When Winter Comes

For most of us, gardening is an endeavor pursued in the warmer months of the year. Traditional sowing and growing seasons in many parts of the country usually run from early March to late September, and during this time gardens flourish with fruits, vegetables and blossoms many times over until temperatures begin to drop.

Although there is nowhere else I'd rather be on a warm afternoon than working in my garden, as seasons go, I've always been partial to winter. Consequently, as summer comes to an end each year and autumn fades the leaves on the trees to a rusty hue, my spirit loosens up a bit as I fill my flower pots and my flower beds with variegated petunias and hearty chrysanthemums to reflect the change in seasons. By the time the first snow flakes drift and icicles erupt from the eaves of the house, I'm ready for winter. 

Wintertime is a dark season; cold, callous, expressionless, and oftentimes shrewd in its attempt to exert total control over every single thing it comes in contact with. Even so, to skip winter is to omit an essential part of the growing process. For as temperatures drop and the ground freezes over, significant changes begin to take place. Weeds die back, certain bugs are vanquished, and decomposed leaves rest in piles, waiting to be utilized as mulch. For a short period of time, the promise of renewal and new growth are suspended in the air. Thus, changes that occur during the winter are as essential to a garden as those which take place in the warmer months. We can't skip winter. However, as planters and cultivators, we can grow to appreciate its contributions to our gardens.

The Princess and The Storyteller

Each year for as long as I can remember, my uncle has called me on my birthday. The phone usually rings no later than 4:00 a.m. and if I'm awake, it takes me a minute or two to realize who is calling and why. Now, before you commence thinking unpleasant thoughts about my uncle and his inability to call at what most people would deem a decent time of day, let me tell you the rest of the story.

The birthday phone call is a tradition, rooted in a simpler way of life and the need to communicate and share news with family. You see, I was born while my uncle, the youngest of four children, was attending junior high school. My mom, who is his sister, and my dad were living out of state at the time, and my grandparents did not yet have a phone. So, my parents called the school my uncle attended and asked the principal to give him the message I had been born. When he went home that afternoon, he made the announcement to my grandparents.

Over the years, the story rarely changes, even though I continue to mature, as does my uncle. I am a princess, born in another land to a happy queen and king. My uncle is the smart, handsome storyteller who must inform my grandparents and the rest of the realm that a girl child has been brought forth, the first in a long line of grandchildren. It is a common tale to be sure, but salient nonetheless.

In the end, however, the story does not matter near as much as the telephone call itself. My uncle and I share a special  connection that has grown over the course of our lives, and I would not trade his birthday call for anything; not a text message, not an email, not a card. Instead, I am content to hear his voice on the other end of the phone each year, waking me from my drooling slumber, to remind me I am another year older, but more importantly, that I am loved.

The Tall and Short Of It

My sister and I were always close. I am older by approximately two years, so the majority of our formative years were spent hanging out together, doing the things we loved to do. In the summer, we went swimming and boating in the lake that rested at the bottom of a huge hill in our neighborhood, accessed via a cul-de-sac at the end of our street. When winter came, that same lake would freeze over and become as shiny as a piece of glass. We'd fly to the bottom of the hill on our toboggan, lace up our ice skates, and glide back and forth on the ice until our feet became numb.

Gymnastics were extremely popular when we were growing up, so we pestered my dad until he finally made us a balance beam out of metal scraps, and attached a horizontal swing bar to our existing swing set. Many happy hours were spent trying to perfect our hanging back flips and dismounts. We competed against each other in footraces and Pong, read books, played with dolls and toy cars, listened to eight-track tapes and records, ate Slim Jim meat sticks, went regularly to the roller rink and the movies, and picked beetles off of my dad's fruit trees for a penny a pop. By the time we were in elementary school, we had formed a lip sync band with our neighbor's daughter, and no Bob Seger or Elvis song was safe.  

Long car rides to my grandparents' house were used to hone our singing skills (I was Linda Ronstadt and she was Olivia Newton John, even though we both had brown hair). After we arrived, we usually played tag or hide-and-seek, and oftentimes ate sour grass, unwashed, out of the front yard. Once the sun set, we trapped lightening bugs in little glass jars, and looked at the moon through a telescope I'd received one year as a gift for my birthday or Christmas, I don't recall which.

