Sunday Is A Funday

Hey, even WE can't do politics alla time, OK? Or else we'd go stark raving bonkers and start slapping random people unconscious. "Do you watch Fox News? (slap!) Well, DO YOU? (slap!) Wut? (slap!) Wut's that you say? (slap!) You DO? (slap!) Really? (slap!) You little ... "

Enough of that fantasy. So it's a beautiful sunny day, the birds are singing their little fecking heads off, the garden is coming into bloom in a scraggly sort of way (didn't plant anything for the spring), and the wisteria is a fragrant purple cloud on the porch. Lemons are blooming, too. The echium is making the bees drowsy, and I can see the Naked Ladies preparing themselves for bloom season. Daffodils and hyacinths didn't bloom much this year. It wasn't much of a spring at all. But we did have a perfect cloud of plum blossom in the brief dry blue days (for two whole days). And the solanum jasminoides put forth starry purple flowers with golden hearts, and our veronica (a beautiful bluish-purple shade, you might know it as speedwell) spread forth, prostrate, to intertwine with the pink puffballs I got from Cris's garden so many years ago. Pineapple sage is blooming scarlet, but the hummingbirds like the sugar-water we left them. An enormous ruffled burgundy blossom on the little camellia near Faridah's grave. The pink and white camellia in the back, which burned to the ground in the big fire 20 years ago, is back, taller than me and bursting with bloom. A perfect companion to the climbing Cecile Brunner with its dainty pink and white fragrant flowers.

Tomatoes are out getting acclimated. We have two eggplant plants this year. I must put in squash, and work on the bed downstairs. A gardener's work is never done, have you noticed? Every weekend it's several hours of weeding and watering, and digging and sieving and digging in compost, picking off pests, foliar spray, calcium for the 'maties ... and we're just piddly-ass home gardeners, not even trying to feed a family on our produce.

Little worried about tomatoes this year. A chilly wind's been blowing every day, or at least every night, it's one of the cooler spring seasons and experts predict a cool summer overall. Well, tomatoes will not set fruit at anything under 55F, not even those tough Russian heirlooms. Plus, the cold seems to make their skins thicker. OK, they're loaded with anthocyanins and flavour, but still. Tomato skin is what gets stuck in your gullet and it itches and makes you cough, and our ancient pipes are delicate, goddammit, especially after 50 years of fucking smoking our lungs out.

We've got some new varieties to play with this year, better adapted to our microclimate. We did well two or three years ago, with up to 150 fruit per plant, Black Krim, Black from Tula, Black Sea Man, Japanese Black Trifele, Cherokee Purple, a couple of Swedish varieties (early, haha, they didn't set fruit till all the others did). The Brandywines didn't fruit at all, we've given up on those.

Happy gardening, y'all!

Stumble It!

Caturday!

ICHC

The garden calls!

The Shasta daisies shriveled up and went south thanks to the exceptionally long spell of hot, dry weather we've had. It's fire season now, and in a month's time, hot dry Santa Ana winds will be blowing. The garden's mostly weeded but the last week's two days of wet weather has caused annoying weed sproutage, and we must repair to its recondite depths to pull those suckers out before THEY get dry and provide kindling to the oily eucalypts on neighbouring slopes. The idiot neighbour has planted their lower garden with Spanish broom. Or is it Scotch broom? Right next to an extensive wooden fence.



The big bougainvillea has lost most of its vivid magenta flowers. The small one has put forth a couple of hopeful-looking buds, though we suspect they won't last long in the heat. The naked ladies (Amaryllis belladonna with their perfumey scent) are nearly done blooming, their pure pink trumpets beginning to dry and droop a little. Big blue lily turf (Liriope muscarii) didn't flower this year, and hasn't spread very far either.

The yellow cosmos made a good showing. And magenta-flowering ice plant is creeping back (must be eliminated!) The California lilac (Ceanothus, which isn't a lilac at all but a supposedly-fragrant native) has gotten very woody and leggy in spots and must be pruned hard, though getting down to that part of the hill is as much as a human life is worth. Very tricky, and interspersed with thorny climbing roses and nettles. The bloody deer did not bother to prune my fucking roses for me this year because the lousy buggers have been too busy eating the fucking tomatoes, wouldn't you know? Venison carpaccio is how they're ending up, the little fuckers.



