First Sunday in April

A Sunday without Mass would feel pretty barren.

Our bishop, Bishop Myron Cotta, was one of many bishops in the world to give his diocese a dispensation from the obligation to attend Mass, to stop the spread of (specifically) the corona virus.

Fortunately there is technology abounding, and we are able to "attend" Mass by watching a televised service.

Doing so is simply a matter of choice. Since Bishop Cotta gave us the dispensation, we wouldn't have to worry about it, and don't have to even think about it if we don't want to. But I've come to find consolation in the Liturgy; it is prayer, a way of bringing me to accept the contact of the God Who created me. It's a prayer that's been going on for over two thousand years, and each time I experience it, my heart can renounce time and space and be a part of the Sacrifice that happened once, for all, for all time -- like tips of lightning bolts that spread across the sky, all part of the same electrical discharge. Mass is all one thing, no matter where, no matter when. I like that feeling of unity, a unity that is completely about love.

What does that have to do with the flower in the picture?

Not a lot, unless you look for God in all things, and that the Liturgy and the tulip -- no kidding, it really is a tulip -- are both beautiful, and allow me to be lost in wonder in a world that some would like to paint as terrifying and heart-crushing, either because they have been indoctrinated to fear and avoid the world, or to improve their ratings.

And now I must encourage myself to see God in the rain outside that unseasonably is keeping me inside the house when I would rather be outside slobbering over my little tomato plants like an obsessive mother. Thank you, God, for the rain.

The Wild Tree

My little almond tree on the north side of the house has clusters of beautiful blossoms. Last year it had only two, and they were pretty ratty-looking. This spring, the tree had a better idea of what to do.

Perfectly placed, the tree is not too close to the fence, and Joma can see it from her bedroom window. The scrub jay who planted it did a great job.

Labor Day Effort

For quite a few years, the Filthy Pikers have toyed with the idea of "10K for Labor Day" -- that is, writing 10,000 words over the four day Labor Day weekend. I've never managed to achieve that, but this year, I thought I'd give it another try.

In my voyage of creative discovery, I realized anew this past weekend just how much I hate deadlines and quotas. I could not find a single drop of desire to write, even though I have two interesting stories started.

However, I followed my sudden rabid urge to create. I needed to make an image to go with Charles Cicirella's poem "Modern Day Job" in the Piker Press, so I tackled a work of pastels. No, I wasn't thinking of the Hulk when I made green the focal point of the picture. (In fact, when I was done I wished I hadn't used green.) It was a lot of fun having ALL my pastels spread out on the side of my work desk, so much so that I'm going to do that again today.

Then it was time to move on. My Sony camera has more features to it than I was ever able to use (DSC-H400), but with the creative urge on, I perched on the back patio in the morning light and just played with the thing. Photo after photo, setting after setting -- it was glorious!

This is the breadfruit plant that thrives in the southeast corner of the yard, under a canopy of fern pine and hopseed. I loved the way the light was shining through this newly-unfurled leaf.

My neighbor's queen palm was blooming, and I had a good view of the fascinating golden cascade. Using the fence as a tripod, I was able to get a nice zoom-in of the blossoms.

Back to the shade and morning light! Bernie has a coleus on the shady bank, the variety is called "Camp Fire." The stems are dark red, nearly black, and the leaves catch the light beautifully. Sadly, the camera didn't want to catch the light except as a glare.

All that warm, pinky lit-from-within color was lost. How can a camera see things so much differently than my eyes? Exploring a light-blocking setting on the camera (for the first time ever) gave a somewhat better result:

From the darkness of the shadows, I moved to full sun on my potted corn plants. After giving me a few delicious ears this summer (it has been a lousy corn year everywhere in the Central Valley because of the high heat), the corn has dried. Beautiful when it's green, beautiful dried, too. When it turns white, I think of it as "ghost corn."

