sprig to twig

This one’s for you, Grace. Follow the link to see Grace’s collection of tarps and her very special humor at work. But first, take a walk with me around my neighborhood. My special pet peeve used to be the collection of cars that seem to build up in residents’ driveways, often spilling onto surrounding fields. At one point, the top prize went to one property sporting no less than 18 vehicles. Lately, this blot on the neighborhood has been dwindling. Not that I had anything to do with that, but perhaps if I turn my psychic energy towards the proliferation of tarps, they, too, will begin to disappear. Dare we hope?

Here we have a veritable village of tarps, cars, railroad cars (Lord knows what is stored in there), facing directly onto the road for our viewing pleasure.

Slummy though this may be, at least it is tucked out of sight behind some roadside shrubbery.

I do understand the need to keep wood dry, but do you see all those massive outbuildings in the background? What do you suppose those are for?

Another example of “why the tarp?” when a brand new 3 car garage stands empty right behind it. Not sure if you can see the several tarped lumps at the back of the picture.

In some cases, the tarp may be the only thing holding the building together. Right next door to this lovely abode is…

this decidedly tarpless, neat-as-a-pin home. No wonder the first thing the young man who built it did was plant a fast-growing, dense hedge on all sides.

Then there are the antique tarps. This one looks to have been here almost as long as the building.

This lovely collection (7 by my count) is directly across the road from us. There were large trees running down that side of the road, shielding us from this view. Two weekends ago, down came the trees. It is up to us now to plant as many fast-growing trees and shrubs in our mixed hedgerow as we can muster, cuz I don’t think the tarp infestation will be cured any time soon.

made it into The Sunday Oregonian’s ‘Short Takes’ column with this little ditty:

No, no, no! Do not give the nod to Winkin’ and Blinkin’.

prompted by annoyance at being constantly winked at by both McCain and Palin.

Richard’s comment: Does anyone in this day and age even ‘get’ the reference? I had to admit to not being able to call up the complete nursery rhyme, Winken Blinken and Nod. Anyone?

(later in the day) Googled it, and here it is in its quaint entirety:

Winkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod, one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe;
Sailed on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going and what do you wish?” the old moon asked the three.
“We’ve come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we” said Winkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod.

The old moon laughed and he sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe.
And the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew.
Now the little stars are the herring fish that live in that beautiful sea;
“Cast your nets wherever you wish never afeared are we!”
So cried the stars to the fishermen three - Winkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod.

So all night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam.
Then downward came the wooden shoe bringing the fishermen home.
Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be.
And some folks say twas a dream they dreamed of sailing that misty sea.
But I shall name you the fishermen three - Winkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod.

Now Winkin’ and Blinkin’ are two little eyes and Nod is a little head.
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee ones trundle bed.
So close your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sights that be.
And you shall see those beautiful things as you sail on the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three - Winkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod.

and there you have it…ain’t the internet grand?

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.

Just like the female star in an old Robert Mitchum movie, the flower you see here may be lovely to look at, but oh, so dangerous to love. I’m not even sure where it came from…probably a division from a friend who thought she was doing me a favor… as indeed she was, because I was ever so happy to get it. You can easily see why. In fact, this is one of the few specimens that mere acquaintances would beg me to pass on to them. It likes wet feet, so the first several years it was well-behaved (as in not all that happy). As soon as the watering system went in, it’s demeanor changed radically. Before I really cottoned on to its wily ways, it had commandeered every open space and was elbowing its way into Melianthus major’s territory.

Still, who was I to complain? The spiky foliage created exciting exclamation points throughout the landscape. Then Amy visited, and we took a little tour through the garden. “You do know,” said she, in her tactful way, “that those are on the noxious weed list, because they are choking out native species in boggy areas and near streams.” Funny how a little knowledge peels the scales from one’s eyes. I suddenly saw how these heretofore cherished iris were threatening to overtake the burgundy Japanese maple in the background of the above picture. My first battle was with that clump…I broke two sturdy shovels before Richard came to the rescue with a crowbar and a sledgehammer.

Through the following late spring and summer, I patrolled the remaining clumps and whacked off any stalks with seed heads that were spotted. Any such mission is destined to fail, just because there will always be the odd pod that escapes scrutiny, to spew its progeny far and wide. The new intruders were not that difficult to pluck from the ground, but their ancestors were another story. Out came the crowbar and sledgehammer, and the chain gang got to work. The root systems of these mature clumps had become one with the earth. We soon (well, not that soon, had a mountain of debris. We determined that, should we haul it to the dump, we would probably need to take out a second mortgage to pay the freight. It wound up under a tarp of unsightly black plastic, where we hope it will decompose into something resembling harmless compost.

As fall closes in, thoughts turn to replacements that can take over the sentinal-like, upright, spiky presence vacated by the iris. I’m thinking maybe phormium. By all means, if you have inside information that casts ominous shadows over my new choice, please…please email me immediately and set me straight.

Who could resist falling for a plant as lovely as this? Cerinthe was all the rage a few years back. Of course I had to have one. I brought it home, tenderly tucked it in and watered it. It promptly turned up its toes and I thought that’s that and went on about my business. Not so fast! The following spring, a bevy of these beauties appeared. With nary a thought of the implications of their sudden appearance, I thought OK!

I guess you are way ahead of me here. Yes, that’s right: I have been doing battle ever since with oceans of seedlings from that first failed plant. No wonder we seldom hear mention of Cerinthe any more, though I feel sure, if you listen carefully, it may be being muttered under the breath of the occasional beleaguered gardener on hands and knees.

Just lookie here. This is a patch of ground from which all traces of the dreaded plant were eradicated just three short weeks ago. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you happen to fall for this pretty face.

Nancy, who is an excellent writer, and an even better thinker, wrote a story for Willamette Week. It dealt with the gentrification of her neighborhood in NE Portland, where she has made friends with her neighbors without any particular preference for one race over another…they are just her neighbors, and as such she interacts with them on a daily basis. I have spoken to a number of my friends, who found it a well balanced, well written, and even insightful assessment of what it is like to be on the cusp of change. Let it be known that some of these friends took exception to Nancy’s take on Saucebox, so they do not represent a rubber stamp of approval. I saw Nancy the other night, and gave her a high-five to the effect that stirring up a hornet’s nest is the highest form of praise for a journalist. Then I read the comments on the Willamette Week site.

My first reaction was shock at the vitriol being spewed, and the very personal nature of the attacks. Then I started to think about what might lay behind it all, and the hate began to look a lot more like pain. Nancy had opened a door for people to talk about things that were skewering them. It wasn’t just black people. It was anyone who felt disenfranchised; anyone who thought that the “American Dream” had passed them by…most of us, if the truth be known.