Alexandersmap

    Category: Garden and Home

    • The Beauty in Fragility

      I’m stubborn in some ways, no surprise to anyone who knows me, but sometimes I admit it to myself in quiet moments such as the one just before this one. I was thinking specifically about the beautiful Douglas fir beams that I turned into a pergola back in 2007, rotted now and about to be replaced by new fir beams that I just cut yesterday. My bride suggested PVC or some other engineered product that would ensure it would be resilient. A friend told me to just use pressure treated lumber so I never have to do it again. But I have enough plastic in my life. I have enough chemicals swirling around in my microclimate already. I chose like for like.

      When I built it the first time, I looked into cedar or redwood, but the price tag was prohibitive. Honestly, having replaced the wood a couple of times now, I should have just invested in redwood then, but 17 years isn’t bad for painted fir standing against the elements in New Hampshire. How has the last 17 years treated us? When I think about the wooden pergola that I built with my own hands back then, I feel something differently than I do about some more permanent building materials. There’s beauty in fragility. We know it won’t last forever and look at it differently than we look at something that we know will outlive our grandchildren.

      Working with the fir yesterday, I honored the wood and the tree it came from, with careful measurements, deliberate cuts with a jigsaw and slow turns as I moved the beams around to cut the other end. I’m 17 years older than the guy who did this the first time, after all, and slow and deliberate meant I could get out of bed without feeling like I was run over by a truck. I’m not so stubborn that I don’t see I’m fragile too. But more than that, I know this is the last time I’ll ever rebuild this particular pergola. I’m not just honoring the wood and the tree, but my own moment of youthful vigor. For time conquers all, friend, even this amateur craftsman whose seeing the truth in every project.

      Raw cuts awaiting further attention

    • Savor the Salad

      “I was so busy making music that before I knew it the summer was gone.” — Aesop, The Ants & the Grasshopper

      I went into the garden to pick the first ripe tomato and found the bottom half was gone, a sign that a groundhog has tagged my garden as its buffet. I resented the pilferage (who doesn’t love the first tomato of summer?) and picked the next tomato that wasn’t quite ripe yet, that I may at least have that one. I’ve learned to tolerate and even coexist with the critters, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up the entire crop to them.

      The thing to do in such moments is head to the local farm stand. I grow three tomato plants, they tell me they grow five thousand. And they’re having a good year for tomatoes this year, with plenty of heat and without the relentless rain we had last year. When the local farmers are happy with the weather, we celebrate with Caprese salad. The basil is my own, the tomatoes from the farm stand, the rest of the ingredients from a global supply chain. It takes a village to make a great salad.

      Early August in New Hampshire and it feels like summer will never end even as the days grow shorter and the Halloween candy is on the store shelves. Why? Because retail is always looking 3-6 months ahead of the rest of us. In summer I avoid box stores at all costs, that I may live in the moment. Our summers, like life itself, are so very short. Why be forever looking ahead when we may enjoy the harvest this day brings?

      We all must prepare for the future, as the ants in Aesop’s fable do, but we must also balance this forever preparing with the awareness and insight of carpe diem. We must seize the day for all it offers for us before it’s gone forever. Life is a balance of living in the present with all the lessons of the past to guide us and a hopeful eye towards a bountiful future.

      I don’t begrudge the groundhog for pilfering the first tomato of summer, but I made a point of getting the second before it too was gone. Summer harvests are fragile, fleeting things indeed. So savor the salad.

    • The Climb of a Lifetime

      “Just remember, once you’re over the hill you begin to pick up speed.” — Charles Schulz

      The trick is to defer rounding that hill into decline for as long as possible. My personal goal is to be a fit and witty centenarian. Whether that’s in the cards is up to fate, but we all ought to have goals in life, shouldn’t we? Prolonging the active, healthy and vibrant years seems as worthy a goal as any.

      Those people who say it’s better to burn out than to fade away forget the third choice: living a fit, balanced life for as long as we can keep the party rolling. Good habits carry us higher up the hill, bad habits make us round the top more quickly than we’d want. Reckless behavior makes us stumble before our time. We know all of this, we just need to look up now and then to see what we’re straying into. When it comes down to it, we are what we repeatedly do, as the saying goes.