Back to the studio, and Photoshop. I needed a cover image to accompany Ken Dubuque's humorous essay, "Armed and Dangerous." Using some public domain clip-arty images, I was able to cut and paste together a contraption that put me in mind of the mommies who barrel along the sidewalks, shoving huge buggies before them, all the while staring at their smart phones:

The stripes were simply for graphic effect visually, but what was stupendous to me was that in fiddling with settings and tools in Photoshop, I was able to get onto the screen just what I could see in my head.

Between Photoshop and my camera, I was able to capture this antique-colored portrait of Bernie's zinnias. I've always loved how zinnias hold their shape even while their summer color begins to fade.

And finally, since our cell phone joined the ranks of Electronics That Refuse To Do What They Were Meant To Do, Bernie got me a Motorola g6 that has a pretty spiffy camera feature of its own. This is the first photo I took with it, on Monday evening:

My glass of wine! What better subject could there be, at the end of the holiday weekend? And with that tenth picture, if a picture is worth a thousand words, I did achieve 10K for Labor Day. Cheers!

This Was Going To Be Beans

January and August are the months when I plan out my garden. I draw a little schematic of the planter boxes and pots in the front yard, and know what I want to put in each one for the growing season.

This year, I got the tomatoes right, at least. I have nine Shady Lady tomato plants, four Early Girls; they are my workhorses in tomato production, and I'm aiming for 400 pounds this year. I made room for a pot with the two little nincompoop tomatoes that came up in September in among the kohlrabi and wintered over just fine on the front porch. (They actually gave me my first few tiny-but-tasty tomatoes this year.) The lady who runs the local hardware nursery talked me into a San Marzano again, and this year, the variety is doing well. Then I got crazed and put in a "Yugoslavian" plant and a German variety in other pots, just for a lark.

The rest of the plantings ... hmm. Two variables struck hard: the STUPID weather and the ACCURSED snails.

Our winter was dangerously mild, right up until almond blossom, and then we got slammed with some plunging temps. In fact, I was listening to a couple farmers talking in the hair salon, and one of them was recounting how badly hit some of the orchards had been at a crucial moment when a freeze occurred. Yeah, I know about that. My first planting of corn and beans rotted in the ground because the swelling seeds froze. The second one, ditto. Another freak frosty few days did it in.

The third try got me a nice germination rate, but then the little sprouts of corn began to disappear. And where my beans were planted, little holes appeared in the ground. Birds? No, I have everything netted in the spring. It was snails or slugs, creeping in and chowing down the little sprouts even into the dirt, roots and all. Bastards.

So my corn crop looks like a bad haircut; if I get any corn at all from this planting, I'll immediately plant another crop. Beans I'm starting in pots up off the ground on the sheltered north side of the house, to be planted as space becomes available.

Which brings me to the above photo: when the bok choi were harvested, the violas were supposed to be removed and beans planted. But then a poppy came up in the middle of them, and the violas themselves have grown to heights of color I never would have dreamed of.

Much as I love my wax beans, there was no way I had the heart to tear out that riotous party of color.

Lisianthus

Why I decided to buy a six-pack of lisianthus this past spring is a mystery to me. I paired them with some yellow and red striped zinnias in a half wine barrel in the front yard.

Never did like the way the planting looked. Although the two varieties were supposed to be the same height, the zinnias on the outside row got much taller than the lisianthus, and what should have been a pretty arrangement looked like a car wreck.

The zinnias got yanked out. I allowed the lisianthus to remain only because of how many buds were forming. I thought maybe they'd grow on me, so to speak.

They did not, but even though I loathe them, I have to admit that they are magnificent. All the visitors to my garden comment on how lush and lovely they are. Maybe I dislike them because they are too perfect -- to me, they look like the fake flowers people put on graves in cemeteries.

Too Hot

All gone.

For the first time in years, I planted snapdragons this past winter. Here in Central CA, snaps are "winter color." Not this year, though, as we had so much cloud cover and rain that the plants just didn't want to bloom.