My sister would have been fifty-three this month; she passed away in 1994. As I write this blog, I am surrounded by pictures of us when we were kids, and I can't help but smile as I remember her spontaneity, her quirkiness. In many of the pictures, we are dressed identically, standing side by side, me just a few inches taller than she. I was the older sister, born first, bigger, and biologically more mature. She, although short in stature, was the underpinning in our relationship, tranquil in nature when compared to my overanxious state of being, never taking anything, herself included, too seriously. We were sisters by default, but friends by choice. I taught her to read and gave her the chicken pox. She taught me how to relax and enjoy life. As December continues to ebb and flow, I miss her. That being said, I know if she were here, she'd tell me not to lollygag, not to sulk, but to get on with it. And that is what I plan to do.    

 

Logically Speaking

I am bad at math. In fact, to say that I am challenged in this discipline may be an understatement, a minimization of the true nature of all things related to the relationship I have with numbers. Nonetheless, it is a reality I've dealt with most of my life. To clarify, it is not for lack of trying that my math skills have not developed as they should. Indeed, quite the opposite is true. When I think about it, I've probably devoted more time and effort trying to understand word problems, equations, number lines, and fractions than most. For example, when I was in elementary school, I was kept inside during many a recess to work on practice math problems while my classmates enjoyed the playground. In high school, I never advanced past the math courses required for graduation, despite the extra studying. And while attending college, I was required to enroll in remedial math classes before signing up for additional courses. These days, as an adult, I still struggle with all but the most basic of math operations.

For many years, my inability to advance past an elementary understanding of all things mathematical haunted and embarrassed me, and I found it difficult to reconcile myself to the possibility that I did not possess a sense of logic one requires to successfully understand or solve math problems. There were many days I felt  illogical in other areas of my life as well. Moreover, I could not understand how all of the time and effort I had invested over the years to improve my skills, as well as the endless hours of instruction provided by my parents, teachers, and friends, had left me a below-average mathematician.   

After much self-reflection, however, I've come to realize my ineptitude in math has actually increased my capacity for the creative. In many situations, I find I am quite creative and logical in my approaches to problem solving, although I cannot tell you how or why this happens. For instance, when I garden, crochet a blanket, write an essay, read and analyze a section of text, or decipher a song lyric, I use logic and I problem solve. I just do so in a different way, a way that works for me. And while I will never stop trying to improve my math skills, I refuse to be defined by how well I know my multiplication tables, or how swiftly I can convert an improper fraction to a mixed fraction. Logically speaking, two plus two will always equal four, and the creative, logical part of me is okay with that. Just don't ask me to explain how I arrived at my answer. 

The Powder Box

The powder box was not overly ornate. In fact, at first glance, it appeared quite ordinary. It was rectangular in shape, and comprised of a semi-white hard plastic. The four corners on the bottom of the box were footed, and a flower bouquet design was etched on the lid.  The box occupied space on a table that sat at the foot of my grandmother's bed, next to a couple of books and what else, I don't recall. As a kid, I noticed it for several reasons. One, I loved to read, so each time I visited my grandmother, I saw it as I grabbed the two aforementioned books. Two, it was the only luxury item I remember seeing in a house whose contents were comprised of mismatched furniture, an old wood burning stove, and an overabundance of plants. And three, the powder wasn't overly fragrant, but it did smell like my grandmother, or maybe my grandmother smelled like it. Either way, the fragrance was reminiscent of summer vacations spent with my grandparents, playing outside all day until darkness sneaked in and slowly blotted out the daylight, running barefoot and stubbing my big toe on the front porch steps (again!), and staying up late with my sister in order to infiltrate my grandmother's snack cabinet for crumbly cheese crackers and tiny chocolate candies.

As summer vacations and weekend visits came to an end, so too did the powder. The box, however, remained behind and became a repository for old buttons, an unpaired stocking garter, and other trinkets my grandmother kept inside. And while I remember her owning subsequent powder boxes, I couldn't tell you what they looked like, or where they ended up after the powder was gone.

