Herban Sprawl

“In his garden, every man may be his own artist without apology or explanation.” Louise Beebe Wilder

A few years back I read a delightful book in which the author was adamant that all gardeners should maintain a gardening journal in order to keep track of what’s going on. Well, I tried it the way she explained it and it was a project destined for failure. It was too complicated for a casual garden like mine. It was clear I would never, ever keep daily detailed notes like Thomas Jefferson did at Monticello and Poplar Forest! Nevertheless, I kept the idea on the back burner for a long time.

The current craze for paper art – collages, altered books, scrapbooks, rubberstamping – hasn’t escaped my notice and I’ve been dabbling in it. And that’s when the trouble began. I realized the reason my gardening journal experience didn’t work was that it didn’t fit my journaling style. Okay, that does sound rather silly, but those of us who keep journals have our own ways of going about it. It has to do with the writing process, but I digress.

In order for this to work, I had to have a goal and a deadline. I’m serving as the program chair for the Herb Society of Southwestern Virginia, so I assigned myself a program. And the topic? Garden journals.

Like any good academic type, I’ve been doing research and collecting snippets of information that will help me construct a garden journal that not only will satisfy my artsy side, but will give me an outlet for my garden writing. This is not to say that I am planning some sort of exquisite book of watercolor paintings and calligraphy, but rather that there will be elements of anything that has to do with keeping track of what I have planted, what I see in the nurseries that I’d like to try, as well as information that I collect.

Truly the project has evolved into a file box of things that have to do with garden topics of interest. But the focus is herbs, because they’re what I really love to grow and use. (The truth be told, I am a far better cook in the summer when I can wander outside and find inspiration in the garden.) And that’s the message I want to convey to the other herb people. None of this is cast in concrete.

We each have a style when it comes to creating gardens and the way we choose to record information is driven by our needs. I’m going to ask others to bring their garden journals to share in order to show the variety that is out there. Perhaps if it doesn’t look that hard, folks will begin keeping records. There’s a little Thomas Jefferson in all Virginians!

This just in: a new study from the University of Minnesota has shown that people with cats are less likely to die of cardiovascular disease than people with dogs or no pets. Apparently, dog ownership does not alleviate the likelihood of a cardiovascular episode.

Why am I not surprised? As one who cohabits with three male cats (and I’m not counting the two-legged one), I understand what it is that cats do for humans. They turn us into blubbering sycophants. In return, they honor us with selectively bestowed affection. Anyone who says cats are not affectionate needs a lesson in feline behavior!

This is not to say I find dogs to be objectionable – far from it. I like dogs. My first brother was a large, boxy Springer Spaniel with a pedigree as long as your arm. His name was Kingaroo, but we called him Kinger. He was a love. The only time he ever displayed unwanted aggression was when the camera came out. He once shoved Aunt Mary out of the cushy chaise where Mom had her posing, and positioned himself for the birdie. It all happened so fast - one minute she was lounging in a leggy pose, the next she was sailing off the chair and had landed on the grass smack on her kiester! She swore at him, but couldn’t do anything else but laugh like the rest of us.

And truth be told, if Anna had ever looked askance at her Spike, I would have packed him into my car in a heartbeat.

However, we have cats. In the early morning, little cup of espresso in hand, covered with the patchwork blanket, I am visited by one who nestles against my chest, purring. Being forced to sit still is seldom problematic, but even when it is, the heart rate slows, the body relaxes and the warm lump vibrates gently. You can’t “do” a cat’s ears and not feel a sense of calm.

One will not sit on my lap. The only lap he will visit is Big Kitty’s and only when he wears jeans. Work pants, pajama bottoms and sweatpants will not do. Jeans. Period. However, he has a little compromise for me. He sits on the arm of the sofa, next to me and showers me with head butts and invitations for petting. He hates to be confined, so an arm around him isn’t allowed. I know the rules and I abide by them. But at 16 pounds, he is so tempting that I occasionally disrupt his chi by picking him up and torturing him with a big hug.

