A Good Friday drive
to see the Greening of the World

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
- D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring

After tea this afternoon Caspar, Husband and I went for a drive (while the Cat stayed home and oversaw the recording of a T.V. program.)

What a delight to be overwhelmed with the tender greens of spring.

A poplar branch with gorgeous new sticky leaves....

The verdant spring green of the meadows, where the cows and their calves are living in luxury. In the far distance the back side of Apex, reminding us of the great quantity of snow still to melt in the mountains.

The fairy tale green of the poplars along the river, contrasting with the greys and ruby reds of the bushes that still retain their pre-spring colours.

Amidst all the fiery greens are the serene and subtle shades of the birches - a dreamlike spot to relax in.

Friendly white wisps of clouds, - a bright blue sky and two trees reaching towards the heavens, newly arrayed in emerald shades (what else!)

At the bend of the river the sun reflected off the water, rushing and tumbling on its way downstream.

















The hoo doos above the Cawston Bench stood out in the sunshine like sculpted angels

and the sun shining on Daly Bluffs accentuated the shadows of the crevices and crags, and the warm rosy shade of the talus slide.....

A newly leafed out wild rose bush still bearing the scarlet hips of the fall.
















And throughout the orchards lines of chorus girls in tutus - the apricots in their frothy bloom.

In the driveway at home we found the cows feeding beneath a panoply of white - beautiful old fashioned full size apricot trees, laden with blossom.

The absolute jewel in this lovely chain of images was our sighting of a cock pheasant, which brought back memories of our first years in this valley, when they were so plentiful along the creek and in the brush.



















We arrived home to find Miss Callie waiting anxiously to tell us that the DVD had recorded successfully. A real plus... I believe that was what all her eager greeting was about?

Symbols of Lost Intentions

While Husband was rooting around in the fridge for his nightly bowl of grapes which sweetens up the late evening card game he came upon one of my Symbols of Lost Intentions - the rib bone from last week's rib roast of beef, (which I had intended to simmer up into a pot of soup - truly, I had the best of Intentions)


These Symbols of Lost Intentions are kept in the fridge in the same way one keeps their valuable jewelry in the safe behind the picture in the library. If one had any valuable jewelry, - and if one had a safe or a library. These Symbols can lie there for weeks without being disturbed, in total security. The green mold that gathers around them may not improve their attractiveness, - or for that matter, their usefulness. But it is a good indication that it is time to move the Symbols of Lost Intentions from the fridge to the little red garbage can under the sink.

A catalogue of the Symbols that Husband did not come upon would reveal a small plastic bowl of baby carrots which I had Intended to add to the soup made with the bone from last week's rib roast; a small portion of orange and vanilla yogurt left in the old container when I opened a new and much more appealing one; a smidgin of pork and beans, destined for a side dish when supper was sparse; a half a dish of macaroni and cheese, kept for the same reason; some home made vegetable soup that we tired of before it was all gone and a little heel of cheese - gone mouldy.

All left-overs that had morphed into Symbols of Lost Intentions as they lay safely in the darkened fridge (I am of the enlightened clan who believes that the light goes off when the fridge door closes.)

While I was still buying Expensive Dog Food for Caspar, before the present pet food crisis, I had accumulated 933 little plastic bowls, - perfect for storing Symbols of Good Intentions. Now I am filling these little plastic bowls with home made pet food, and sometimes the Symbols of Good Intentions find their way into this pet food, - that is before they have matured (I like that word) into Symbols of Lost Intentions, and while they are still wholesome and useable.

Check out your fridge, - how many Symbols of Lost Intentions have you got hovering at the back - or even in the useable front four inches!!!!

Amazing!!!!

Weather Report, amongst other things

As I drove home from handbell practice last night Venus was bright in the western sky, skimming the tops of the mountains, while behind me a full moon was rising over the Cawston hills, flooding the valley with a silvery light.

A beautiful evening, but not for orchardists who are trying to protect their apricot blossoms from freezing. With the stars, the gorgeous moon and the clear skies comes the very real threat of frost.

The trees are greening, with their leaves at half mast, and the blossoms on the apricot trees are showing colour as they prepare to dress the branches in frothy white. April has the farmer living on the edge, and perhaps thinking what T.S. Eliot expressed so well, - "April is the cruelest month."

