of shades that have not yet been tested. Hues still wet behind the ears.

Today the temperature will soar and the roses will wilt. But last night, for one perfect al fresco dinner,  I had them all to myself.

Trees’ Company

Trees’ Company

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I recall a line from a poem by James Clarence Harvey: “Oh, the saddest of sights in this world of sin/Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in.”

Not that my heart wouldn’t melt at the sight of a little lost pup, but a sad sight all too common this time of year are Christmas trees beside the road. There they are, the once-proud bearers of bright lights and family ornaments — now reduced to so much yard waste.
These two have the right idea, though. A stiff northwest wind rolled them together the other day, and now they’re partners in crime/shame/escape. May they live forever in mulch heaven.