Awareness

My post-bee attack strategy is to be more aware in the garden. . . It is not a good idea to weed in the evening, after the sun has gone down, but even so, I should've heard the buzzing as the bees went in and out of that hole in the ground. I've been back to the scene of the attack several times, and they are easy to see and hear as they go about their business. I must've been in some kind of Zen meditation state, completely focused on the task at hand (removing the weeds from around the mint), or maybe it was completely the opposite--maybe I wasn't focused inward or outward, maybe I was just being oblivious. . . At any rate, when I work, now, in the garden, I tread more lightly, I listen more intently. . Not only do the birds and insects (and snakes) have a great deal to say, a great deal to teach me, but so do the flowers. . . For many years I thought I had to harvest and sell every bloom in the garden to make a profit. . . I was over-harvesting the flowers to death, literally. There were no seeds to self-seed. Not enough strength to spread. The flowers were trying to tell me this, but I wasn't listening. . . Now when I go into the garden, I stop, look and listen. There are not only warning signs, but so many secrets just waiting to be shared. It is truly a sacred place.

Bee attack

This past week I was weeding in the flower garden one lovely evening, when I heard a little buzz in my ear. I brushed it away, as I would any annoyance, but then numerous stings on my body occurred. My first thought was red ants, but then I saw it was bees. Down my shirt, down my jeans. A planned attack! I must've plunged my weeding tool into their nest in the ground, or damn near it. . . I just read that the best thing to do in case of a bee attack is to run like hell (don't roll around the ground)! Head for the house! That I did, while stripping down. Luckily, there are no neighbors around! They were tenacious little buggers, following me all the way to the house, but, thankfully, none made it inside. Once safe, I assessed the damage--10 stings in all in very painful places. I made a baking soda and water paste and that helped soothe the pain, but not my pride. These little bees had definitely put me in my place! And I also felt bad that I may have destroyed their nest. Every bee is precious these days. They are the world's great pollinators. And Colony Collapse is a real and frightening epidemic. We all have to do what we can to save the bees. So, please, put down the herbicides (and pesticides) and pick up your weeding tool. Just be careful where you dig!

New Ground

My blogs have been few and far between this past year, but I vow to post more regularly. . . This spring we broke new ground on the flower farm. Fresh earth for happier flowers. But we are planting more and more native perennials so that we don't have to upturn/upset the earth every year. . .Let the flowers and insects and birds do what they do to disseminate the seed. . . Everything seems happier then. . . Though it is nice to have fresh earth to plant on, it has upset the balance of nature around here. . . The mocking birds (cat birds) are not happy at all. . . they are very territorial. They are taking it out on our four cats--dive-bombing them--and taking it out on us--screetching at us. And the deer come out at dusk and look at us in dismay. I believe they are worried that soon we will till all the fields and fence them completely off. . . Nature worries. Have no doubt. Tread lightly. Show respect. We are still learning. . .

The Garden in White

The garden in white,

lying in wait, like a

bride preparing for

her wedding day,

when life will bloom

with hope, promise--

such evanescent beauty,

but perennial growth.

Happy New Year

It is amazing to me that my last blog was back in April. Although not that amazing, when I think of how busy we were on the flower farm this past season. On top of all the weddings we provided and designed flowers for, our herbal body products really took off. So we were either in the field or kitchen all season long, planting, designing and creating--which I believe we do every day in our minds, manifesting our futures, our destinies. This picture was sent to me recently from a dear friend, and it reminded me that there were two constants in my life as a child: flowers and cats. It seems in all my childhood pictures I am either holding a bouquet of flowers or a cat or two or three. So here I am, now, in my adulthood, living on a flower farm with six (two foster) cats. They say the mind is a dangerous thing. But I say it's a magical thing if we take the time to nurture it properly, pushing out the darkness and letting in the light. This year I am ready for travel, a little more adventure beyond the farm. So please stay tuned. And peace and joy to you all.

A weed is a weed is a weed. . .

Or is it? I have blogged about this before. About the ability of some weeds to so closely imitate the actual flower. This is a picture of False Queen's Lace (Ammi majus), which is the cultivated variety of the native Queen Anne's Lace, which some people refer to as the true weed. . . But mixed in here is False, False Queen Anne's Lace--a weed that resembles False Queen Anne's Lace. Can you tell the difference? I, for one, vote for the native with its center black eye. It is watching us, closely, and probably laughing at our feeble attempts to replicate truth. . .