Once April rolled around, though, they were beautiful, and grew tall and blossomed and smelled delicious.

June, and a heat wave. I mean HEAT WAVE, with temps in the hundreds for a week. Right now, as I type this, the weather report is that it is 107 out.

I expect heat like this at the end of July, but not in June. Especially since I just stopped wearing winter clothes about 10 days ago.

Even the plants were not expecting it. Bernie's peppers are cooking on the stem; my container corn is withered and trying to tassel too early, and all the snaps have given up. Pansies, too, are suggesting that they are ready for the compost bin.

By this time next week, temps are supposed to be back to a seasonal level. But I wonder how many more plants we're going to lose by then.

New Tricks

Alex brought her phone to me one day recently to show me some art someone had posted on some social media site. (Note the use of the word "some" -- that means I didn't bother to remember the names.)

The worthy experimental artist had put a stem of gypsophilia (baby's breath) on a scanner, and scanned it with the lid of the scanner open. DUH!!

There was a faint illumination from the room the scanner was in, but the ethereal image of the tiny flowers was stunning. Naturally I had to give it a try myself, in my garage studio, which is devoid of light.

I put a stem of my white geraniums on the scanner, turned off all the lights, and from my indoor workspace, fired up the scanner remotely and got this delicious result.

I tried the project with snapdragons, nasturtiums, and sweet peas.

Next I think I'll snitch a few of Bernie's dianthus blooms, which should come out looking like mutated stars in a midnight sky.

Also I should do a good job of cleaning those pesky specks off my scanner's bed.

A Challenge!

Not one for letting me alone, Lydia Manx gave me a poke and suggested that we write 10,000 words over Memorial Day Weekend.

She didn't wait for my answer, because she knew what it would be and how I would phrase it -- so she quickly amended it to a picture being worth a thousand words, thus a 10-picture challenge.

I could do that.

The pomegranate tree got a photoshoot, with  guest appearances by a nasturtium and an artichoke.

The result of the challenge can be seen at Palmprint Gallery.

January 2013

If there is a more cheerful-looking flower than a pansy, I can't think of it.

Orchids can be elaborate, but many come off looking predatory or menacing; roses are luxurious, yet stand-offish. Camellias have their own agendas, and alyssum just runs riot and tramples all over anything, with total disrespect for other flowers' personal space.

But the pansy has a winning smile for everyone, all the time.

January is our bleahhhhhh month; colder than December, the days are frequently socked in by Tule fog -- everything feels chill and damp and dull and your toes hurt.

Pansies are winter color here in the Central Valley, and I appreciate every little smile they bring.

Volunteers

 This happy face was the first of the cosmos to bloom.

None of these plants were planted; they came up on their own from their parents' cast seeds or bulbs.

The cosmos' parents were from a six-pack that our local hardware was giving away last May; every Thursday, any woman shopping there could have a free six-pack of flower plants. I chose cosmos one week, and their seeds fell to the deck around the pool and were subsequently swept by Bernie to the no-man's land beneath the grape vine. This spring, the cosmos children leaped up in joy to have their own planting in the earth.

I gathered all the freesia bulbs from the disintegrated wine barrel that used to sit under the Japanese maple ... but missed some seed that opted to grow. Who could bear to tear them out? If they proliferate,  I can't deny them. One tiny stalk, yet they perfume the air around for ten feet or more.

 This creature is the image of its parent plant from last year, which was in itself a volunteer. I love nasturtiums, with their zesty smell (and you can eat them in salads) and bright colors, but they can get out of hand in their second and third generations. Red Splotch here has already traveled six feet in multiple directions, looking for optimum sunshine. I do admire its purposefulness and ingenuity, but am keeping a close eye on it so that it doesn't kill the Japanese maple or rip out the foundations of the house.