When I wandered the house during the night moonlight was still lighting the big bathroom through the skylight, but by morning the clouds had gathered, the temperature was just barely grazing zero and a chilly wind was keeping the air moving. Hopefully all was well, at least at this elevation.

Today was chilly, but pleasant. Tonight still threatens frost in the still, lower reaches of the
valley.



I brought the first daffodils into the house this afternoon, along with the prunings from the red maples, which were freshly pruned this morning.

I ran into the house to get the camera, hoping to snap a picture of Husband, five steps up on a 12 foot ladder, pruning shears in hand and a guilty smirk on his face. Have you ever noticed what men will do when your back is turned!!!!



Before I could return with the camera Number Four son had come upon Husband, and he was back down on the ground. I couldn't very well ask him to climb the ladder again in order to take a picture, so it will have to be a mind memory, not a photo shot. The Red Maples were pruned, but Husband had to be content with directing the operation.

Which, of course, we all know he does very well!!!

I am happy to report that the Cutch Battle is being successfully waged, and mop up operations should be all that remain to do in a couple of days. Unfortunately another plant has fallen victim to the ubiquitous grass, but this one was the Common Yarrow, and almost as invasive as the Cutch grass, so it was a case of killing two birds with one stone.

Speaking of birds, and in a more pleasant way, - late in the afternoon I put a small sprinkler on the garden and soon there were a dozen or so eager robins, sparrows, finches and one nuthatch gathered around the water.

Robert Frost cautions about becoming too complacent about April weather, but for now I think we can relax and enjoy the next few days of sunshine and fresh breezes, and hope that the nights will be kind.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
- Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
- Robert Frost, A Prayer in Spring

The first of April is the day we remember what we are
the other 364 days of the year.
- Mark Twain

In my haste to be the first one to accomplish the usual April Fool's Trickery, - and in my confusion at having slept late this morning, - I mistook the day and had Husband on his feet, looking for an imaginary animal wandering down in the pasture.

However, it turned out that I was the Fool, a day early, and now here is Husband, all primed up and reminded that Sunday is April Fool's Day - on guard and not likely to be fooled again!!

Ah well, Mark Twain probably had it right when he remarked that April 1st is just a reminder of what we are the other 364 days of the year.

It's when we Fool ourselves though, that it's especially painful.....

The philosophical bend in my mind immediately flies to comments and relevant concepts that I could expand on, but perhaps I have played the Fool enough already??? Who amongst us hasn't spent a least a part of our days fooling ourselves? Best to let the subject lie undisturbed and concentrate on the fun aspect of April Fool's Day.

Be sure to accomplish all your nasty little tricks by Noon, as I understand that is the hour when all jesting must cease and we must resume our sombre attitude.

I read all sorts of interesting things about the history of this light hearted celebration and the custom of sending people on Fool's Errands.

If you would like to educate yourself as to its origins here is the place to go!!

http://www.infoplease.com/spot/aprilfools1.html




















Happy April Fool's Day to all, and Happy Birthday to my cousin Anne, who has had to contend with an April Fool's Birthday all her life long.

Know Thine Enemy


I hasten to don my rose coloured glasses as I consider the attributes of this mightiest of all the gardeners' enemies - the dreaded cutch grass, a.k. quake grass, dog grass, quitch grass, Dutch grass, Fin's grass, Scotch quelch, wheat grass, twitch grass, devil's grass and witch grass.

These aliases confirm the world wide spread of the enemy, and the last two in particular describe the firm belief of its origin held by any gardener bent double after a day's battle with said enemy.

I have no doubt that the Parable of the Weeds and Tares in the Wheat refer to cutch grass, and although any interpretation of this parable that I have read has in no way been charitable to the Weeds and Tares, I say unto you, I do not believe anything is created in vain! And so it is with The Cutch, - I do not believe it was created solely to be the bane of all gardeners!

So on with the assessment of this most mortal of all enemies to be found in the garden. Slugs included!!!

My first impression of The Cutch is that it has exceeded its good qualities beyond the bounds of civility and moderation. As usual, all things carried to excess contain within them the dangers of offence.