The third denizen drapes himself over an arm or hand and drools. His purr rivals a 2 horse Briggs & Stratton. His gift for arranging himself beats any sex kitten for come hither appeal. His is a typical pretty boy personality. It’s important to play hard to get because he only wants what he can’t have. He’s adorable.

Humans don’t own cats. It’s the other way around. You learn to relinquish control and live with their rhythms. And their rhythms are all about bringing the shoulders down, relaxing the muscles and breathing. They’re heart-healthy creatures.

The Big Kitty has been encouraging me to “do art” again. In spite of a degree in art, I consider myself a dilettante. I never got a lot of help with technique, so most of what I do is what my hand does without any conscious effort from the rest of me. It’s awfully intuitive when it probably needs to be more consciously thought through.

A long time ago I clipped out an ad from a magazine that said, “Creative people don’t work by the clock; they work by the idea.”  Big Kitty has discovered this on occasion when he’s come home and dinner isn’t merrily bubbling on the stove. So, I sure hope he knows what he’s in for!

There are those of us who drag our heels when it comes to taking the big leap. Some of us spend a lot of time organizing and collecting supplies. We stall by setting ourselves up with insurmountable obstacles. All of this is because deep down inside, we are very afraid that we will not measure up to our most exacting standards; that we will fall short.

My friend Karen, who excels at pastoral counseling in her lay ministry, had her way with me not long ago, and I resolved to hunt up a project I owed her. It may or may not be exactly what she had in mind, but until I put brush to paper, we will never know. She is always free to suggest ways I can make it more like what she wants. I’m pretty flexible and will be happy to oblige. She seems to have faith that it will work out.

But this great idea comes with a huge price – it means that I have to conquer the problem of my “awfiss” once and for all or else there will be no room to “do art.” The clutter has to be brought under control, supplies have to be properly stored so they aren’t damaged, and the space has to be made for a few of the ideas I’d like to try. The challenge is to do this without dampening the creative urges that strike without warning!

Yesterday’s post received a lot of chatter in my personal email box. I got requests for the original picture and then the responses began rolling in. I wish they had responded in this place, rather than to me personally, but I guess it has to do with feeling a little awkward about agreeing with me that it was rather racist and also believing me when I said I would bet a set of china that the intention was purely and simply a snipe at the Clintons. They know how much I love my dishes.

So before laying this issue to rest, let’s put a few more things on the table besides the Spode.

Here in The Star City, racism isn’t dead. Those of us who are sensitive to the undercurrents of bigotry sometimes go into overdrive in our attempts to eradicate racism. It isn’t that we are looking for ways to get our undies in knots, but we react a lot faster when the situations arise.

An example of this was when I served on the task force that brought together the stakeholders in the Dumas Center for Creative Arts. Three of us were negotiating a meeting date and one, an older lady, commented that she couldn’t meet on a certain day because, “that’s when my colored woman comes.” There is no way on earth she could have mistaken the looks on our faces after she said that, nor my pal’s gasped, “Your what?”

Old habits die hard around here.

As a contributor wrote, her job entails inventory control. Shoplifting crosses socio-economic lines – it’s truly a multicultural activity. It’s hard for some to understand that while she is scrutinizing their behavior in her store, underneath she is as compassionate and open-minded as they come. She’s taking courses in criminal justice and often takes positions that are unpopular with the testosterone driven prejudices of her classmates. She’d rather not send shoplifters to stand before the juvenile judge. She’d rather they not engage in risky behavior. But they do and she won’t back down in holding their feet to the fire in terms of personal accountability.

The House Goddess is a mother lode of wisdom, and she has a very philosophical perspective on these things. She likes the idea of a female president, and she isn’t particular as to the woman’s color. The House Goddess is interested in parity, both in wages and opportunities. Obama is interesting to her, but he doesn’t hold the keys to her queendom. She’s been let down by black men before. Nevertheless, she zeroed right in on that picture. The way she set her jaw spoke volumes.