The powder box, quite ordinary in appearance, is now aged and worn, with a faded flower bouquet design on the cracked lid. It occupies space on the chest of drawers in my bedroom and holds a class ring, several sets of earrings, and other baubles that I can't currently recall. But each time I open the box, I am reminded of my grandmother, and how much she meant to me. For you see, I too am a repository, void of powder but still slightly fragrant. And grateful, always grateful, for all of the time and effort she deposited into me.

Changing Seasons

Last Autumn, I moved across the country from a state with mostly mild weather all year long, to a state that is seasonal. To say that I experienced a period of weather adjustment is an understatement. As I began putting away my clothes and shoes, I soon realized I had very little to wear in the way of warm attire for the approaching winter. Moreover, I discovered my running shorts and shirts would leave me pretty much defenseless against the rain and snow on my early morning runs. So, I bought the necessary clothing, toughened up, and moved on with things.

As spring approached, I knew that planting would bring a sense of familiarity to me in my new home, so I began to plan my garden. My excitement, however, soon faded. Even though it was the middle of March, the ground was still hard as a rock, leaves were scattered everywhere, and the local nurseries had very few plants out to buy. And to make matters worse, we were still experiencing frosty mornings and periodic cold rains.

After pitching a fit and mourning for the warm weather I'd left behind, I took a step back and decided to research gardening trends in my area. As I became familiar with the planting seasons, I also began to study the plants that are native to the region. Sadly, I learned the cactus and yucca plants that I used to grow were not suitable for my new garden, however, a variety of plants, some I'd never worked with before, would grow successfully through the end of summer. And as the first few weeks of April began, nurseries started to offer these plants, and I, unashamedly, purchased and planted in abundance.

Change is difficult. It can often leave one wandering around aimlessly searching for a sense of purpose that was, at one time, so clear. On the whole, it's much easier to work within the realm of the familiar, where success is at least somewhat guaranteed, than to invest time and effort into learning new things, forming new relationships, going new places. But life is comprised of seasons, and whether you live in a climate that is consistent all year, or one that alternates between periods of cold and hot, you won't grow if nothing in your life ever changes. So embrace the unfamiliar and live in the moment. And when you do, you will begin to see the benefits of experiencing the changing seasons of your life.

Strong Roots

Approximately a year ago, I bought a small houseplant for a dollar at my local lawn and garden store. As the year progressed, I watered and fussed over the plant until eventually, it outgrew its existing pot. As I set about transferring it to a larger container, I was both surprised and delighted to find not one but three separate root systems buried beneath the topsoil. So, for a little money, time, and effort, I reaped three separate plants instead of one.

Now, I'd like to take complete credit for the successful growth and expansion of my houseplant, however, in good conscience, I cannot. While I acknowledge the water and attention I bestowed upon the plant certainly contributed to its overall health, the main reason it flourished has to do with the strong root system that was already in place when I purchased it. This root system was most likely established by the initial sower, and further strengthened by the care it received at the lawn and garden store where I purchased it.

We all have a root system, a gift of sturdiness afforded to us early-on by parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and other influential people in our lives. Strong or weak, positive or negative, it's ever-present, and it has a direct impact on how we respond to circumstances we encounter. Hence, it stands to reason that a strong, positive root system enables a person to deal with chaos and strife more easily than a weak and depleted root system which is susceptible to negative thoughts and /or actions.

The good news is that those of us who wish to strengthen our root systems have the ability to do so by managing the external influences in our lives. When we engage in healthy relationships, pursue education and knowledge, and employ modest amounts of self-affirmation, we develop the grit needed to face challenges, and grow stronger, bigger, and better lives. So get ready my friend -  you're definitely going to need a bigger pot!      

Grace Made Over

My grandmother Grace was a quiet woman. By quiet, I do not mean she did not like to talk or engage in conversation. On the contrary, she was from a big southern family where chatter was the norm if you had any chance at all of being acknowledged, or for that matter, fed. No, the noiselessness I am referring to was in her demeanor. In the small community in which she lived, she was known for maintaining her composure, despite the challenges she faced. She'd put her hands on her hips, inhale and exhale, and calmly pronounce her opinion. 