It would appear that this is what has made The Cutch so oppressive to the poor gardener who has to contend with it.

In Europe, it is said, its qualities of persistence and invasiveness have been a boon to those who PLANT IT ( can you imagine) in fields where it is an excellent source of forage for cattle and horses. The same attributes that make it noxious in the garden smile upon it in the field. It is drought resistant, tillage-resistant, and appreciates manure (which no doubt accounts for the great quantities of The Cutch that arrived in the loads of top soil that enabled us to even have a garden in this pebbly corner....

I have read that "in Italy especially the roots of The Cutch are carefully gathered by the peasants and sold in the markets. They have a sweet taste, somewhat resembling liquorice, and Withering relates that, dried and ground into meal, bread has been made with them in time of scarcity." (M. Grieve, 1931)

And Nicholas Culpepper, in 1653, claimed that he had heard it said a half an acre of The Cutch was worth five acres of carrots twice told over.

"Although that Couch-grasse be an unwelcome guest to fields and gardens, yet his physicke virtues do recompense those hurts; for it openeth the stoppings of the liver and reins without any manifest heat." -- Gerard (quoted in Grieve)

Now, how can you argue with those ancient recommendations.

Carrying on to the Medicinal qualities that The Cutch hides within it's noxious roots, I found these qualities to be even more redeeming of its evil ways in the garden.

This "herb' is a diuretic with a long folk history of use for bladder and kidney stones. It is used for respiratory complaints, for bronchitis, and for laryngitis. The Green Pharmacy recommends making a tea with two to ten teaspoons of the underground parts of the herb, chopped and steeped for five to ten minutes in a cup or two of boiling water. Those same Europeans who use The Cutch to feed their cattle also drink up to four cups of the medicinal tea a day, - if they are so inclined! And some even quaff it from a wine glass!

Other references cite its use as an antibiotic, antilithis, antimicrobial, antiphloistic, and a blood purified. The claim it is effective when used to treat Bright's disease, calcul, catarrh, constipation, cystitis, demulcent, depurative, discutient, emollient, eyes, female disorders, fevers, gallstones, gout gravel, jaundice, kidney, lower back pain, pectoral, prostrate (enlarged, rheumatism, skin diseases, stones, duorific, syphilis, tonic, and unrinary infections.

I don't even know what half those things are, but it confirms to me that whoever created The Cutch certainly knew what He/She was doing, and one best be careful about its eradication.

And speaking of eradication, do not err in thinking that this is easy to accomplish. Burying or turning The Cutch will not kill it. The roots will spread and shoots will reappear.

Digging the roots of The Cutch is hard work. They are dense and bind even the lightest soil.

And they grow extremely quickly. Roots which you thought you had conquered after a hard day's skirmish can reappear again within a week, defiantly thumbing their noses, or could I say, even using the fourth finger in obscene insolence.

However, The Cutch is shallow rooted, and therein lies its weakness. It has no long taper like roots going deep into the ground and so if you attack this problem intellectually with a shovel (some would call this an oxymoron, but you and I know that it is possible to be intellectual on the end of a shovel - as we lean and rest upon it perhaps we could devise a scheme wherein certain enthusiasts come in to harvest The Cutch!!!) you will dig the soil well and remove the roots with relative ease. Except in cases where The Cutch has wound itself inexorably around a favourite perennial, and is so closely bound with it it is impossible to extricate The Cutch root from the flower root. Alas, alas, - I threw such a bundle of roots over the garden fence just two days ago, sacrificing a Shasta Daisy, a victim of the Battle.

I suppose that this exercise in research and reflection has given me more respect for the avowed enemy that awaits me in the garden - ever ready to do battle - ever ready to assert its territorial rights and to carry its banners into all sorts and conditions of gardens and fields.

However, it does not weaken my resolve to banish The Cutch from this particular garden, and so I don my gardening shoes and gloves, - put the rose coloured glasses away from me and go forth to do battle!!! Onward and Upward.....regardless of Physicke virtues! Unless of course we establish a new custom at tea time and have a glass of Cutch Decoction..

More than you ever wanted to know about the ubiquitous cutch grass, I'm sure.

