Trimming Vanessa & other Cutting-edge Tales

Trees, front, back and side. Trees ... they enchanted me on my first visit to the spot I now call "home." I could identify dogwood (although not the variety), Douglas fir, Red-leaf maple, Coral Bark maple and American Sweetgum. Stewartia and Parrotia Persica (Persian Ironwood, Vanessa), were both new to me. I've learned Stewartia behaves herself, but Vanessa? She's not supposed to be such a tramp!

Vanessa loves to shoot branches, thick with six-inch-long leaves, under the porch, out over the small front garden and into my neighbor's walkway. "Slow grower"? I think not! 

I am the fortunate owner of an extendable (to 12') pruner (thanks to my brother and sister-in-law). I grab this handy tool about every other week during the spring and summer, lopping off errant branches as high as I can comfortably reach. This is a wonder tool, but if I stretch up as far as possible, I get dizzy. This means that Vanessa tends to drape over part of the roof. That's the reason professional tree trimmers were called earlier in the year.  

I also have a pair of very, very sharp hand pruners. I use these on the smaller shoots (or twigs) that pop out along the lower limbs.

Using the hand pruners one day, my zeal overpowered my common sense and I forgot to put on my gardening gloves. I began cutting small, 1-1.5" thick limbs. It took just two snips before I cut a big slice out of the index finger on my left hand...the hand that held the small branch. Lesson learned!

When I first saw this property, I noted the beautiful Coral Bark maple in the back sported a “flat top" haircut. Meaning, it appeared someone reached out from the deck railing and cut across the entire top of the tree! The lower area sprouted twiggy branches. The whole tree resembled a ragged, uncared-for shrub! No more, however. Three years of tender, loving care and the Coral Bark maple is a glorious specimen!

The other trees all get minimal pruning or trimming. They’re quite well behaved. However, when one does need a bit of taming, it’s usually on limbs that have proven too big for my hand-strength (I hate to acknowledge this!).

Exploring garden tools last weekend, I came across a set of ratchet pruning shears. Ta da! Yes, I bought a pair (even though I was a bit chagrined to see the advertisement for them said they were perfect for “weak hands”! That’s not easy to admit, but guess it’s just one more thing to accept as I age).

If you would know strength and patience, welcome the company of trees.

~Hal Boland

Two five-gallon buckets are in the garage and two in the shed, at the ready for the times I take scissors in hand and go around the garden deadheading flowers. I bought some inexpensive scissors to use for this purpose. Now I need to buy some more!

Three days ago I dumped a bucket filled with trimmings into the garden recycle bin, set the bin at the curb for pickup. Yesterday I realized I left my scissors in the bucket! Not only am I mad at myself for doing this, but I’m mighty concerned about what the shears will do to the recycling machinery. Again, however, lesson learned!

After living in apartments for so many years, it seems some of what I thought were my inherent, in-grown gardening “chops" have flown.

As an example, last fall, in a frenzy to get the flower beds all ready for their winter’s rest, I went way beyond my usual fall-cleanup and cut down many perennials too soon or cut them way too low. I’ve lost a number of my favorite plants. Luckily there are signs of life, albeit struggling, in others.

There are always flowers for those who want to see them.

~Henri Matisse

Walking a Fine Line on a Slippery Slope

I've had a life. I see how slippery things can be.

~Annie Proulx

Even at my age, after all these decades of living, I still consider myself a work in progress. In many ways, I take pride in that—being a “work in progress”—as it tells me I’m still striving and learning and maybe most important, I’ve proven to myself I am able to change, alter or soften my opinions, my way of thinking, my outlook.

There have been dozens, possibly hundreds of times when I’ve shown intolerance for the opinions of others, when I’ve been less than respectful of another person’s point of view.

It is the province of knowledge to speak,

And it is the privilege of wisdom to listen.

~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

Several years ago I audited a college class that was an adjunct to a writing course I was taking. We were going to learn to be critical thinkers.

Up to that time, I’d never heard the term “critical thinking.” When I parsed the two-word phrase, I knew I’d often been “critical” (in the derogatory sense and not in a manner involving skillful judgment as to truth and merit) and I have always been a “thinker.” I just never realized one could be proud of being a “critical thinker.” [cont'd]

The Sun Shines Down Mud Alley

There's the north side of the house, there's the fence separating it from the property next door and in between ... see that? That's an alley. 

When I toured the house in August of 2013 I took little notice of this 40' long alley. I zeroed in on the very manageable piece of land making up the back yard, on the many trees, deciduous and evergreen, surrounding the property and on the garden shed, all of which I had long yearned for. 

