How much IS a "peck," anyway? I think I had to learn that in order to get my cooking badge in Girl Scouts (the only one before I got bored with all those stupid, catty girls, none of whom could do a back flip off the high board--some of whose names I still remember; I quit to pursue my Jr Olympics diving career, swiftly ended by a matched pair of broken eardrums when I was 11). (This has nothing to do with Athens, believe me. I have a whole riff on Athens, but it has nothing to do with landing right. At least, not in water.)
Anyway, what we have here is a complete Change of Scene, to wit: for the first time in three weeks, I'm Home. I've driven solo through the night--luckily, without incident--for 2-1/2 hours on I-10 from Malibu back home to the desert, answering some primal call to--oh this sounds so silly--garden. It's been bugging me, this sense that my flower-space is filling with weeds. And I was right! I got my sprinklers fixed last time I was home, and evidently they've been working overtime--the whole place is choked with Horrible Things. Mostly grasses. As I recall (is this right, Fred?), the technical definition of a weed is "any plant that's someplace you don't want it to be." (Or maybe there's no such thing as a weed, in Floyd?) In any case, we're wayyy overstocked with misplaced plants, here at the TC. So I've just spent an hour and a half out in the full moonlight, yanking out Wrong Things and tossing them into piles, and I've just barely begun to fight!
What I really love is the scent of damp sand rendering up its hostages. Such perfume! And the occasional blast that tells me I've Gone Too Far--I'm into the lavender--oops!
Well, it's dark, who can tell what's what?
Pampas grass--THAT, I can tell. The basketball-sized nubs I trimmed down to, three weeks ago, are now massive (like 8 feet across) fountains of darts glowing eerily white in the moonshine. I guess that'll teach me! There's far more of them than ever before. They're like elephants, trumpeting all over the place. They cast themselves across the moongate--bad feng-shui! I must hack at them before the man I'm here to welcome arrives.
Last night in Malibu, the kitty and I sat out on the deck, listening to strains of mariachi band wafting across the arroyo from Dylan's back yard. (Makes a change from his roosters!) Where I am now, it's going to be 110 degrees tomorrow. Where would I rather be--here, or Malibu? Well, it's not all about gardening, truth to tell. I'd rather be here, of course, with the weeds and the sand and their perfume. And my heart, at home, anticipating her mate.
Most of the weed in Floyd County ends up with a three inch rectangle of thin paper around it, and is incinerated by guys with gray pony tails.
Happy gardening, DocR!
Posted by: fred1st | September 10, 2004 at 03:33 PM