Spring Wildflowers and Precious Children


When the children were young and carefree they roamed the hills above the farm - investigated the Falls and the Caves, - visited the Big Rock (sometimes with a picnic lunch) and brought home the sweet spring flowers that sprang up amongst the sagebrush in this desert country.

The memories of the bouquets that used to sit above the kitchen sink, on the windowsill, bring tender and nostalgic thoughts of the small hands that gathered and clutched them.


The Yellow bells came early and in profusion. A little fistful of yellow bells was gold, whether brought eagerly by the smaller children, or more laconically by the bigger kids who left their offering more casually. They touched me then, but the memory of them is even more precious now.





I try to control the buttercups that arrived in the Lost Garden via a gift of Japanese Peonies from Number Two Son. They have made their way up to the new garden, - where they flourish. These cultivated buttercups are bright and cheery, but they will never bring as much pleasure as those collected on the hillside and offered by little grubby hands.





The Prickly Pear cactus (or Desert Rose) was not one that got picked and brought home. Their prevalence depended upon how much moisture there was in the spring. They were the flowers that prompted small legs to run home and get Mum or Dad to share in the beauty.





As was the Mariposa Lily, which was truly scarce (and protected) . Mum even went looking for them by herself, and called the children to delight and marvel.




Soon the other desert flowers sprang to life,- the tiny mauve phlox and the small desert daisies. They never engendered quite the enthusiasm of those first spring wildflowers, or inspired such eager gathering.

Memories that touch the heart.

A Mild March Morning in the Garden (where the wind did not blow)

or

Harbingers of Spring (not the fat robin with a worm this time)













Find the sparrow, looking over the accommodation.....

Early morning, and the thermometer was reading -2C. Husband had been chilly in the night and, wide awake, he brought his cold nose and toes out to turn up the furnace and catch up on the newspapers he reads so avidly.

As we had breakfast the sun came out. The temperature shot up, and the day promised fair for a session in the garden. There I found my old nemesis - the Cutch Grass, - it having taken advantage of the summer and fall to establish itself in amongst last year's newly planted perennials. This is a vicious grass, - fertile and invasive and sly. In other people's gardens it sometimes disguises itself as Quack Grass.. but we know it for what it is!!!

As I poked around with shovel and hoe, trying to dislodge each and every root of this rude invader, I was heartened to see some signs of spring. The daffodils beginning to stretch towards the sun, with blooms half opened.












A few new leaves on the baby climber, just planted last year.
















Some golden blooms on the forsythia, - looking sparse, but promising....




















The Red Maple displaying its scarlet buds against the blue of the spring sky.





















When Husband and I stopped for coffee we enjoyed the sunshine on our backs, and the view of Daly Bluffs to the East, with a distant fire depicting some pruner's diligence. But then it was back to the battle and the efforts to extricate the persistent grass roots entwined around the Shasta Daisies and Peonies.














An adventuresome violet had traveled up from the Lost Garden and established itself amongst the plants. I thought about the lawn at the old garden, awash with violets - purple ones, white ones and mauve ones, blooming against the new green of the grass. The richness and abundance of that garden in the spring was a joy to all who passed by it, but I tell myself that a garden is a garden, and I am grateful to have the opportunity to start anew, even in this small way.
















The small, new peony tree may not have the brilliance of the gorgeous twenty-five year old beauty we left behind, but it is tender and full of promise! And Cutch Grass, alas....





















When lunch time arrived, Husband was just finishing pruning the roses.














We staggered indoors, stiff and sore, but well satisfied. I, at least, had a few muscles that were complaining about this first spring workout, but I am expecting them to get used to the extra exertion and to be in fit form to take part in the next skirmish with the Dandelions and dreaded Cutch Grass.

Over a bowl of soup,we enjoyed the last of our spring omens, - some lovely orange tulips and a mauve and white primrose from the Grocery Store.

In Advance of Spring Greening


Another dismal day to those who await the tender green of newly opened leaves; the mild fragrance of spring wafted on kindly breezes; the young bulbs displaying the treasured colours they have gathered from the winter earth whilst resting under a layer of snow.