Life, in its beauty, does not have to be ordered, or orderly. Sometimes it is crazy productive, other times just has a little stage time to wave, do its tiny dance, and be  gone, committed to memory by a few fortunate admirers.

I try to remember that I'm one of those volunteers of the earth, too, that I was not cultivated to specially produce great super-market sized fruit or florist-quality proliferation of out-sized blooms. (Maybe my mother would stamp a foot in her failure to make me an astronaut, a neurosurgeon, or a Nobel Prize winner, but oh, well, Mom, I didn't want to sit in the fertilizer in the hothouse, after all.)

These poppies, which I never planted, but were on this land before I bought it, survive and grace our Springs each year with their gaiety, their color, and their will to survive, year after year. They produce seeds, and let them go; they don't worry about whether the seeds will get to the big garden, or just sprout from cracks in the brick deck.  I love them, and take heart in them, and call them sisters;  no one knew what I would become in my life, and maybe what I have become is simply a drifting volunteer, changing from season to season, what the climate decides is right.

My volunteers shout to me not to worry about the future, because what will grow in the earth next season is likely to have some tremendous beauty in it.

This year, each morning, I walk out into the back yard and take inventory of the plants. Been a long time since that was a high priority, and I'm enjoying how my heart feels when I take the stroll from the double-blossomed red geranium beside the door, to the neon pink cyclamen blooming under the suddenly dark red leaved Japanese maple ...

I see some volunteers: a freesia getting ready to bloom where its parent planter used to be, some yellow nasturtiums already sending out long streamers, ready to conquer the world.

Then the troubling cucumber planter, where the seeds have not sprouted, and I don't know if I just planted them too early, or if the jays watched me, then dug them up and ate them.

The snow pea tub comes next, with more snow peas than you can shake a stick at, lush and green, the blossoms pure white. From there I wander to the tomato barrel, where "Bush Goliath" has set its first tiny tomato in spite of the chill nights.

I say hello to the first California poppies blooming nearby, nod smiling to the new pale green leaves of the grapevine and the temperamental avocado. The volunteer cosmos are growing by leaps and bounds, and look! -- there are potato leaves poking out of the soil in Potatoland! Behind them, flanking John's menacing artichoke, are two Roma tomato plants, looking smug in their little cages, begging for their booster of epsom salts.

Stopping to poach a spear of asparagus, I cast an eye on the space I hope to house a couple Big Daddy tomato plants in the not-too-distant future. The golden euonymus gets a warning as I pass: Stop harboring bindweed and rose-root bastards or we will dig you up and turn you into compost. (It's seven feet wide and has a trunk the size of my wrist, so it doesn't take me seriously.)

Loaded with buds and new blossoms, the Stella cherry grows sedately, sparklingly white blossoms in the morning sun. By the time this tree sets fruits, we'll have swathed it in bird netting so that the mockingbirds and the jays don't destroy the cherries. They take a bite out of each cherry, the greedy things, spoiling them for us before the cherries are even fully ripe.

I shake the hand of a branch of the fern pine we planted to provide summer shade for our bedroom window, salute the indefatigable alstromeria flowers that have colonized most of the bank, and avert my eyes from the obscene number of lemons hanging from the branches that stretch far over the birdbath from the back patio.

Our garden is beautiful, and I'm delighted to be enjoying it again.

Once inside, I visit my tomato seedlings in the windowsill.

Life is good.

Twelve Drummers Drumming

 On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me -- Fine Picnic Weather!

No really, it was. 68 degrees and sunshine, folding sling chairs out on the front yard, soaking in the Vitamin D while dining, for Bernie, on a beef tri-tip and provolone sandwich on fresh French bread, and for me, thin slices of tri-tip seasoned with salt and cumin, and French bread slathered with cream cheese.

Simply bliss.

The geraniums are blooming a moderate number of blossoms, the breeze was light and balmy, and Howie lay in the grass at our feet, watching people walk by, keeping an eye on cats prowling in the neighbor's driveway, nose noting every stray scent to be found.