      “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” — Martin Luther

      As a gardener, I see the parallels to living a good life: Get out there rain or shine, ensure that the roots are well fed, nurture the good and weed out that which will create problems later, ignore the rest. And most important, keep investing in the future. We are tending to a garden we may never harvest, but there’s magic in the act of tending it anyway.

    • Could’s and Should’s

      “The life that I could still live, I should live, and the thoughts that I could still think, I should think.” — Carl Jung, The Red Book

      New Hampshire in mid-May is a strange place of transformation. The trees and shrubs are leafing out and flowering, perennials are bursting out of the ground in eager anticipation for the warm days ahead, but it’s still two weeks too soon to plant annuals here for the danger of a killing frost. We must be patient with the garden, even as we wish to get on with it already. But everything has its time. The gardener knows the season.

      There are magical days ahead for you and me. There are dark days too—we know this to be true. The trick is to savor today with a measure of faith in our tomorrows. These are days we’ll remember fondly then, just as our yesterdays are for us today. We must therefore dwell in this moment with an eye towards the future and the footing of our past. We may delight in this if we choose to.

      “Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.” ― Kurt Vonnegut

      The afterglow of amazing experiences can be disorienting. It’s like trying to take a picture through a pane of glass with the light reflecting back on your camera, obscuring the clarity of what’s on the other side. We can’t forever dwell in past experiences, but what is the shelf life on memories? This is who we are now. The could’s and should’s of our future self are ours to consider before taking the next leap. Still, we may savor today. Still, we may take the steps for a worthwhile and transformative tomorrow. We simply must know the season we’re in.

    • On Home and Garden

      Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave
      May I a small house and large garden have;
      And a few friends, and many books, both true,
      Both wise, and both delightful too!
      And since love ne’er will from me flee,
      A Mistress moderately fair,
      And good as guardian angels are,
      Only beloved and loving me.
      ― Abraham Cowley, The Wish

      I keen observer recently challenged me on how much I telegraph desired change in my writing. The perils of writing to an audience that includes people I interact with regularly… We write what we write and things fall out as they may. So forgive the repetition, it’s not dissatisfaction with the current state, it’s a strong focus on becoming better. Sometimes that means habit change, sometimes it means habitat change, but there’s no rush to move to a place faraway. I do kind of like it here.

      Here, of course, is far more interesting when the garden grows and stick season gives way to budding trees soon to leaf out. The garden changes everything. We might pay lip service to the hardscape of winter, but it’s the dance of annuals with perennials in that hardscape that makes the life of a gardener joyful.

      Cowley poetically sums up the simple joys of a good life. I seem to revisit this poem every couple of years just as the season changes. A few good friends, a few great books, a roof over one’s head, a garden to roam about in and someone to cherish it all with. Change will happen, some chosen and some a much a surprise to me as it will be to you. That’s the game we’re all in. But isn’t it more lovely with a bit of sun and color?

    • Between There’s

      When we travel frequently, our sense of place is slightly askew. At the moment, fresh off a trip out west, I’m trying hard to immerse myself in the glorious spring days of home while focusing more and more attention to another big trip to come soon. It’s akin to waves rolling onto the beach: each worth of consideration on their own merit, each pulling at our feet as they recede away from us on their return to the sea. If we are to be present between there and there, we must naturally be here. Easier said than done sometimes.

      No matter how busy I feel myself to be, I stop and smell the roses. Alas, it’s not the season for roses just yet in New Hampshire, so I delight in the daffodils and purple hyacinth. My daughter used that expression when we were together on Sunday smelling roses in Los Angeles, and I thought of her as I stepped outside to smell the daffodils and hyacinth on a sunny Tuesday morning back at home. The expression fit both moments; locking in a memory of each place.

      One of the gifts to ourselves in gardening is to plant perennials that come back year-after-year. I planted those daffodils and hyacinth years ago, when the kids were home and life felt very different. Each spring I spend a few moments with each, a reunion of sorts, before moving on to the obligations of the day. Nothing is more “here” than a flower in bloom. They are forever grounded, often long after we ourselves move on to other things. We could learn a few things from them, I suppose, about the essential nature of here, and we scurry between there’s.