My grandfather, on the other hand, was thunderous in his approach to life. Although short in stature, even when wearing his old gray traveling hat, his ability to project his big personality into every situation made him seem, at times, massive in comparison to those around him. He'd rant and rave about one thing or another, and any positive contribution he may have made to to the conversation was often lost in the uproar that ensued. And while I was never afraid of him, I oftentimes wondered what all of the fuss was about.


Consequently, my grandfather's capacity for overreacting was generally offset by my grandmother's ability to remain calm and assess the situations they encountered. This was no easy task, and even after watching the scenario play out countless times, I cannot tell you where she developed the fortitude she displayed on these occasions. What I can tell you is it served to encourage me when my parents divorced, when I met my in-laws for the first time, when I met my in-laws subsequent times, when I applied for my first job, and when my sister passed away.

Through the years, members of my family have referred to me as "Grace-made-over," a comparison that humbles,and I must admit, pleases me. And although I've been known to put my hands on my hips when I talk, I'm not always as calm as my grandmother was, most times, not even close. Still, when pandemonium sets in, I do my best and I like to think she'd be pleased with my efforts. After all, a short moment of quiet and reflection frequently yield big results. And that's what I'm going for. 

Outhouses and Outcomes

When I was a kid, an outhouse was a necessary evil for homes that did not have indoor plumbing. Unlike the quaint buildings depicted in movies and on television, which have crescent moons and a scattering of stars flung across misshapen, loosely-hinged doors, many of these buildings were drab, foul-smelling meetinghouses for flies and other bugs who enjoyed the stench within, even when the muck was heavily powdered with lime. And since most of these structures were not insulated, they became hot and humid in the summer, and turned freezing cold in the winter. 

My grandmother's outhouse was situated in between the back porch of the main house and a stretch of uncut forest that served as a land border on the other side. To reach it, one had to follow a small, twisted, dirt path that had been worn down by generations of family and friends, all who had made countless trips back and forth to answer the call of nature.

Because I enjoyed watching scary movies, I was always slightly superstitious in regard to what would happen to someone should they fall into the toilet hole of the outhouse. After all, my cousin's plastic toy helicopter had been hurled down said hole into the deep recesses of refuse after losing a fight with my other cousin, never to be seen again. While I knew I was bigger than a toy, I didn't know what lurked in the abyss and I didn't want to take any unnecessary chances. And so, I avoided the outhouse whenever possible, especially in the dark. Even when equipped with a flashlight and a new roll of toilet tissue, it was a scary run from the house to that crudely shaped shack, and I'm not ashamed to say there were many times I chose to cop-a-squat in the front yard by the tiger lily bushes instead of making the trip.  

Needless to say, I did not fall victim to the perceived dangers associated with my grandmother's outhouse, and continued to enjoy countless visits with my grandparents over the years. Looking back, the experiences I had on that small homestead with the crooked outhouse, my cousins, and the tiger lily bushes helped make me who I am today, an outcome I am most grateful for.  


 

A Commonality of Contentment

I visited with my uncle this weekend and we spent some time talking about his mother, my grandmother. While his stories and memories were from a different passage of time than mine, a commonality of contentment existed in each of our anecdotes.

The house that my grandparents lived in was small and gray, covered with an oddly shingled roof. It had no bathroom, no plumbing or running water, a potbellied stove that attempted to heat the entire house from the living room, and a shaky back porch that swayed if the wind blew just right.  On the acreage surrounding the house stood a shack where they stored firewood, a well-house, and a big vegetable and flower garden. In the front yard, several bushes with orange and black-spotted tiger lilies congregated on either side of a dirt pathway that lead to a front porch, on which galvanized metal tubs and water buckets, always brimming with water, hid among overcrowded plant shelves.

Although my grandparents lacked many of the modern conveniences that would have made their lives a little easier, a sense of contentment always permeated their house, due in no small part to my grandmother's attitude and approach to life. She never complained about what she did not have, nor the effort required to just enjoy simple things, such as bath water or a warm room. She chose instead to focus on what she enjoyed - her family, church, sewing, and her garden. And, generations later, this sense of contentment continues to influence her children and her grandchildren.