No gaillardia blossoms, although the echium and the buddleia were profuse, for a change. But the buddleia is deadwood, mostly, now, and the echium's long floret-laden spikes are brown with seed to set. Luckily, the plumbago lining the hill is lifting sky-blue heads to the sun, and red-and-yellow lantana and lavender continues to feed the bees and visiting birds. And, of course, the Brazilian princess flower, Tibouchina urvillea, has a few buds left. Oh, and white oleander is flowering all over the hill. Needs a hard cutting back, or it'll get too spready and leggy and collapse all over itself. Rather as we've been known to do around the seventh glass of alcoholic beverage.

Fuck it! It's Caturday, the sun is shining, there's a terrific pasta sauce with homemade tomatoes awaiting our hungry maws, and we're off to the garden, felines in tow. Let's hope Madu has left no new dead and partly disassembled rats on our favourite resting spots. It's hard enough to weed the garden with feet splayed and one hand clinging to the nearest rock or branch, without having to worry about avoiding rat guts as well.

Ai neva duz dis. Ai eetz dem all up.

Stumble It!

Caturday!

Enter the ICHC online Poker Cats Contest!

The garden calls! The sun is shining, bright gold from a blue, blue sky. It looks like we skipped spring altogether and went from bitter winter to a pleasant but increasingly warm summer (unusual; our summers tend to be cool).

Nevertheless, yesterday, the plum tree was clothed in a blanket of tiny ice-pink flowers, which revelled in the delicate hue of a cloud-filtered twilight sun, shining out against the greenish gray boughs that bore them aloft with only the slightest hint here and there of a bursting leaf-bud of deepest crimson. The birds were down eating chickweed seeds, a rare sight in the early spring garden, but perhaps it's really not spring after all.

We surprised a fawn nibbling on the Cecile Brunner climbing rose at the top of the hill, and discovered there a tiny tree with dark bronze leaves adorning a starbust of slender branches, each graced by multiple starry white flowers, tender amid the quarrelsome bright green of the sprouting rose leaves.

The wisteria's fat buds are many, promising a fragrant doorway soon. Blessing the front of the house with pale purple ropes of blossom, drowning us in its heady scent. We pruned the basil, for the bees, but must cut it back further. The tiny pink throats of basil are powerfully fragrant. There is hope for an early blooming of the honeysuckle.

Down the hill, the Santa Cruz hibiscus is heavy with rich purple buds and blossoms; echium fastuosum is lifting purple spikes of budhead to the sky; and the native lilac, deadly pollen shaking out over everything, is already loud with murmuring bees, native, honey, and bumble. Lavender made itself a new volunteer, so now two bushes please our bees, and so richly flowery, we are ashamed to admit we never water nor care for them. A pineapple sage survived the frosts and animal depredations. Crinkled hairy leaves the light green of new rice sprouts; we look forward to the carmine throaty flowers, though the hummingbirds ignore them for the (surely tasteless!) fuschia and scarlet bracts of bougainvillea, still dormant. The buddleia, five colors! is preparing to bud. We must trim it forthwith.

Passionflower vine, reseeding aggressively, is rampant here and there, and the first violet-scented irises, the deepest purple, are waiting to delight both eye and nose. And the heuchera is blooming near the lenten rose, tiny coral bells on tall stalks. And the native bulbs have put out beautiful flowers, the calochortus with its vivid blue stamens, fairy tulip, globe tulip, what pretty things they are!

The native poppies have reseeded, but aren't ready yet to flower; still, we have the old mainstays, Shasta daisies in great spreading clumbs, snowy blossomed; tiny white-and-pink-rayed fleabane with golden hearts; nigella damascena in every shade from palest white through deepest bluish violet; Tibouchinea (Brazilian princessflower) survived its cruel neglect at our hands and is laden with fat, purple buds, the hairy pale leaves edged with crimson; yellow through orange, the golden heads of calendula nod; tiny honey-scented stars of alyssum await our pleasure, and Gloriosa daisies, miraculously, abound.

Irresistible is our garden in the springtime of its splendor. It calls. We go.

Stumble It!

Gardening

It's been a long time since I put up a gardening post. What with all the stress around the layoff and preparation for the visit to the maternal unit, there hasn't been much time for garden-minding.