The bottom line is that sometimes innocent events wind up becoming important events, and intention has nothing to do with it. When I bought those chipped cups and saucers, I wasn’t planning to build another set of china, either.

I received an email of a picture of Hillary and Bill in front of a Southern style mansion. There was the jockey hitching post in the form of Barack. The caption was ‘The Clintons’ version of I have a dream.’ I was offended by it.

I sat on it a while, knowing I needed to respond, but I just couldn’t keep the anger out of any of the responses I thought up. Then I got an email from someone else detailing the things one has to believe if one is a Republican. It was pretty damning. I copied and pasted it and sent it back to the sender of the picture, and for good measure, I hit Reply All so the others who received it would know where I stood.

Here’s the thing. I know that person’s politics and I respectfully disagree. That person has never in all the years I’ve known him, had the decency to just accept my opinions without shooting them down as if I have no intelligence or sense. I always get an argument. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve kept my thoughts to myself when he’s been spouting his opinions, I’d be rich and living in Tuscany. So I get these kinds of emails because I’ve been too interested in keeping the peace to tell him to blow it out his ear. But this was racist and blamed on others whose records on race relations have been good.

The economic policies of Bill Clinton were fairly mild in the general scheme of things. I opposed NAFTA, agreeing with Ross Perot that there would be a giant sucking sound of American jobs going overseas. The idle factories in America are a testament to that. Oh, sure, we could blame it on the unions and any number of things, but the fact is, we have a lot of Americans who are highly skilled furniture makers and out of jobs because the manufacturing has gone to China. We have a lot of skilled textile workers who are out of jobs. That bothers me. I live in an area where furniture and textiles supported the local economy.

Even my broker, a lifelong Republican, abandoned ship when it came to Shrub. His friends and his wife were horrified. He said to them, “Would you vote for this guy if he was a Democrat?” Of course they wouldn’t. “So, why on earth would they vote for him as a Republican?”  he wondered.

And that’s my beef with people who send me inflammatory emails about politics. They wouldn’t have voted for that clown if he hadn’t been a DKE or a Republican, either. The hatred of the Clintons is bordering on an obsession, and there is no reasonable basis for it. It ain’t like both the Clintons haven’t played ball with corporate America. NAFTA? Iraq? But, in spite of the campaign missteps, they aren’t racists.

There’s plenty of blame to go around. Our economy is in the sewer, the people are fed up with lobbyists running the government, and, as Leo Durocher used to proclaim, it’s time to back up the truck.

Yesterday I dropped by The Fresh Market for some meatloaf blend and was surprised to see a huge number of men scurrying through the store, cradling bouquets and being picky over all manner of edible treats. It was almost like Christmas Eve when those of you with that certain chromosome do your shopping! But the surprise was that it was ahead of time!

Maybe they’ve been reading the paper. The editors and writers have placed a huge emphasis on this particular Hallmark holiday as being crucial to the success of a relationship. I dunno. I see it as another boondoggle like Mothers’ Day, that sacrosanct “holiday” for mommies.

I got into huge trouble with my spouse the year he had long-stemmed red roses sent to me at work. I realize I am in the minority here, but having worked for a florist, I can tell you they ain’t worth it, and since I don’t like them anyway, I was absolutely crushed that he would send such a horrible thing. It turned out he was listening to his mother.

Is it any surprise that he has only sent flowers once since then? Even though he knows I adore fluffy, fragrant carnations?  Ah, well. The thing is, the cost of flowers is inflated this week, so I wouldn’t fault some common sense.

The real question is, will not doing something outrageously romantic on Valentine’s Day become a deal-breaker in a relationship? The short answer is that it will become a contributing factor. If there is any kind of disturbance, neglect on Valentine’s Day is certain to be noted on the Con List, and unfortunately, these things tend to add up. A cute card isn’t enough. Red roses for a red rose disliker won’t cut it. An appliance (unless it is so unbelievably fabulous) is off-the-charts stupid.

