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I made the red, white and blue spinnakers for a friend with a shop with a French theme. I got them back when Lulu went into temporary hibernation. These are not colors that I am normally drawn to, but what fun to trot them out for the Fourth of July and Bastille Day.

We will be going to my ex-husband and his wife’s condo on the river for BBQ and fireworks. Din (son) will be there, and Nancy (son’s wife)’s dad, who just moved to Portland…yet a new twist to the malleable family we enjoy. When I first met the “in-laws”, lo these many years ago, they were all staunch Republicans (understandably, in the age of Tom McCall, et.al.) and talk of politics was off the table if we were to get along at all. Over the years, and especially the last seven +, they have come around. Tonight, it will be safe to mention that I have high hopes, this Independence Day, for a new direction for our country.

Then April sighed, and stepped aside

…and along came pretty little May

I’m all for bringing back a simple tradition enjoyed in childhood: May baskets. The ones I remember were paper cones fashioned from construction paper and decorated with ribbons. The ribbons also formed a loop for hanging these very special, flower-filled vessels over a doorknob. When you are five, the bouquets are apt to contain dandelions and Queen Anne’s Lace, as well as more legitimate flowers pilfered from the garden. Longevity is rarely an issue. The pleasure comes from stealing, undetected, up to the front door of a favorite aunt, sneaking the “basket” of drooping wildflowers onto the door, ringing the bell and diving for the bushes to secretly watch her face radiate delight when she discovers the tribute. As adults, we might give a thought to the practical matter of making our vessels watertight, but lets not lose sight of the gleeful aspects of secrecy and surprise.

Sweet, simple customs carry none of the freight of the sexiness and even gore of May Day’s pagan origins, when the ripeness of all nature led lads and lassies into a delirium of lust sanctioned by all. The fairest of each sex was duly proclaimed King and Queen of the May, to preside over the revelry (which often included human sacrifice). You can imagine how uncomfortable the puritans were with the mayhem. They did their best to leave it all behind when they came to the New World.

In the late 1800’s labor activists co-opted May Day for their own purposes, with marches and demonstrations sometimes described in the press as “commie” events perpetrated by “wild-eyed agitators”. What’s a neo-puritan like George W. Bush to do? Why, wipe out all traces of carnality and left-leaning sentiment with the stroke of a pen, or course. In 2003, he proclaimed May 1 as Loyalty Day, a time to reaffirm our allegience to our Nation.

Proclamations and cover-ups aside, all you have to do is step outside in the Merry Month of May to feel the stirrings of the earth awakening and be moved to mark the event in some significant way. If a pledge of allegiance is what comes to you, so be it. I myself am more likely to tear off my clothes and roll in the grass.

Planting a tree is an act of optimism - a clear statement of belief in the future. You must have vision, especially if the tree is a mere whip at planting time. The spreading umbrella of shade or the pouf of fragrant blossom will take time to materialize. It may not achieve its full majesty in our lifetime, but a carefully planted specimen will reward us with untold pleasure as we watch it develop from year to year. I find myself driving by my old neighborhoods just to see how something I planted there is getting on. It’s like visiting the best longtime friends with shared memories. It always surprises me to see how something that I planted as a sapling has become a real tree in my absence.

Unlike perennials that can be put in willy nilly and moved around at will, a tree demands forethought. Its mature height and spread will need to be considered. Some are fast growers; others take their own sweet time. Impulse buys are best avoided on pain of creating a monument to rashness that can only be remedied with a chain saw. My natural inclination is to be haphazard. It doesn’t bode well for the siting of trees, so I enlist the aid of my partner in life, who is more inclined to take the long view. A case in point is the magnolia . We took turns standing on a proposed spot, while the other went inside to peruse the effect from various windows. After much wild gesticulating (a little to the left, back, back, not quite so far…no, that won’t do at all…), we agreed upon a setting where the little tree glows against the darker background of the forest and can be seen to advantage from three windows of the dining room. It has plenty of room to reach for the sky. I can all but see the monster blossoms unfurling to dinner plate magnificence. What a day that will be!

When we planted street trees, we did the research, made our choice and planted two flowering pears across the front of the house. They had been growing there for three years when the need for a third tree became apparent. I called my horticulturist friend, Michelle, to tell her what we were after. She came to measure the circumference of the trunks of the existing trees so she could allow for transplant shock. The new tree would have to be slightly bigger or it would never catch up. She then sought out a specimen meeting all of the requirements and delivered it to the site. Her detailed instructions for its care left us feeling she was parting with her first-born child. Now that is what I call a dedicated nursery person. Too much to ask for? Not really. You may be surprised by the ardor of arborists - and why not? Beyond their physical beauty, trees do so much for us. They clean our air, shade us from the blazing sun, produce food and stand as sentinals over the history of a place. On a practical note, each tree adds to the value of a property.

As a rule, trees are big-ticket items worth every penny. To get around financial constraints, think about joining the National Arbor Day Foundation. For a nominal membership fee, they will express their thanks by sending you ten free trees. The flowering group includes two flowering dogwoods, two Kousa dogwoods, two crabapples, two Washington hawthorns and two American redbuds. Alternatively, you can opt for a selection of two each of five varieties of oaks or ten Colorado Blue Spruces. When I received my ten free trees, I was distracted by other things. The poor little trees languished on the back porch. When I finally got around to planting them, I had little hope for their survival. I was in for a surprise. They thrived despite my shameful neglect, and within two years were flaunting pride of place and contributing considerable charm to the landscape. Imagine what might happen if one treated them with all due respect and followed the easy planting instructions to the letter.