And of course, instead of drummers, just as loud was the traffic as cars roared up and down the street, not at all at or under the 25 mph limit. Hey! Twelve Speeders Speeding ...!

There. Tomorrow is Epiphany. You can take down your Christmas season tree and lights now. Or, if you have things to do tomorrow, and don't want to miss any of the NFL games over the weekend, Monday is all right, too -- Baptism of the Lord, you know, and the Catholic Church's official end of the Christmas Season.

Merry Christmas, every one. May 2012 bring us all peace in our lands, and happiness in our hearts.

Nine Ladies Dancing

More or less. The bee doesn't count, she's working, not dancing.

The ninth day of Christmas was okay, after the Piker Press was up and I was able to stop swearing at my laptop and its penchant for wacking out on me when I'm trying to edit articles.

It starts like this: Grumpy because I've left working on the Press until Monday morning (when I've vowed every Monday afternoon for years that I'm going to get everything ready to roll the Thursday prior to Monday's publishing), I immediately tackle the "difficult" articles first -- the ones that need close attention and editing. An article that has misspellings and punctuation gaffes can take an hour to edit and format, depending on how rough a draft I've been handed, and how many interruptions in the process.

Every link has to be checked, every book that's reviewed has to be available on Amazon (since those links are our only income, piss poor though it is). Every Peek of the Week has to be mined from galleries, examined closely to make sure there is no blur, and on Monday mornings I can barely remember how to button my shirt correctly let alone who all has given me permission to look through their galleries for potential photos.

Halfway through the process, I'm already stiff and itchy, and then the laptop mousepad gets over-sensitive and buggers up lines I've typed. I should know better, yes, it's true. The only thing to do is get up, walk away, and go watch the birds for a while, drink a glass of ice water, run a load of laundry. The madder I get, the more mistakes slow me up. Bleah.

But once the Press was done, the ninth day was fine. Laundry was a-cookin' in the machines, there were plenty of leftovers for lunch; I took a walk around the block, read an uplifting article about liturgical norms, tackled three small sewing projects, and with Bernie's help, sanded off the old finish on the paper towel holder from the kitchen.

I got to thinking about a picture of 'nine ladies dancing' -- and thought of photos of cherry blossoms. So beautiful, and on a day that dawned with thick gray Tule fog, cold and damp, I found myself longing for Spring already.

As I looked through the photos, I spotted something I had missed last Spring: a bug staggering through the photo shoot.

Merry Christmas Season, Bug! You're a star!

Spring, and Almond Blossoms Once More

It's just a fact that you're going to hear about almond blossoms for a while.

The air is incredibly fragrant with them here in the Almond Capital of the World, and the orchards on all sides are gracing the landscape with flowers.

Today I took Howie and the Sony camera for a walk along one of the nearby orchards, and this was just about my favorite shot. I like how the blossoms are backlit by the sun, and I like the contrast between the shade on the stems and the white of the petals.

It was hazy today, not a harsh sunlight. The air was delightfully warm, and the bees were active enough that near the trees, the hum of their wings was the main sound to be heard.

I was ready for some sweet weather. I even shaved my legs today, preparing for some brief sitting in the sun in shorts.

Tomorrow I ride for the first time since my riding partner was thrown from her horse last October and had her wrist shattered. I have to say that seeing her fall, screaming as I thought the horse fell on top of her, and the ensuing drive to the hospital really have put me off riding. It's up to clever Dink to bring me back.

Last of the Sansanquas

Sasanqua camellias are so lovely.

I planted this one on the back bank in a spot that has become semi-shady due to the growth of the shrubs around it. It's been almost two years since I planted it; this year I wasn't sure it would bloom at all after the freezes of the year before, and my neglect of my gardens this past year.

Much to my surprise, a week before Halloween last year, I spotted a bright pink flash of color: the sasanqua had begun blooming.