Tulip Time

April is tulip time here on the flower farm. We dig thousands of tulips that we planted in the fall, bulb in all, and store them in our shed until market day. This year they were taller than ever--maybe it was all that snow that blanketed them this winter. . . The flowers bend and sway on their stems like graceful ballerinas performing their spring dance. It makes me smile to think of so many of them putting on their show in so many different homes. It makes me smile, as well, to think of people reading one of my stories that was just published in the spring edition of The Main Street Rag, a literary journal out of Charlotte, NC. I know that people often say they just write for themselves. But, for me, once the setting, the characters, the plot, all the write words. . . are planted. . . I want that story to dance in many homes. I hope you'll enjoy.

Snow on the Sand

I have always loved the beach during the off-season. The serenity, the vastness, the ability to retrace my lone footprints in the sand. But I most love it when it snows, the white powder drifting across the sand, melting into the sea. It is so lovely, and, yet, seems so out of place; and it is this feeling of displacement that I so identify with. As a writer, I am a drifter. And, yes, the flower farm has grounded me, but I fly in my mind to so many different places each day, still searching for that definitive destination: home.

Happy Holidays

My father’s mother, my greatest inspiration, passed away on December 8th at age 91. So this season has been one of introspection and reflection for both Don and me. I’ve been thinking a lot about her life and what it was that made her so very special. She was definitely the hardest worker I have ever known, running a dairy farm with my grandfather, outside of Scranton, PA for over 50 years, and raising five boys. When times got hard, and with two of the boys headed off to college, she went to work at Bendix Aviation Plant, helping on the farm during the day, and then heading off to work the night shift at Bendix for 14 years. She only slept four hours a night during that time, but somehow she found the energy to do what had to be done. She always did.

But she also found time to play. She loved to dance and sing and play shuffleboard and pinochle. And Christmas was her very favorite time of the year. She was always a child at heart. The smallest of things gave her great pleasure, hand-picked wildflowers, a four-leaf clover. So many times I heard her say, “God has given us such a beautiful world,” and she would gaze out over the green of the fields, the majesty of the mountains, and say, “This is the most beautiful place in the world.” She didn’t understand the notion of travel as she was happiest on her porch with her beautiful view. It was this appreciation of place, of nature, and her love for family that made her so content. Though her life wasn’t an easy one, she accepted it as it was, and always kept her sense of humor. She loved to tell the story of when she was feeding the cows in the barn one evening with her youngest son, and one of the cows pulled her pants down. She was so mad, but the two of them got to laughing so hard they were crying.

At her funeral, my cousin read a list of lessons she had learned from my grandmother, beautiful lessons, the first being “Live life with an open heart.” This my grandmother always did, taking in many strays along the way, including me, when I was trying to find my way. I was living with her at the time when I met Don. And I remember her holding my face between her calloused hands when I said I thought I was in love. “Oh, Lisa,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.” I miss the feel of those hands, the warmth of her hugs, the encouragement she gave me, and her faith in me. But her spirit is still here. When I went out to make a snowman yesterday she was with me, laughing at the flower hat I put on its head, helping me find the right curved branch for its smile. She still reminds me to take time to nurture my inner child and to laugh through the tears, to appreciate what is in front of me each day. To be satisfied in the moment.

Uncluttering

Today I did something that I've been putting off for awhile: I gathered up the volumes of notepads and notecards and journals and audio tapes that constitute my novel in the making, and packed them all away in a huge plastic tub upstairs. This does not mean that I've given up on getting my novel published--I just needed to clear the way for the new. I am now working on a short story cycle set here on the eastern shore of Maryland, and every new project takes complete concentration. I realized I was still bogged down in my novel (no pun intended, as the Jersey bogs are part of my novel). Just as we clear the flower fields this time of year to make way for the new, my mind, and shelves, are now clear of past clutter. Onward.

Kitty in the Straw

It is that time of year to cover the flower beds, to put them to rest under a warm blanket of straw, which our black kitty Neil thinks is just for him. W call Neil "the butler" as he is always in the driveway, waiting to park your car, then greet you and give you the garden tour. He is also known as "walky talky," as he is our most vocal cat with a perfect "meeeeow."

Fall Harvest

The flowers are at their most vibrant this time of year--the deep velvet purple of the salvias, the dark wine burgundy of the dahlias, the pink, phosphorescent glow of the celosias. . . Part of the magnificent symphony of color before winter closes in. I could never live where this rush of color was always upon me, somewhere like Fiji or Mauii--it would spoil me, maybe even desensitize me. . . I love the seasons where there are turns and rests, much like a good story that fires, then smolders, stirring our blood, then cooling it down. . .