My sweetheart gave me rocks for Valentine’s Day…and I was thrilled to pieces. Of course these were no ordinary rocks…at least not the small, smooth kind handy for skipping across bodies of water or anchoring flowers in a clear vase (I covet those, too, and on walks can never pass one by without stooping to pick it up and drop it in a pocket). No, these could more aptly be described as boulders. Richard says at the quarry they differentiate by calling them half-man, one man or two-man, depending upon how much of a man is required to lift one. R is secure enough in his manhood to settle for half-man rocks. When I suggested that, between the two of us, it should be easy to lift them out of the truck, he declared, “What do you mean? We’ll just roll them out. They’re rocks! What can happen to them?” Now the trick is placement. There are four of these beauties, and I won’t want to squander their impact by misjudging where to put them. Tomorrow is predicted to be a beautiful day, and I look forward to carting my rocks around, with the aid of a dolly, to try out different locations and dream of their future with moss and lichens and little ground covers spilling around them.

So far, so good. It’s a long time until my birthday…maybe if I play my cards right I will rate a load of gravel.

Happy New Year! I have a good feeling about 2008. Part of it is aesthetics. Don’t you think it looks nice on the page? Appealingly curvaceous in almost any font, and nicely balanced. Politically, well, don’t get me started…but it gives me hope for something better to look forward to.

Dancing Oaks Nursery had been on my radar for some time. All it took was a piece, with photos, in the Oregonian Homes and Gardens section to send me to the phone to plan a trip with Amy. It is always handy when your pal is also a design professional. Many’s the time Amy has saved me from horticultural horrors with her vast knowledge of plants’ habits far beyond what goes on the plant tag. And, let it be said, she’s a heckuva lot of fun. So off we went, detailed directions in hand, for a trip through the countryside, with an exciting destination in mind. It was a beautiful summer day, and we planned to stop somewhere for lunch and be back in town by five. Amy had a meeting at five-thirty, and I was going to Nancy’s first public reading at seven.

I don’t want to get hung up on the odyssey of getting there. Suffice it to say that it is on the back side of beyond, and while it doesn’t look far on a map…it is. Even so, it is well worth the trip, and the trip itself is a lovely ramble on the backroads near Salem. It is not only the plants that make this place such a treat (though the plants are glorious, with many I had never seen). The artistic sensibilities of the owners, Leonard Foltz and Fred Weisensee, is evident in every detail, from the generous sprinkling of garden art to the arrangement of plants to the hardscapes and fountains. The photo here is of a water feature in the main plaza. Giant Gunnera leaves surround planted urns raised on pedestals with water splashing from them into the pond below. At water’s edge grow carniverous plants, in the only such display I have ever encountered where they are beautiful and appropriate, rather than simply an oddity. One gets the impression that TRex might lumber around the bend at any second.

There is a pergola that gives new meaning to the word. It is mamoth in scale, built of rustic reclaimed lumber and clad in a variety of vines, to create an inviting tunnel. You can enter in one part of the garden and emerge in another to the surprise of a new vista that had been hidden from view until you burst upon it. Amy and I were in horticultural heaven. By the time we had looked into the heart of every flower, drunk deep of the heady perfume, and set aside a few things that needed to go home with us, it was five o’clock. Oops!

Not one morsel had passed our lips since we had left town eight hours earlier, so there was nothing for it but to stop for dinner somewhere along the way. The guy who rang up our plants assured us that we could take a more streamlined route. Still, it was eight o’clock by the time I arrived at the reading…just in time to hear the poet, and then Nancy. I hadn’t turned into the world’s worst mother-in-law after all…whew. Once the anxiety over missing the reading subsided, I realized: my camera was back at the nursery. I might have slashed my wrists right then and there, if not for the fact that I needed to go to Carlton to install custom banners at Cuvée, and once in Carlton, we would be halfway there.

Richard was very nice about the whole thing. Despite a little grumbling about the long and twisted drive, he was knocked out by the place once we arrived. It was past closing time, but I had called ahead and we were invited to go ahead and look around as much as we liked, and to help ourselves to nibbles in the vegetable garden. It was even more impressive to me this time, perhaps because I was looking more at the big picture rather than focusing on individual plants. As we were about to go, we fell into conversation with Mr Foltz. We learned that despite the remote location, and four hundred acres to act as a buffer, their immediate neighbors are about to put in a rifle range. So much for getting away from it all. As we drove away, Richard paid the place the ultimate compliment by saying that he would like to come back when we have more time…perhaps he has the makings of a plant nerd after all.

July 4th fell on a Wednesday, so we decided to have a BBQ on another red, white and blue holiday. I was checking the calendar to make sure of the date, and here is what it said: NATIONAL DAY (Fr). What was that all about? I looked up National Day (never heard of it before): “…is a designated date on which celebrations mark the nationhood of a country, i.e. Bastille Day, July 14.

Why can’t we just go ahead and call it Bastille Day? My theory is that someone is loathe to remind us of what can happen when the populace becomes really upset with its governing body. Perhaps we should call it Off With Their Heads Day. Not that I am advocating violence. No, but let’s jettison the coy renaming of national holidays to make them less threatening.