Remembering to Celebrate

When I was a kid, my grandmother had three books in her house - The Bible, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and Little Women. I read the latter two books each summer when I went to visit. Sadly, I never read from my grandmother's Bible until after she passed away.

It was during the process of cleaning out her house after her passing that I was surprised to find several Farmer's Almanacs in one of her trunks. The publication dates at first seemed to be random, leaving me to wonder why she had kept these particular books, and why I had never seen them before. I soon realized, however, that each book represented the year of birth of one of her grandchildren, myself included. Yes, there it was in plain sight on the front cover; the year I was born. With a sense of loss and bewilderment, I reclined back on the linoleum floor and contemplated everything I thought I knew about my grandmother.

She was born in South Carolina on a farm, and her southern accent let everyone who met her know right away she was a respectable, southern lady. She was proficient at sewing, quilting (by hand and machine, and never on Sundays), and of course, gardening. She wore homemade dresses everyday, even when working outside in the woodpile and in the garden, and when she did eventually consent to wear pants, they were polyester and pulled up snugly beneath her dress as to avoid any wardrobe malfunctions. She grew thriving plants and was known on more than one occasion to return home from a visit with her family carrying snippets of a philodendron or a Chinese evergreen, which she would put in water to root-out and eventually transfer over to a dirt-filled pot. She believed in God, attended church every time the doors opened, and always made sure my sister and I, as well as my cousins, attended Bible school when we visited each summer.
 
Feelings of ignorance and perplexity stayed with me for days as to why she kept the Farmer's Almanacs hidden away in a trunk. Then one afternoon, while putting away some pre-cut quilt squares I had found stashed inside a second trunk with some small, inexpensive gift items, the answer presented itself.  The quilt squares, the little presents she had bought at the local dollar store for future birthdays and Christmas mornings, all were meant to celebrate us, her family. And the almanacs? They too were celebratory items, notifying anyone who cared to read that during a year of planning, sowing and reaping, a grandchild was born to a traditional southern lady who was also my grandmother. And for anyone, including this grandchild, to be remembered and celebrated in such a way is to know the true meaning of love.

The Nature of Gardening

Sweat bees live underground and are attracted to the salty taste of perspiration. They zigzag through the air, barely visible, looking for a glistening arm to land on, or better yet, the sweaty fold of a neck that has flapped open for a brief second or two. Then, just as that arm bends or that neck fold flaps back over, they land, begin to feel claustrophobic, and sting in self-defense.

As a kid, I thought sweat bees were pesky little nuisances. They followed me around as I played in my grandmother's yard each summer, buzzing as they flew, just waiting to sting me when I least expected. Now however, as an adult and a gardener, I understand these tiny bees mean me no harm, and are crucial in the pollination process for many flowers and vegetables that grow in my garden. Additionally, the duality of the sweat bee is worth noting. While they elicit a negative response when they sting, they offer positive benefits to many plants.

Looking back, I viewed the sweat bee as an invader of my summer vacation, but my grandmother never complained about the bees that shared the space of her yard and garden. Maybe she understood their value far outweighed their sting. Likewise, I hope she felt the same way about me. 

Perception

My mother tells a story of me as a child, freshly washed and clad in a little yellow dress, sitting on the couch beside of my grandmother, waiting to go to church. My mother was concerned that I would get myself and my dress dirty before we left, so she gave my grandmother strict instructions that I was to sit still and not move around. Unfortunately, I left the couch to play and by the time my mother had finished getting ready, I was what she called "a mess." When asked why she hadn't made me sit still  instead of letting me run around and get dirty, my grandmother's response was that I had only moved around a little bit, not enough to affect my appearance. Frustrated, my mother cleaned me up, again, and we left for church.

Perception is not based on what something actually is, but what it is viewed to be. Two or more people, such as my mother and my grandmother, may look at the same situation and see something different. Or, in an effort to be helpful, someone may try to solve a problem before they have all of the facts, and end up generating more tension and strife than the problem warrants.  