Going Native

This is a lovely flower, native to the eastern shore of MD: Eupatorium perfoliatum, 'Boneset'. We are making a transition to cultivated natives here on our flower farm, not that we have never used native flowers before. When we first started out, ten years ago, I would send Don out to gather flowers in abandoned fields, or along the roadside (where he had to explain what he was doing to more than one local cop--but, sir, I'm just trying to get lucky this eve. . .). I love native wildflowers--I always have. I spent the morning of our wedding in PA (20 years ago), picking my bridal bouquet on my grandparents' dairy farm. I have always picked flowers. And now that I grow flowers it makes such good sense to grow what is natural to the area, what the soil likes, the good bugs like, flowers that flourish in these hot, humid summers, and live in a symbiotic relationship. It connects with my writing as well, as I am working on a short story cycle set here on the eastern shore. As I dig deeper, I am finding what it is that makes the people of this area unique and what it is about them that keeps them happy and hardy and living together in a peaceful, and sometimes, not so peaceful way. . . but the natives are still here, still thriving. . .

Living Art

This is our garden truck that, you can see, hasn't been used in a while for gardening. When my husband brought it home many years ago, it was love at first sight for me. Look at that torquoise color! And such a big expressive face! What personality! And, now, in its ripe old age, it has become a veritable work of living Art--a lovely vine winding its way through the windows, over the roof and onto the back bed, an on-going creation that stands as a testament to time, transformation, and immortality.

Publishing

Good news from an e-mail last week--a story of mine has been accepted by The Main Street Rag, a literary journal out of N. Carolina. You'd think I would've been elated, but it was met with mixed feelings at first, as I was just about ready to tear into the piece again, make it better. . . But then I realized, I had set it free; I had felt it was strong and good enough to go out into the world . . . It is no different, really, from the bouquets I make for the market every weekend-- I could fuss and fuss over them til the cows come home (which I learned spending summers on my grandparents' farm, may be never, til you chase them down). Comes a time you have to let your creations stand on their own. And if you've tried your best, someone will treasure them.

latest treasure

You can see who's claimed my latest treasure--twenty-five bucks from an antique store here in Galena. It's not sturdy enough for most humans, but will do just fine for my felines. . .

August

This is a month I've gradually come to love here on the eastern shore of MD. It is so thick with heat, so teeming with life that one is forced to slow down, to listen. When the nights finally cool down at the end of this month, and the windows can be opened, there is nothing so amazing as the symphony of bugs in the evening. They give everything they have, and I am reminded of the orchestra that kept playing as the Titanic went down. These bugs sing knowing it will be their last summer, that the chill of fall will soon silence them. But oh how they sing. From the heart. From every sinew. A harmony no human band will ever attain. So loud and boisterous some city dwellers complain when they come to visit. But that is because they aren't really listening. Give it a few days and they are lulled by the spell. They take that deep breath and give in.

The Guests

I am Ben Ames, Aunt Lisa’s nephew. The boy on the left is me. I am 10 years old. I live in Catonsville, Maryland, near Baltimore. Aunt Lisa is inviting me and my two sisters, Ella (7), and Josie (4), over to her flower farm. My mom, Nicki Ames, is my Aunt Lisa’s sister, and so we get to sleepover at her house for a few days in August. We’re going to be here for three nights, and so we always do all kinds of crazy things. On Saturday, our parents dropped us off at the Chestertown Market where Uncle Don was, and then we went with Aunt Lisa to Betterton Beach and swam in the water. The algae levels are too high and the water has a lot of bacteria in it. Anyway, later that evening, we ate at the Sassafras Grill. The food is wonderful there. Today, Sunday to be exact, we went to Rolph’s Wharf and swam in the Chester River. They also have a pool to swim in, and we got to swim in there. Tomorrow, we’re planning on going to the Sassafras River and canoeing on the river. Were going to swim in the water also, and have a picnic. On Tuesday, our Nani and Papa are coming to pick us up. BYE.

Focus

Look closely to see that amazing colorful worm attached to the fennel. I wear my reading glasses now when I harvest, the bugs so closely mirroring the flowers, holding on for dear life. It's what we see when we look closely that is so amazing, that takes our breath away. So much missed in this precious life as we rush through our days. I remember a writing mentor at VT College once said to me, that it is a mistaken belief that nothing is lost on a writer--as if we walk around filling our minds with everything that comes into view. That isn't the case at all: it is that one miraculous thing that comes into focus, that alights our imaginative fire.

Ordinary Point

Ordinary Point

She was a typical young
girl, it said in the paper,
who loved music and
dancing, but her love
for the Lord was
unusual for someone
her age, a wake
tossing her body
from a power boat
into the river where
my husband and I
now sail.

Surely, then, she is
in heaven, with her Savior;
surely, then, we have
no right to grieve.

But it is hard not to notice
the heavier cadence in the
movement of the river,
blues tinted more by grey,
and the sun making its
final splash, leaving us
in the dark.