    • A Visit to the Getty Center’s Gardens

      “Always changing, never twice the same,” — Robert Irwin

      A day at the Getty must include a visit to the extensive collections exhibited in the museum buildings. Included in the collection are famous works like Vincent van Gogh’s “Irises” and Rembrandt’s self-portrait “Rembrandt Laughing“, along with significant works by Cézanne, Monet, Claudel and many more. One needs a full day at the Getty to see everything, and even then you feel compelled to return again as soon as possible.

      The gardens at the Getty Center are equally impressive and a must-see destination of their own. Robert Irwin’s Central Garden is a marvel in any season, and as with any magnificent garden, he practically demands that you see it in every season. In all honesty, I’d been wanting to see the museum for some time, but it was the gardens that really called to me. They don’t disappoint.

      Robert Irwin’s Central Garden is the star, with a stunning water feature, iron rod tree sculptures with bougainvillea rising through them, and an ever-changing flower-lined meandering path that leads you down to a central pond. It’s simply a must-see. Not to be undone, the Cactus Garden reaches out towards Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean in a dramatic balcony seen from different levels. Other gardens fill the Getty as well: sculpture gardens, fountains and large rock gardens make wandering outside the museum as desirable as your time spent indoors.

      For me personally, it was time with my daughter in a magical place. She shares my love of art and the artistic process, and is pursuing her own dream to have a creative, expressive career. To share the Getty experience with her made the moment. For we too are always changing and never the same twice. And isn’t that also quite beautiful?

    • A Moment with Eugene’s Birds

      Nay, I will; that’s flat:
      He said he would not ransom Mortimer;
      Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer; 555
      But I will find him when he lies asleep,
      And in his ear I’ll holla ‘Mortimer!’
      Nay,
      I’ll have a starling shall be taught to speak
      Nothing but ‘Mortimer,’ and give it him 560
      To keep his anger still in motion.
      — William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 1

      In 1890, a man named Eugene Schieffelin brought European starlings to the United States. According to The New York Times, his motive apparently was to have all the bird species mentioned by William Shakespeare in America. So I have Eugene and a single name drop by Shakespeare in Henry IV to thank for the mess that starlings leave in their wake when they come to the bird feeders in my backyard. We ought to be more careful introducing invasive species to places where they never existed, but when has common sense ever directed anything that humans do?

      You learn a lot about the local bird population when you put the right variety of food out for them. I lived in my home for almost twenty years before I saw bluebirds visit the feeders, largely inspired by putting food they’d actually eat in the feeders. From that point on I’ve had an abundance of bluebirds. The starlings were never invited to the party, but they’re masters at crashing it anyway. Perhaps that’s why they call them invasive.

      This winter I brought the feeders back close the house, that we may enjoy the view of wild birds just outside the window. I forget sometimes the mess that comes with feeders in the form of bird droppings and seed shells, but it’s the uninvited guests like starlings, squirrels and rodents that make me question my sanity. But the birds are worth it. Even the squirrels are entertaining, and I give them just enough of a head start before I let the dog out that they stand a chance of escaping (there are some messes I don’t want to deal with).

      Winter isn’t what it once was, but we do have snow again. The bird feeders become very popular when the ground is coated in snow. The buffet is open for business, and as the movie line goes, build it and they will come. And really, that’s the point. When I go into the kitchen for a cup of coffee or tea, I look out in the yard and see life. Life in turns inspires me to be more lively myself, and the work benefits from my time with the birds. I suppose that’s worth a bit of mess from a couple of uninvited guests.

    • Playing Possum

      Last night I got to experience something for the very first time. The pup, now eight months old and keenly observant of all that moves in her kingdom, spotted an opossum nibbling on fallen birdseed a second before me. It seems opossums don’t run nearly as fast as an excited mutt. The gap was closed in an instant and the pup was on top of the opossum before I could reach her. Sure enough, the opossum looked like road kill with its tongue halfway out the mouth and twisted oddly out of wack. It looked like a crime scene minus the blood. The dog thankfully lost interest right away and began sniffing around for something else nearly as exciting. Suspecting our newfound neighbor was faking it, I got the dog inside the house and took her for a walk on the street instead. After the walk I took the flashlight out to investigate and sure enough, the opossum had awoken from its tonic immobility and moved on to safer places.