Winter's been dancing around the edges of Autumn, killing the buddleia flowers while occasional odd days of warmth and sunshine bring the leaves to life. The shasta daisies put forth an occasional white-rayed flower with a deep gold heart. The alyssum has never stopped blooming, a froth of white cascading down the hill, making silvery-green pools around the feet of the bougainvillea.
The bougainvillea (the one with wicked thorns) is blooming wildly, all magenta and light green, while the other, less thorny individual has lost all its flowers and is concentrating on growing long, slender branches, gold-leaved, for next year's flowers.
Blackberry is invading everywhere, as is the seedy wild dill. It's lost most of its feathery fronds to various depredations, but occasionally lifts flat, gold, umbelliferous heads among its silvery bluish trunks. Oddly, the plumbago continues to bloom, pale flat bluish heads peeping through the packed trunks and leaves.
The Luculia is finally blooming, with its tiny pink balloons of buds and cerulean stamens against the deeper pink of the fragrant blossoms. One can't hardly walk past the front door without brushing its perfumed daintiness. And the solanum is blooming, much more than before, every two leaves seem to be sheltering a deep purple, yellow-throated cluster of blossoms. And the burmese plumbago, low-growing and bronze-leaved, is putting out flowers of an impossible gentian violet, although the leaves are redder than usual from our cool nights. The irises did not set their second bloom this year. I wonder why?



Down on the hill, the rose is sending forth long, thorny canes, invading the space of the echium, the ceanothus, the oleander, and the manzanita - almost crowding them out, in fact. I must teach it some manners.

The last of the scabiosa, the pincushion flowers, are blooming, deep burgundy and pale pink. The whites, creams, and darker pinks seem to have gone to seed, and lots of little seedlings are springing up all over the hillside. Nigella seedlings are everywhere, too, and I expect a glorious spring crop of blues and whites. Even the blue flax set most plentifully, and here and there the glorious gold gloriosa daisies and Mexican cosmos (nearly the orange of a marigold) and calendula, gold, orange, and yellow, and even Iberis, pinks, whites, and mauves, are blooming, punctuating the weedy greens of the hill.

My blue fescue (festuca ovina) survived everything that's been hurled at it this past two years, although a more golden variety cacked hopelessly under the deck.
The dietes (scourge of my garden!) is finally cut down to the point of a single blooming mound, but continues to propel itself into spots where its not wanted. The yellow iris took quite a beating, but I think it will survive. The white oleander at the bottom of the hill hasn't stopped blooming since March! A perfect white lace veil of blooms. And here and there I find a little treaure, a Canon Wendt linaria, or other toadflax blossoms, pink, yellow, mauve, dark gold, the occasional cluster of pink evening primrose, a lonely fleabane in all its glory, dark gold hearts, pink and white rayed flowers.

A garden is a wonderful thing. I don't know how I'd survive without mine. And later when the heat and sun wanes a bit, Bandicoot will come to call me in, or simply to sit by my side, companionably staring out at all the small life from the shade of my brimmed straw hat. We'll talk in low tones, he'll lean against my side. Madu may wander in and try for a hummingbird (they're much too fast for him, thank goodness, that indolent marmalade lump!). Gustav might cry from the deck for his "substitute mamma" to come back up. And perhaps a certain tub of marmalade, who shall remain forever unembarrassed by the bruiting about of his name will come to chide me for not paying attention to him, and only him, who deserves me more than anyone.

Miss Dainty Paws is far too precious to venture into the lower garden, where some passing canine! might be able to feast its lowly eyes upon her silvery gray visage and poison-green eyes. She'll be up on the high hill, looking down at us all below, unfeared by mouse or bird. She's fast enough to hunt them, but too small and light. I often worry an owl will carry her off some night. Unlike the other lumps which would require mutant eagles of vasty wing dimension. She'd make a tasty mouthful for a tiny pterodactyl.

Luckily, I needn't worry about those. Off to the garden, then!

Stumble It!

Entertainment - More Cute

Sometimes the world is too much to bear. My garden calls. The buddleia is finally drying up in the heat, and the Naked Ladies (Amaryllis belladonna) bloomed a month early, with their odd, sweet scent perfuming the entire garden all the way down the hill. I can smell them as I get out of my car. The bougainvillea has suffered, too, not as floriferous as it was last year. But in the garden there is peace, and no thoughts of what the Dark Wart and his glove puppet are spinning us with next. Time to eat, drink, listen to favorite tunes on the iPod, weed, water, play with the cats, watch the hummingbirds stake out territory.

Kitties:


Interspecies comity:


Between many species:



I'll be back.

Stumble It!