That said, my mother-in-law is also shocked and dismayed that I don’t get all excited about this so-called holiday. You know, you can’t change your mate. Mine is a Swede from word go. It’s not all of his ethnic heritage, but it’s the one that has shaped him emotionally. She’s never understood that about him (or his father) because she has had no yardstick for understanding The Swede Way. Rather than try to turn him into a hopeless romantic, a trait we Italians have in spades, I prefer to accept that I’m not likely to see a huge demonstration on a Hallmark Holiday. My life is a lot less stressful that way.

So if Big Kitty comes home empty-handed today, will I be upset? Nope. Will that transgression go onto the Con List, awaiting a melt-down some other time? Maybe. Will I do something outrageously romantic for him? Um, if you count buying him a pint of his favorite sorbet and a six pack of Guinness or cream stout.

All things are relative~  Don’t have such high expectations that the slightest variation will send you into a tailspin. Enjoy the day and go with the flow~

Yesterday’s wind blew the presidential contenders off course for today’s rallies. The Star City was on the tour of Virginia in the new battle for Democratic delegates. Who knew we’d turn into a battleground state?! Wow!

Meanwhile, the House of Delegates, evidently still way too beholden to the tobacco lobby, shot down the anti-smoking in public spaces bills. We’re turning blue here and there, but the House of Delegates is still under red control, and it’s probably the most backward delegation since the Byrd Machine of the integration days. It’s downright embarrassing.

Here in the Star City, the SoRo contingent couldn’t manage enough voters to keep two Northwest city candidates off the Democratic slate for city council. My lukewarm attitude toward the whole thing, and the decent weather, sent me off to the nail salon for a manicure and pedicure. I was there so long that I missed the firehouse primary, and after sitting in that massaging chair, I was so relaxed I really didn’t want to upset my chi energy!

Today I have a sad task. Our betta fish, Bud, went to that big bowl in the sky. Most people flush their dearly departed fish, but I’m a gardener. Bud will be welcomed by the rosemary bush. There is a little poetic nuance in that, since we can recall Shakespeare’s line, “there’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance.” Bud will do good from the grave.

We’d never had a fish before. Bud was a gift from my Best GayGuy Friend and another friend of his. I’d been in the dumps over some job-related nonsense and they bustled over with this large red fish with fins that would have made Sally Rand look like an amateur. BGGF and BubbaWayne decided I needed a friend in my office, and this one was it. They chose the red one because BubbaWayne was still reeling from my backseat condemnation of BGGF’s Cadillac. In response to the question, “So what would you buy?” I had given my stock response: a maroon Lincoln with the tags “Mary Tod.” (Few people get the connection, and if you do, don’t you dare steal my idea!)

Anyway, BGGF bustled over with a vase, the fish, his food, glass marbles, selected because they picked up the highlights in the fish’s coloring, and a puny peace lily. He even included a jug for allowing tap water to lose its chlorine and a net to catch the little finny guy. Then he showed me how to care for him. BK and I decided to keep him at home because I’d already decided I wasn’t going to stay in the job. Then began the naming decision.

I kept referring to him as Bud, as in pal. It stuck. I hope my late mother, Budde, wasn’t insulted! Anyway, it turns out that people give their betta fish somewhat swagger-ridden names. Mark calls his Spike and I heard someone else call hers Three, for Dale Earnhart.

Bud was here for a bit over two years and he got to be a fairly large fella. He had bravado and he had personality. He poofed at us and he hung with me in the kitchen while I chopped and mixed. His opinion was that of a true cynic, with a poof and a tail flourish to match. He didn’t have anything good to say about the House of Delegates, either.

And so it goes. I begin the week with a fish funeral and the Star City begins the clean-up from the Big Wind that blew the candidates off course. Ah, well. Bill Clinton, my fav prez, will be in town. That’s pretty cool.