Yes, I noted the lack flowers, the weedy "lawn" and the bare, hard ground around the few poorly placed and unhealthy looking shrubs. No matter. I had the vision and I knew I could turn this plot into something special. It's true my stamina had waned in the years since I last carved out and fashioned a lovely, vibrant garden. However, my semi-latent green-thumb-enthusiasm overcame any doubts or misgivings.

Sunshine and glorious fall colors greeted me as I moved into the home in October of 2013. Toting, unpacking, sorting and placing all the things that make a house a home kept me from thinking about the exterior--front and back--and what I might like to accomplish. It simply felt so amazingly wonderful to be in my own home!

In a little over a week, just as I began thinking "outside the house," the fall rains came. Undeterred, I slogged around in the back and front yards hours at a time, tucking in "gifted" shoots and replanting the many perennials which came from pots on the deck of the apartment. If you're a true gardener, you have a sense of the unbridled joy my mud-mucking brought to me. 

Probably the only downside to this gardening glee was trekking back and forth along what I now referred to as "mud alley," discovering just how deep into the ooze one's boots can go and just how slippery and slimy thoroughly soaked clay soil can be. 

Arriving home after a quick three-day trip in late December, I discovered the south fence at the back had fallen over. The HOA approved new fencing and within two weeks the work began. Contractors had to use "mud alley" to haul, tote and lug the materials from front to back, back to front. They never complained (at least that I could hear) but it wasn't difficult to imagine the depth of their irritation when I looked at the hundreds of muddy holes left by their work boots. 

In March one of my *sons smoothed out the sludge in the alley, laid down some ground cloth and covered all with 4" of hemlock chips. Aesthetically this looked wonderful and practically it absolutely solved the problems presented by "mud alley." 

That summer, 2014, perennials began to show their colors and glory all over the front and back yard. I still had some lessons to learn regarding where the sun shone brightest and longest, where the shade stayed for most of the day and which areas might be trouble spots. 

The late afternoon sun shines laser-like and searingly hot down the length of "mud alley"; sometimes dappling the plants in its path; more often, if the angle is just right, attempting to fry them. 

I'm pondering some sort of shade-inducing trellis to screen the most vulnerable plants. What I am not doing is cursing that blatant, strong beam of spring and summer sunshine when it does course along the alley. 

I am grateful for the clear, focused brilliance traveling down a previously muddied and muddled path. 

   

All my hurts my garden spade can heal

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

*my two sons are always at my beck and call for painting, hauling, fixing and fussing with all manner of things. 

Taking a Spin

In her May 2015 column, “Tell Me About It,” Carolyn Hax posits, “[We] don't feel the earth move, but that doesn't mean we aren't spinning around the sun.” Hax used this as an analogy to illustrate that we are often unaware of the effect our words or actions have on others. We may not “feel” it or recognize it at the time, but they do have the ability to impact another person—sometimes good, sometimes not.

A few months ago, a young man who went to school with my sons told me my family and I had made a lasting, important and positive impact on him as a teenager. He said when he observed and interacted with our family he witnessed unconditional love and support for the first time in his life.

This comment came after I told him how proud I was of him for his many achievements and way he has conducted his life. To my amazement, he gave much of the credit for his successes to me.

If asked what I recall about the times this young man was in our home, I believe I would have remembered the many times of teenage turmoil and my almost constant feeling of parental ineptitude.

What he remembered, however, was laughter, trips to the coast, doting grandparents nearby, hearty family dinners, a loving father who took time to listen to and talk with his sons. Average family, right? Maybe not.

If you know me well at all you know I do not ever get offended. It’s not that I have an elevated sense of self and can’t imagine someone making a remark to purposely offend me. I simply choose to put a different “spin” on the comment. Seems to me one chooses to “take offense.” 

On the other hand, there have been times when I’ve learned that something I said has had a negative impact on another person. I do understand words have power and am aware there are times when my personality is too forceful. Even so, it usually takes a beat or two before I understand that, even though I did not intend to show disrespect, my words hit the person in a vulnerable spot. 

In these instances, I take a mental “step back,” thank the person for telling me, do a mea culpa, try to explain, and move on.

I am honored when I’m told my words or actions have benefited someone else. I am chagrined if my words or actions cause offense.

The laws of nature mean we’ll never really feel ourselves spinning around the sun. I don’t take offense, but after traveling zillions of miles around this central body in our solar system, I am finally understanding the effect I, one speck in the *whirling rubble, might have on those in my orbit. 

Wikimedia Commons: Earth "This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license."
*Thank you, Richard Dawkins. 

Surviving Stupidity - Part 4*

A TALE OF LOVE AND GREED

Our 30-year old, 33’ Chris Craft cabin cruiser was polished to a sheen, engines in purring condition, galley stocked with canned goods we’d eat if, horrors, we didn’t catch fresh seafood. We planned to live on our boat and cruise the San Juan Island area for 100 days - over three months of fishing, crabbing, clamming, sunning, and exploring.

