Glorious Mornings

September is here again and today it is especially crisp, though tomorrow will bring with it the heat and humidity of a regular summer day. Nature has graced us with the Morning Glory, the most beautiful of late summer flowers. I planted some a number of years ago and have always marveled as the vines slowly climb and expand across the backyard fence and over the roses in the front yard. I even see vines growing profusely from the cracks in the sidewalk where the ambitious wind has driven their seeds. I originally purchased dark pink/magenta plants, but the bees have been busy these past few years, cross-pollinating with the purple flowers. This year has brought the purple and pink together and I admire them in the early morning, cascading in collusion. Morning Glories are the biggest tattle tales I know, wrapping themselves around my idle rake and hand mower. And they have crawled across the lawn, which I have truly neglected since the beginning of August. As September moves forward, memories of summer flowers become hazy while the Morning Glories shine on through the first hard frost.

The Little Green Visitor

I am often amazed at the natural world surrounding me, but never more than when I see a sight such as this little green bug I spied today while watering my tomato and marigold plants that I have sitting on my second floor porch. How he got there is a wonder to me. Did he fly or climb? Is he a grasshopper or a leaf eater? I can't answer either of these questions. Still, there he is, sitting in a potted plant that has yet to flower, blending in quite nicely. Something to ponder on this August afternoon. Something to ponder.

When All Else Fails, There's Always the Marigold

In 1974 I became acquainted with an older man named Gary, a Vietnam vet who had immersed himself in the drug culture. Gary could often be found in front of his house tending to his marigolds which grew in profusion on either side of the walkway, skirting the purple hand rails he had carefully painted. The seeds packets were giveaways in bags of Fritos and Gary had procured several bags of the corn chips in order to have enough seed to cover the long walkway. Once, when my aunt and I were driving to work, she spied Gary bent over weeding his golden treasures. His hair cascaded over his face hiding his masculine features. That, coupled with my aunt's poor eyesight caused her to exclaim "she really has a beautiful crop of marigolds!" I didn't say anything because I didn't want her to know that "she" and I had known each other for several months. After all these years whenever I see marigolds, I think of Gary and wonder whatever happened to him. I wonder what happened to a lot of people, but it seems they always leave a piece of themselves behind, tucked somewhere in my memory, ready to come to life again at a moment's notice. The marigold blossoms that Gary so carefully nurtured return every time I plant them or spy them in another person's garden or planter.

Sometimes, A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

I haven't written a blog for a while now, but I just haven't felt there was anything worth writing about. However, I like taking pictures and in my estimation, a picture is worth a thousand words, so here are a few recent pictures that might please a viewer:

The second blooming of my Knockout Roses

Overhead canopy in front of my house

Tiger Lillies in my backyard

The Woodsman

This is the story of Mark, a drug addicted street hustler who goes from shop to shop trying to sell the stuff he's just stolen from another nearby shop.  The man is a walking disaster with a dyed blond head shaved at the sides and covered with tattoos.  His face has that weather worn, weary look to it, like a sea captain who spent years sailing the Baltic or some other northernmost body of water.  The shopkeepers disdain him, says he's no good and yet many of them buy from him.  I don't let him in the store because I don't want to do business with the street.  It's a disaster waiting to happen when you buy from the street.  Pretty soon you find items missing and what you've just acquired doesn't make up for the losses. 

The other day I watched Mark grab some old tree branches and drag them down the street and then proceed to strip off their dead leaves and whittle them with a jack knife into a sculpture that was placed inside a seatless chair.  It sits in front of a shop across the street, storefront decor. I am pleased when I see it, despite the bitching I hear from others about how awful it is and how it's a nuisance and a hazard to pedestrians. 

I saw him in another store today attempting to sell some hot jewelry, and I watched him walk away wearing a red and black wool lumberjack coat, urgency in his step.  I have dubbed him the woodsman.  And I secretly like him more than most of the other people I have encountered on this street.  Originally written 1/12

Let Hope Live

Originally written 10/09: If any event can be termed "thought provoking," yesterday's Arts Festival for "Let Hope Live," a foundation for the care of children with cancer might get such a fitting title.  The setting was pastoral, a family owned produce farm set on a ridge overlooking New England hills donned in fall apparel and fields of pumpkins in all directions.

I arrived before 10 a.m. with one jewelry case and one crate of nothing great, but more than anything, I just wanted a chance to hand out cards, promote my business and make a few bucks.

The women who were running the festival were beautiful Vikings.  Their long blonde hair flowed around faces hardened with the work of running a small business and they were stocky and strong from physical labor.  They ran large tractors as well as any male with the swiftness and surety that comes with growing up in the business.  And one of them had lost a child to cancer, which is why they had established the foundation.

At 11, nobody had driven up the hill to attend the festival.  There were about fifteen vendors besides me, set up and waiting patiently.  After 12:00, the wind grew more bitter as the dark clouds whipped by.  The tent behind me was picked up and stuffed animals flew everywhere.  Thankfully, having such a small set up allowed me to fly from the scene as quickly as the wind had kicked up.  I was extremely grateful for my gas guzzling beast when I was able to kick it in to four wheel drive and high tail it out of the mushy cornfield the organizers had asked me to park in after unloading.

I left the beautiful Viking women behind and considered the thirty dollars I spent a worthy cause for an all too real tragedy in many families that occurs all too commonly.  Let hope live.

Pink Tea Roses

Sometimes, the most beautiful gifts are not readily apparent. The first spring in this house, I found a slip of a rose bush growing in the backyard. It had no blooms and was choked by weeds and tall grass. After careful weeding and some rose food, the little slip began to grow. I waited patiently for two years, nursing it diligently as the slip became a bush, but still no roses. Finally, on the third year, the bush began to bloom. It is now in its twenty-third year and has gone through several prunings, been cut in half by a mean neighbor on the other side of the fence and has survived severe freezes and droughts. Today, as I look out my bedroom window, I can see the roses opening again and I think of how lucky I was to have found it and how grateful I am for a gift that returns each year.