The Star City’s Democrats are holding a firehouse primary today to nominate their candidates for mayor and city council. My pals in the counties around us are chuckling because there would have been a huge turnout if they’d linked it to the national primary which is next week. But who knew we’d become a battleground state for Hillary and Barack?! And they’re each coming to town!!!!!
As to the local elections, I wish I could say I was pleased and/or excited about the possible candidates, but I just cannot. For one thing, four of seven are residents of SoRo (that’s Star City-speak for South Roanoke - the glam side of town). Of those four, one is using his dad’s address, rather than his mom’s - she’s SoRo, he isn’t. So, sorry to say, but the kid is SoRo whether he chooses to accept it or not.

That leaves three candidates from other quadrants of the city. I know all three of them. Two were colleagues and one did me a favor as a school board member. Maybe it’s that old saw, familiarity breeds contempt, but even though I like those three people, I can’t really say I want them on city council.

The mayor is another matter. He’s a nice guy, but he doesn’t inspire confidence and his leadership is somewhat squishy. And he’s running unopposed, which is fishy.
I’m tempted to forget about it. But then there is that whole idea of the ruling class coming from one itty bitty segment of this town. I dunno. Maybe it’s my proletariat upbringing, but I really have a problem with not spreading it out a little. Like when will we ever get a candidate from southeast city? When will there be someone from northeast? When will someone other than a SoRo resident run from the rest of southwest city?

But perhaps my real problem is the fact that they all say the same thing and are supporting the exact same things, no matter where they live. Each of them is citing school issues. Uh, pardon me, gang. That is for the school board to deal with, not city council. The way these folks are talking, each will be the next savior of the school system. Furthermore, there are only two ways councilpeople can affect the schools: update the funding formula (please!), and decide that school board members should be elected.

As it stands now, too many school board members have used the appointment process as a soft way to enter city politics. That is the lazy way out. If you are passionate about wanting to serve on school board, you should be willing to be elected as a nonpartisan steward.
So, I suppose I need to take another look at the list, then pick names out of a hat. They’re all alike anyway!

Balmy days in winter are hazardous. When a yummy garden catalogue arrives in the mail, they are rendered downright dangerous. Even worse for me is the fact that my adorable niece keeps me subscribed to Fine Gardening. Oo-la-la! A gardener gets overly ambitious on days like these.

I got a seed catalogue yesterday that specializes in the older, hard to find varieties of plants. I had things to do, but darned if I didn’t plunk myself onto the loveseat and thumb through that treasure trove of enticements. Barney situated himself on the arm next to me. (His version of a lap.) I showed him pictures and gave him a good neck scratch. He liked everything I liked, especially the pink flowers. Barney has a penchant for pink. He takes after his late Grandma Budde.

It’s depressing to look out the windows on our back yard. It’s a prodigious hill and it’s been the devil to keep decent. We have a neighbor that doesn’t maintain her mess to one side, and a city right of way across the back that is a steep slope tangled up with weeds and weed trees. For a long time I battled The Hill and finally I just gave up and for the past few years I’ve only given it a cursory tidying. Big Kitty doesn’t do yard, and I like digging in the dirt, so you could say this has been my cross to bear.

Regardless, I did manage to build a rock wall, on the hottest day of that particular summer. And I have made some progress with some circular terrace type herb beds. There is more to go, however and I really don’t want to put any more time, money or effort into it. It’s one thing to develop beautiful perennial borders and wonderful herb beds, and with those, the acceptance of the maintenance. That kind of work is great. It’s another thing to keep fighting back the same weed trees and vines because one’s neighbors or the city don’t do their share. That work is what I rebel against. I thought I could get it under control, but over the past 20 years, it has proved to be more than my knees and back could endure. That hill is daunting and the last estimate for a cleanup was for $400.