The same is true in the garden. This year, for example, I underestimated the amount of space needed between my cantaloupe plants and my cucumber plants. In reality, the area I perceived to be adequate for each row of plants to spread out and grow effectively was not big enough, and as a result, I ended up with a cluster of tangled vines in one section of my garden. With much patience, effort and furrowing of the brow, I eventually disentangled and redirected the vines so that I was able to tell which plant was which. Next year, I plan to plant the cantaloupes and the cucumbers on opposite ends of the garden. Lesson learned.


When we make decisions based on perception instead of facts, we may find ourselves at odds with the task at hand, and this can lead to undue stress, tension-filled relationships and the desire to give up. However, if we gather as much information as possible before addressing a situation or problem, we will lower our stress levels and maintain healthy relationships.   

The Patience to Grow

My grandmother did not know how to drive a car. She spent most of her life relying on my grandfather and her in-laws to take her grocery shopping, to the department stores and to pick up the mail. The same was true in regard to attending church. For Sunday morning and evening services, as well as Wednesday night prayer meetings, she walked approximately a mile to her in-law's house, rode the rest of the way in her sister-in-law's car to avoid a group of rampant dogs which ran the little dirt road that led to the church, and often times walked back home after services were over. Having been raised in a traditional Christian home in South Carolina, all of this walking to and fro was done in a dress and stockings. To say that my grandmother was a patient woman would be an understatement.

Patience is an admirable quality to have. By definition, to be patient is to possess the ability to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset.  When we practice patience, we reap a life that is less stressful and more focused.

For gardeners, patience is essential. Flowers, vegetables and herbs need time to grow, bloom and acclimate to their surroundings, and the process is not one that happens overnight. In other words, a seed that is sown today will not be a plant tomorrow, or even the next day. You'll have to water, weed and repeat countless times before your seeds morph into seedlings, grow into hardy plants, and eventually yield flowers, vegetables and fruits, and fragrant herbs.  In addition, unfavorable weather conditions, hungry bugs and plant diseases will often push your plants and your patience to the limit. Ergo, even with all of the right conditions, your garden may not bloom right away. In fact, it may take several years before it flourishes and produces the way you want it to. But take heart, it will happen.

As a kid, the patience my grandmother displayed in her day-to-day life was not lost on me. Although I did not fully grasp how relying on others for transportation impacted her life, the manner in which she conducted herself was and is to this day one of the best examples of patience I have seen, and I think of her often when I work in my own garden.

The Benefits of Planning

My mother-in-law used to say there was nothing I couldn't make into a decoration and hang on the wall. Although I've learned over the years that less is more when it comes to wall decor (and mother-in-laws!), I still consider myself a reasonably creative person.

In regard to gardening, I have a lot of ideas and things I aspire to do. For example, I want to harvest flower and vegetable seeds for next year's garden, plant an orchard behind the house, build a few bird feeders, put in a rock garden, put up a greenhouse, plant some bushes, and get serious about starting a compost pile. I think about these projects often -- when I'm writing, running, doing dishes and as I'm driving down the road looking at houses, yards and other peoples' gardens.

Despite my best efforts, there is one important thing missing from this long list -- organization. In other words, I need a plan. Rather than constantly thinking about a bunch of things I would like to do, I need to gather materials (rocks, seeds, dirt, etc.) and start working on a few tasks at a time. Once completed, I can start working on a couple more projects, and so on and so forth. Planning is essential for anyone who wants to become a successful gardener. And by successful, I mean not only productive, but contented.

When you have a plan, you'll feel better about the things you have accomplished, and less stressed in regard to the things you still need or want to do. Also, you will have more time to actually enjoy what you've created.

The Garden

Gardens aren't a new notion. In fact, they've been around for centuries. And whether utilitarian or ornamental, a garden is often viewed as a universal symbol of pragmatism and creativity.

To the gardener, the purpose of a garden is often twofold - it fulfills a need to cultivate and nurture the earth, and it satisfies an innate longing to produce and bring something forth from the ground.

For this blogger, gardening is an act of self-expression. It is also a passion I've had since childhood, a journey that started as I watched my grandmother plant and dig in her garden with a metal kitchen spoon. As she moved back and forth effortlessly between rows of vegetables and flowers, she displayed a sense of grace I did not understand as a child, but have attempted to emulate over the years in my own gardening endeavors.

My Grandmother