      Tonic immobility is an automatic reflex to high stress situations. It’s playing dead, but without the playing. The opossum wasn’t just lying there with its eyes closed and mouth open, it was unconscious for a period of time to allow the danger to disappear. Puppies like squeaky toys. When the toy didn’t squeak the pup looked for something more fun to chase. The Wikipedia link above is informative, and points to all sorts of creatures who go into a state of tonic immobility when they’re stressed.

      Humans can also reach a similar state when fainting. I once watched a bridesmaid faint in the middle of a ceremony on the beach just as the happy couple were about to say “I do”. I watched a groom faint in the middle of his own vows at a different wedding ceremony. It seems weddings are high-stress environments for some humans. I’ve never seen anyone playing dead at a wedding, but I’ve witnessed some marriages that were dead on arrival.

      Fainting may make the problem go away, but usually not. When we are in extremely stressful situations we ought to stay conscious. We ought to keep our wits about us, as the saying goes. Slow, deep breaths help greatly to calm us down, but it’s a hard state to achieve when you’re being chased by a bear or are experiencing something equally catastrophic. Being more resilient through practiced breathing may help, and thinking through what we might do in the worst case scenarios is likely our best option. When it feels like it’s not our first rodeo, we’re less likely to be frozen immobile when things are turned upside down.

      This morning I turned on the outdoor spotlights, looked around and then waited a beat before opening the door. If dogs could roll their eyes at their humans I’m sure that’s what the pup would have done to me in the moment. I smiled at her and let her out to chase her own dreams with a bit of assurance that the scene would be a little better than last night. One crime scene per week is my limit.

    • Earning the Warmth

      Through the window
      we could see how far away it was to the gates of April.
      Let the fire now
      put on its red hat
      and sing to us.
      — Mary Oliver, November

      November comes to an end, and just like that, December is at our doorstep. The ambient light of incandescent and LED bulbs make total darkness an impossibility in most cities and suburbia now. The decorations of Christmas have exploded onto the scene, to grow exponentially over the coming weeks. When we get beyond the constant advertisements for last-chance(!) savings on gifts from every retailer on the planet, we’re left with short, crisp days and long, cold nights.

      Some of us thrive in the cold. We have layers upon layers at the ready, lightly dusted from months of being ignored but feeling just right when we slip them on once again. The stakes are driven into the edges of pavement, awaiting their role as traffic cops or road kill for errant plow drivers. Snow? It’s nothing but a possibility for most of us. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll see snow soon enough. The thrill of the crunch! The hiding of all the brown landscape in a crystal blanket. Snow would make it feel like December has arrived. If not, well, we must seek it out in higher elevations as the hikers and skiers do.

      If November is a time for thankfulness and gatherings (and beards and hastily-written first drafts), December is a time for giving and hustling to find the perfect gift for someone before we give up and give them a gift card to use in seven months when they stumble upon it in the drawer dedicated to such plastic tokens of love. We want to celebrate our love for someone with the perfect gift, and somehow it ends up feeling like a concession to just give them the money. My feeling on such things is that the person who gave the card should be a part of the experience of using the card. Experiences are always best shared with those who wish it for you.

      I’m seeking more poetry in my long nights. More warming fires with conversation and a pet snuggled up close. More time reading the books that evaded me in sunshine. More cold walks around the block with a dog that’s come to expect something new on every stroll. We learn what we are unaware of from a dog on a night walk. I’d forgotten the thrill of the sky changing from step to step, the pull of the leash as the dog sees a rabbit, and the sounds of coyotes, fox and fisher cats crying in the night. I’d forgotten the welcoming warmth of that first step into the kitchen after a brisk walk telling me; “Welcome back”. Indeed.

      The days are still getting shorter for a few more weeks. We must embrace the long, cold nights for all that is hidden in them. For we are alive, and nothing makes you feel that like getting out into it, even for a little while. It’s easy to be warm in the tropics. Up north we must earn it. And in the work we find we love it all the more.