Luckily a high school service group has me on their radar screen, so before too long I ought to have a better view. Then perhaps I can finish the little wall and put in another section of herbs and flowers. Until ‘the next house’ materializes, I am going to need a few different varieties of thyme and a few more tarragon plants. Unbelievable as it may seem, I also need some more mint! (It’s the Moroccan recipes and the fact that I made preserved Meyer lemons this year.) I lost the apple mint and ginger mint to some noxious weeds. Then there are those recipes that use edible flowers… Where’s that catalogue?

In the news today, the Star City learned, from the Army Corps of Engineers, that the flood reduction plan for the Roanoke creek is just that – a reduction plan. The mitigation of floodwaters is not on a scale of the dykes and levees that preserve other communities from water damage. Furthermore, they showed City Council that the 100-year floodplain could be swamped in another deluge like that of 1985.

What’s remarkable about the article was how the newspaper barely mentioned that this is the precise area where the city fathers and mother are considering plunking yet another stadium. A stadium to replace the moldering and decrepit stadium that had to be torn down because of the damage from floods gone by.

The people at Carilion were quick to point out that all their buildings in that area have had that particular issue taken into consideration by putting parking areas at the base and the HVAC equipment on the roofs. That’s not to say the parking garages of those buildings won’t suffer moisture damage that could threaten the buildings’ integrity, but we won’t go there. Carilion is, well, Carilion: very wealthy non-profit that can afford to do as it likes.

The debate about another stadium/amphitheater has settled into a push-pull between the flood prone area or a little hillside near the library in downtown. Neither site is good. Naysayers on both sides of the argument cite parking as the big issue for the venues. Parking, however, is the least of their worries should they choose to employ some really out of the box (for them) thinking.

Let’s return for a moment to the site off Orange Avenue, somewhat adjacent to the Civic Center. When the then city fathers and mother made the decision to plunk the amphitheater onto that piece of land, they incurred the wrath of an automobile dealership that wanted the land. That, in turn financed the campaign of a couple of guys who were dead set against tearing down the Wreck of the Hesperus on the floodplain. They were only against it because the auto people wanted the amphitheater real estate, so they pandered to the nostalgic voters to get elected.

That property has been for sale for a while now, and the word on the street is that the city is going to auction it off, thereby enabling the auto dealership to snap it up at bargain basement prices. In terms of the nostalgic voters, they should have known better. Two votes on council don’t constitute a majority. In terms of the two councilmen, that was a shell game and shame on them for playing it.

All this has called into question the integrity of the then city mother who changed her vote on the Orange Avenue site, and now she wants to be re-elected to City Council. Now that really leaves me scratching my head!

Given the amount of animosity that was generated over the whole thing, I really do not understand why the current city fathers and mother do not simply vote to use the land that has already been prepared for the amphitheater, thereby removing the two controversial sites from the conversation. The city has already paid a ton of money to have that land graded, cleaned up to EPA standards and all that nonsense. The taxpayers deserve better than an auction for a return on their money. And it isn’t like there aren’t the votes to pass the motion. I want to know what else they and the city manager and the power brokers are covering up. I really have a problem with bond issues to finance political subterfuge.

Going back to the floodplain for a moment, it’s important to point out that no matter what goes there, it has to be built to standards that will most certainly escalate the costs. The Army Corps of Engineers aren’t the brightest bulbs on the string, but at least they are honest when they say the plan is for flood reduction, not elimination. In terms of whether you need Wellies to attend a concert, or hip waders, that’s an important distinction. I do not understand why the city fathers and mother would even consider such a dumb idea.

Even dumber is the hillside next to the library. Talk about cramming 50 pounds of fertilizer into a 5 pound bag!

The site off Orange Avenue is their best bet. With a little creative thinking in terms of the public transit system, which needs an overhaul anyway, the parking problem could be settled easily. The site is ready, they have the plans, all they need are new estimates to reflect the changes in construction costs. Press the button, City Council, press the button. For once, close your ears to the power brokers and do the right thing.