Human Rights - The Real Cost Of Immigration Policy

Seems to me the only time we hear people whining about immigration is when their own comfort is somehow affected. But do they target the people responsible for their discomfort? The big multinational corporations that ship hundreds of thousands of decent paying jobs overseas to be performed by prison labour and slave labour while simultaneously insisting on huge tax breaks and multimillion dollar salaries and bonuses for the executive echelon?

No, their wrath is aimed at the illegals from Mexico, Guatemala, Salvador, Nicaragua, who toil in the fields for a pittance, and often end up unpaid and turned in to the authorities to be deported.

Apples are coming in, along with other fall crops, over the next month or so. Get ready for food prices to shoot up to the point where you're spending your entire income on housing, health care, transportation, and food. In short order. Here's a little-covered story from the International Herald Tribune to help you along your way.

"We have three billion apples to pick this fall and every single one of them has to be picked by hand," Gregg said. "It's a very labor-intensive industry, and there is no local labor supply that we can draw from, as much as we try. No one locally really wants to pick apples for six weeks in the fall."

No, no one wants to sweat for eight or ten hours a day doing hard physical labour in a nonunion job with no guarantees, no minimum wage, no breaks, and no opportunity for advancement.

A guest worker program will not solve this labour shortage. While the California Republican Party hires "consultants" who are in this country illegally, for jobs in the six figures, we don't want to allow workers in to pick our crops and guarantee them a little decency so we can load our tables with nature's bounty.

Disgusting.

Stumble It!

Gardening

I wonder how the fabulous Hanging Gardens of Babylon, one of the seven wonders of the world, were tended. Why do I wonder this? Because my garden is so fucking steep, it's a miracle I'm still alive today. I've ripped muscles and tendons in my shoulders, back, and neck, from hanging on to trees, bushes, rocks, posts, and plants in an effort to weed, or plant, or unplant. Incidentally, Dietes vegeta has incredible earth-gripping power - although if it's a young plant, the leaves might come off in your hand. Which is not too bad, if you're trying to unplant the incivil little fucker because it spreads by underground roots as well as seeds, making it a royal pain in the tuchus to eradicate, once established.

I plan to give it another bash later today. But first, the painkillers. I once lost my grip on a high part of the hill, and rolled all the way down to the road, saved only by the fact that the neighbours had filled their "green trash" can with an enormous, soft pile of various plant remains, on which I landed. On my arse. If I'd landed on my head, my neck would have snapped. As it is, I escaped unscathed, except for losing a pair of glasses, which I haven't found yet, despite scouring the garden regularly. The garden could certainly stand a more aggressive scouring, but there's a limit to what I can do these days.

The weather's unseasonably strange. Two weeks ago, temperatures were in the 90s and as soon as you watered the soil was a-thirsting again. Much of the native speedwell (veronica) simply crumbled like dried herbs, dropping seeds here and there, and the shasta daisies turned brown almost at the point of bloom. Even the calendula and rudbeckia were doing poorly, the flowers and foliage looking dry and burned, sometimes apetalous - just a dark heart, with a fringe of yellow, or a single spear. The only things that didn't mind the heat were the lantana and bougainvillea. The bougainvillea's going crazy. 18-foot spikes, reaching up two levels and creeping under the deck. I must attempt to prune it without losing my life or skin in the process. It's blooming, though, which is pretty.



Last week it was so fucking cold, I was wearing sweaters to work. Forget gardening! It was gray and dreary, and although I did go down and sit on the hill for form's sake, the flowers looked drab and unlovely against the cheerless sky. This week, we started out in the 60s, and today the temperature is expected to rise into the 80s.

The Cecile Brunner bloomed way too early - normally it starts in late May and stays till early July, but it bloomed in April, when we were still getting rain, so much of the bloom was bruised or beaten down, and now it's mostly gone because of the heat.



Meanwhile, the white-flowered oleander is requiring more water to bloom than it ever did before. I wonder why?

The bees are so few in number this year! We seem to have an abundance of spiders, damselflies, skippers, and moths. Not so many butterflies, although an anise swallowtail has clearly laid eggs. And birds we have aplenty. The buddleia is setting buds, which is good. I must clip back the invasive blackberry and nettle and try to strip off the dead anise from the very top of the hill (I really need mountainclimbing gear to do this!).

I'll try to take pleasure in the still-blooming blue flax (most of the scarlet variety died), the calendula, rudbeckia, yellow cosmos, Shasta daisies, corn poppy, bougainvillea, toadflax, and the glorious, glorious California poppies!



I come, Grimalkin! I mean, garden!

Stumble It!