My husband and I had been planning this adventure for over a year. Michael’s mechanical expertise guaranteed the two big engines of the boat ready to handle any difficult waters we might encounter. He pored over navigation charts in the weeks preceding our departure while I worked on organizing the loose sightseeing plan for the 100 days.

Once we were on our way, days passed with beautiful and marvelous precision. All we dared to hope for materialized. The sightseeing proved exquisite and the seafood was bountiful wherever we went.

One day, two and a half months into our adventure, we discovered an oyster bed of magnificent proportions. Over our two-day stay in those waters, we ate our fill of fried oysters - breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Two weeks prior to this "find," an educated fisherwoman in Paradise Cove told us oysters would keep several weeks if they remained in wet sacks. Remembering this, Michael stuffed two gunnysacks full and stowed them in the bow of our 15’ dinghy.

Messing with the Past

I wanted the past to go away,

wanted to leave it, like another country;

I wanted my life to close, and open like a hinge, like a wing,

like the part of the song where it falls down over rocks:

an explosion, a discovery; I wanted to hurry into the work of my life;

I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

~Mary Oliver

There are days when the drag of simple routine allows room for some interesting thoughts, gives time to think, "What if ... ?" and dwell on the old bugaboos, "Why didn't I ... .?" and, "If only ... ."

However, unlike the talented poet Mary Oliver, I've never wanted my past to go away. There have been far too many amazingly wonderful, life-enhancing, life-altering, joy-filled experiences. I may wish I had been more loving, more considerate and, in many cases, shown more understanding. There's advice I wish I had taken and advice I wish I had asked for. But that's all predicated on my knowing then what I know now. 

A few days ago my sons and I talked about our choices and how those choices have impacted our lives. My oldest son opined that we tend to believe different decisions along the way would have made our lives so much better, yet we'll never know. Life might have been much more of a struggle and not nearly as fulfilling. Of course, on that very philosophical level, he's absolutely correct. Therefore, 

Go and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes,
make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules.
Leave the world more interesting for your being here.
~Neil Gaiman 

I've definitely made some "interesting mistakes."  However, as I said to a friend last week, I liken the way I once painted a room to the way I managed most of my life: I made some big, sloppy messes, but I always took responsibility for them and always cleaned "things" up afterward (as best I could). 

Again, referring to my eldest son, when he paints he's very, very meticulous. It takes longer at the outset, but at the end he doesn't have to go back, go over, redo or make excuses for sloppiness. He acknowledges he didn't always "paint" his actions with forethought.

Good decisions come from experience 

and experience comes from bad decisions.
~Unknown

Physical limitations mean I no longer paint the walls of my interior rooms, but I do slap and spray paint willy-nilly on my outdoor furniture, shed and garden decorations (no gnomes or flamingos, by the way!). 

I'm not making those other kinds of  "big, sloppy messes" but I am certainly satisfying some inner need to make changes and stir things up ... just a bit.  

May the Forest Be With You*

Stand beside me as I stand beside a tree and you will likely hear me say, "Trees are my talisman." 

Whether walking in the woods, sitting on my front porch near the stalwart Persian Ironwood, looking out the back windows to towering fir trees in a neighbor's yard or marveling at the beauty of the many varieties of maple tree in my own backyard, the same sense of delight and wonder comes over me. 

I feel such a oneness with trees that when I see a log truck barreling down the highway loaded with newly hewn logs piled high on the trailer, a real sadness comes over me. I know, I know: lumber is necessary to build our homes (but wait: does anyone really need a 10,000 sq. ft. home???) and the "timber counties" in Oregon benefit (or have benefited) from Federal timber payments (which strikes me as ridiculous as tying our school funding to income from lottery dollars). 

The Oregonian newspaper's December 24, 2014 edition featured a guest column by George Wuerthner, a Bend, Oregon ecologist writing about forest fires and forest ecology. Wuerthner states, "Though it is nearly universal among most people who have been taught to think about wildfires as destructive, from an ecological perspective it belies a failure to really understand forest ecology."

A few days later another article appeared which seemed to imply that both timber company owners and those who usually decry clear-cutting were in some kind of agreement regarding the thinning of our "forests." I can't help but think there was a bit of skewed reporting going on here. 

Planting trees in order to remake a "forest" is clearly impossible. A true forest can never be made by man. When forests are clear-cut, scabbed and scarred land becomes ripe for landslides. 

As with all of life's conundrums, some middle ground must be found or else, in this case, we risk slipping and sliding down a muddy, barren hill without a limb to grab onto.   

*Portland Nursery marquee December 2014
Photo Michael Richardson, -2-7-2012 - Oregon