October is a little early for their bloom; I usually think of them as being Thanksgiving color. When the blossoming began so soon, I thought surely that by Christmas all the color would be gone.

Not so, not so. True to form, the camellia continued blooming through January, and although I'll have to wait until next fall to see them again, these last flowers are welcome: their disappearance means ... it's Spring.

Inexorable Things, and Poppies

The late afternoon sun was perfect for illuminating these poppies and giving them a glowing color that needed no touch-ups in Photoshop.

In a month, it will be ten years since we moved into this house. I can't forget the first morning we woke here, to a quiet neighborhood and the sweet sound of birdsong. At that time there were maybe two or three spindly poppy plants on the back bank, which, along with the lawn, were dying for lack of water. We collected their seeds and sprinkled them on the dry ground, and were rewarded the following spring by a humble crowd of wildflowers.

Every winter since then, we've looked for the first poppy sprouts on the bank, a promise of spring to come soon.

I tried and failed to get hold of my mother's doctor today; but the caseworker from the Area Agency on Aging called me and we compared notes. Apparently my mother has been turning off the ringer on her phone. Now, does she know she's doing this? Is she doing it so that the phone doesn't ring while she's eating lunch, and then forget that she has? Is it her way of avoiding the caseworkers who try to call to schedule appointments? Connie the caseworker said she's turned the ringer on Mom's phone to the "On" setting twice now, after calling and calling and getting no answer.

Yesterday my mother-in-law tried to call, and getting no answer for the second day in a row, drove to Mom's house to see her. They had a nice visit, but Mother-in-law was appalled to see how thin and desiccated my mother looked. Forgetting to eat, perhaps?

Connie told me that last Monday, when she arrived to take my mother to her doctor's appointment, that (of course) my mother had forgotten about the appointment and tried to get out of it by saying she wasn't ready. Connie told her to go ahead and get ready, they had plenty of time, and while Ma was out of the room, Connie spoke to my sister, just chitchat. Amazingly, Jan answered her, and spoke to her ... until Mom scuttled back into the room and told Jan to stop showing off. Jan clammed up and spoke not another word. Still, I was elated to hear that Jan is still responsive -- she's been so quiet for so long that I worried that she had lost the ability to interact.

The consensus seems to be that Jan should be removed from my mother's home as soon as possible for not only her well-being, but her safety. If Mom can't remember to feed herself, is she actually remembering to take care of Jan? I know that it is going to cause upheaval in their lives, but I think that even in the short term, getting Jan out of that house could only be the best for her.

The other thing is the issue of my mother driving. She's already admitted to getting herself "lost" on her way to church once, and a friend called me to tell me he saved her ass when she hit a cloud of confusion at the local gas station and suddenly could not remember how to put gas in her little truck or how to pay for it; I've been instructed to tell her physician about the incidents, and in light of his evaluation of her condition, he will probably send paperwork to the Pennsylvania DMV to require her to go in for a driving test -- which I cannot imagine she would be able to pass.

She has good days sometimes, when her laugh sounds relaxed and easy, and she understands the things I tell her. I like to let those conversations hearken me back to the days 20 plus years ago when I lived in Pennsylvania, too, and we would meet in the earliest hours of the day to fish in the river while our respective households slept in. She was there to see me cast from 15 feet away into a tiny creek that emptied into the river -- and come up with a 17-inch trout, much to our surprise. Or the time we were surf-fishing on Hatteras Island, and I caught a little shark -- and Mom had to come to the rescue and take the hook from its mouth. The beast was still twitching and switching when we took it back to the cleaning station, and in shame for my earlier cowardice, I grasped it by the tail and whammed it hard on the wooden gutting table. I don't know that I ever remember my mother laughing that hard at anything else I ever did. (And she did appreciate the way I cooked the shark that day.)

There was a time when she was a good, good friend. Maybe in the next life we'll be able to recapture that friendship.