Gardening - Ludicrous

The Miracle Gro Morons have decided to sue tiny little Terra Cycle, a company started by a couple of college students that markets worm poop.

If you're a gardener, and you'd rather garden organic than synthetic, go help out the nice people at TerraCycle. The whole thing sounds utterly ludicrous. I can tell you now I'm never buying MiracleGro crap products again. Lousy bastids should know better than to sue some tiny little backyard company.

Stumble It!

Science News Of The Week - Get Dirty, I Mean, Happy

The science posts this week are mostly courtesy of my good friend Dave Manchester Kuczora, thanks, Dave! He rounded them up at Science Daily.

Science Daily - Bacteria found in the soil activated a group of neurons that produce the brain chemical serotonin.
mycobacterium vaccae

I couldn't agree more. I love getting down in the garden and running my hands through weeds and soil. It's what makes me happy when my insignificant little world is dark with despair - as it has been nearly every day for the past six years. No prizes for guessing correctly why this might be.

Stumble It!

What kind of flower are YOU?

I don't think I'm a flower at all - though I might be a flowering plant. In which case, I'd want to be a bougainvillea, or better yet, a buddleia or echium - providing a beautiful floral display, plus shade for little beasties, plus food for birds, butterflies, and bees.

I am a Canna What Flower Are You?

The included assessment is:

"You stand up for what you believe in, even if it gets in the way of what other people think. You are proud of yourself and your accomplishments and you enjoy letting people know that."

Can't say I disagree with that.

Stumble It!

Garden blogging

Oh, if only I weren't so sick! It's been nearly a week, and I still hear bubbling and rustling noises coming from my own lungs. This traitorous body with its sudden spasms of burning pain and breathlessness is stealing from me an otherwise perfect gardening day.
The blue fescue has come back to life - festuca ovina, I think - thready, almost metallic, next to the plush green straps of the Naked Ladies (Amaryllis belladonna, which flowers in the fall, pink-and-white pinstriped trumpets of the most delicate fragrance) and the paler swords, slightly fuzzy, of montbretia.
The montbretia will be flowering soon, holding up spears of vivid orange-red trumpets that will contrast gloriously (eye-achingly) with its flat-bladed leaves.
High on the top of the hill, the tibouchina (Brazilian princessflower? I forget its common name) is blooming, on rangy leggy stems, the flowers teacup-sized and a vivid reddish purple.