In a conversation with our painterly daughter last night she was lamenting the advance of spring and I was awakened to the beauty of this pre-spring world that we are so anxious to leave behind. She is frantically trying to capture the colours that abound in this world, - colours that we are blind to in our anxiety to greet the greening of Spring.

From where I sit at breakfast I can see at the bottom of the mountain a beautiful patch of naples yellow, and below it the golden cast of the weeping willow as the sap rises out to the tips of the branches. As you look over the country side the tops of the willows are like great golden puff pillows, thrown carelessly over the spring landscape.
















The fruit trees reflect the same sap rising, their colours varying from a warm rose to a deep and rusty red.













The red osier still retain their wild scarlet shades of winter.










And the sumac sport bright candles....












This has been a soft and hazy day, with a light rain falling intermittently. The air lends a luminous quality to the colours of the day, and as it changes the colours change with it.










The vivid green moss clinging to a rock face had lost its vibrancy when I came back to photograph it half and hour later, and it's colour against the blue grey rock was more subtle.
















The small talus at the base reflected this steely shade,















as does the sage that dots the hillside, with greeny overtones.
















Tucked into the crevices of the mountains and emblazoned on their rock faces are the golds, the reds and roses, the steely greens and oranges that are found below in the valley, though more subdued.














All of these wonderful colours are accented by the evergreens on hillside and within farm boundaries, surrounding the houses for shade and for windbreak .


Within these same yards the white skeletons of birch trees are haloed by a haze of rusty red falls, and the pussy willows are opening to scatter their pollen on anxious allergy sufferers!
















So little time to capture these colours to canvas, - already the early leaf buds swell pregnantly towards the burst of spring time green that will take precedence over all else.

Spring hesitates and flirts with those who await her coming, but as she vamps us with coy promises Mother Nature beguiles with another kind of beauty that is not overtly apparent except to the watchful eye.

This morning I was listening to a new Ragtime CD I picked up in the grocery store the other day. One piece in particular caught my ear and sent my spirits dancing. It is called Black and White Rag, and was written by George Botsford. In my opinion there is nothing like Ragtime to lighten dark clouds and make the sun shine brightly! When Husband came in to lunch I played it for him, and he liked it, but criticized "the vamping in the bass". He was startled at his choice of words, - the term "vamping" had entered his mind unbidden and from some knowledge from the time when he played the piano "piano roll style".

How fortunate we are to have Google, - immediately looked it up to find that "vamping" is indeed the art of providing rhythm back-up, and that the chick-boom beat is particular to ragtime. Although the right hand melody of this performance had a wonderful lift, and was played at a dizzying speed Husband's great ear picked up a weakness in the bass. Now my ear is not as good as his, and so I will probably continue to enjoy The Black and White Rag with more gusto than he will.

Ragtime is medicinal in this household. It acts like an anti-depressant. The Brand we use by preference is the Scott Joplin product, but any Ragtime is joy to our hearts and causes twinkling toes and racing fingers.

Scott Joplin was not the originator of Ragtime. It was already played by many musicians, and other composers had already published piano rags before Joplin. But the piano rags of Scott Joplin were of such high quality that they were popular for decades. Many of the best-selling rolls for player-piano were ragtime, and this is where Husband learned to play many of the popular 1920's pieces that were in his repertoire, - Alexander's Ragtime Band, You made me Love You, The Dark Town Strutter's Ball, - and many more.

^{Scott Joplin, whose ragtime is classified as "Classical Ragtime" and who was first introduced to me by Husband's Sister. She played his music with great technique and marvelous abandonment. When she sent me a book of his complete music I immediately started practising - much more slowly than she played, but gradually with increasing skill. This book is never far from the piano, and always available as a pick-me-up when we begin to feel weak and aged!!!!}

For a while, beginning in the twenties when jazz was the genre of the day, Ragtime was less popular, but it continued to be performed and recorded and had a major influence on early jazz greats. In the 1940's there was a slow revival until in 1973 the movie "The Sting" reintroduced ragtime to the general public and it has become once again popular with musicians and audiences.(ah, the music and the men in The Sting - Solace, The Entertainer, Robert Redford and Paul Newman (sigh) Ragtime has also "gained respect and recognition as an art that produced works of true genius." And it's so much fun!!!!