I cut back the bougainvillea really hard, because it was taking over the entire hill, but later next month it will surely grace us with its vivid magenta bracts. There's plenty enough left of the horrid, thorny thing.
My wildflowers are beginning to bloom, a good sign. The garden is dotted with various red and blue flax plants, and the Love-in-a-Mist (Nigella damascena?)
is starting to grow heavy with buds. The California poppy at the very top of the hill is all buds, too, even though the native bulbs, calochortus, dichelostemma, triteleia, brodeia, have not yet lost their leaves. The violet-scented irises (five patches, on the midpart of the hill!) are throwing out one or two last spears of blooms. They started in late January and blessed me with vivid deep-purple fist-sized blossoms all through February. It's time, I suppose, for them to go. Outside the kitchen, a new final stalk has thrust its multiply enfloresced head through the fan of leaves. I hope it gets to bloom before it's too hot!
Lower on the hill, near the very bottom, the yellow iris is getting ready - it's a spring bloomer, really, and the weather already feels like summer.
This year for the first time, the flowering plum saw its bare black branches completely swathed with tiny, fragrant pink flowers. Photo courtesy of the incomparable Ron Sullivan This is not my tree, but someone else's - however, mine is a single-flowered purple-leafed type that looked an awful lot like this one, till the last flowers disappeared this week.
The silly robins tore a lot of them off, but for two weeks there was a heavenly rain of tiny, scented petals, and now they're lying like sequins on the greenth below. Bronzy red leaves have burst where the flowers once blossomed.
The Santa Cruz hibiscus was cut back hard yesterday. Its fuzzy, heavily cut and lobed leaves clutched at me accusingly, like little hands, but I know it'll soon be laden with its purple flowers - as it is, it was so heavily laden, I had to cut it back - the flowered stalks kept breaking.Photo from UCSC Arboretum Gallery
The lantana seems to be quite dead, but I know its faking it. It's come back from all kinds of near-death before, although this year's cold snaps certainly wiped out the gardenia, and some of the African basil transplants.
Madu killed a mole and offered it to the Gardening Goddess - the Lady of The Beasts and Fields - probably to beseech her not to let me weed his ample cover off the hill. Little beast - that's probly why I'm so ill. I saw its tiny form, feet stiffly up in the air, the sable velvet of its coat unmarked, but unmistakably Madu'ed. He's horrid about leaving presents where I'm most likely to sit on them!
I cut all the buddleia back quite hard, except the Black Knight cultivars. I shall have to try to get that done today. Lilac, mauve, lavender, bluish-purple, and a nearly black purple. Very pretty, but bloom is not expected till late summer. Meanwhile the calendula has shown itself somewhat renewed from the frost - I see about a dozen egg-yolk-yellow rayed blossoms. And some of the toadflax survived. Also the California lilac (ceanothus producer of the most dreadful pollen!). And for the early-roused bees, finally, the echium fastuosum is preparing foot-high spikes of purple blossom, which will soon feature clinging hordes of somnolent buzzy, fuzzy, gold-dusted little bugs of every sort.
The Shasta daisies, regrettably, don't seem to appeal to our bugs. Pity. I did get several nice little families of fleabane, with its pink-and-white rays framing yellow polleny hearts. All echoed by a clump or two of feverfew, and veritable falls of white sweet alyssum.
Oh, and the hummingbird sage and pineapple sage both survived! Although the silly hummingbirds seem to vastly prefer the pineapple sage.
The manzanita is barely visible - tall, but much crowded by the Cecile Brunner climbing rose and the revolting thornless blackberry. Another thing to cut down. And fennel has sprouted wildly all over the hill. How to get rid of it?
In good news, the two clumps of big blue lily turf also survived, as did the heliotrope (a miracle!), and the gorgeous Gloriosa daisies, here and there, scattered over the hill.
Now we must prune the dietes vegeta as close to the ground as we can. Whatever possessed me to plant that?
The sweet William will soon be back - I see the leaf rosettes scattered among the white-blooming yarrow. The rare pink native yarrow also appears to have survived. The white-flowered oleander is lush with leaf, and barely breaking bud. The cherry-flowered oleander at the bottom of the hill is not doing as well. We'll see if it'll make it, but scale, mildew, and general damp and dark are not in its favour.
The nasty martians (nasturtiums) are coming down the hill - cascades of perfectly round, if a little raggedy, leaves, and flowers tending from palest yellow through deep cinnamon. Come summer, the scabiosa will bloom, white, pink, mauve, lilac, red, burgundy, purple, plum.
And the hyacinths and freesias all survived, although the freesias seem pretty overwhelmed by all the pineapple sage.
Oh, and the aquilegias survived and will bloom, and the dicentra (pink bleeding-hearts) has spread all over the small garden outside the kitchen. Interspersed with babiana (purple-red), harlequin-flower (cream with purplish-brown markings), feverfew, various pink and rose flowering oxalis, primroses, pink and purple, pink hyacinths, and blue Spanish bells, a poor final surviving polemonium, tiarella (foamflower) which may or may not have survived, and the most gorgeous prostrate veronica flooding over the brick walkway to mass up against a purple-flowered solanaceum. The camellia is hiding behind it, under an olive tree. I see buds, fat buds on the camellia this year. Perhaps I'll have some pinky-white blooms to match the rose there. Fortunately, the deer don't care for the taste of the camellia.
By the front doorway, the hard-pruned wisteria has set out huge buds - I was afraid it wouldn't bloom at all, but it's come back with a vengeance. It should be blossoming soon, followed by the honeysuckle, now that the helleborus is done (mostly) flowering. The false maple continues to bloom which is alright by me, and the cotoneaster also. Soon there will be native blue and yellow miniature irises under the big conifer, and if the luculia blesses us with its fragrant pink blossom in the fall, I will die happy. Last year, the weather caused it go straight from bud to burned brown detritus. The year before I could walk on the deck lost in a heavenly cloud of fragrance.
Perhaps I'll take my aching lungs down there, after all. All this talk of gardening is making me long to feel the soil in my fingers. I'll update this with more lovely pictures (disclaimer: none of these are mine) later!

Updated: 03/18/07
Well, I did go down into the garden. It made me happy, although my lungs still hurt!
Montbretia picture courtesy of the Weed of the Month page at BlueMountains, an Australian site. I had no idea! Perhaps Crocosmia crocosmiiflora is not as invasive in the U.S.? It is annoyingly persistent in the garden, and quite the spreader. Perhaps I'll get rid of it, after all.

Stumble It!