Dee Blair

I found my mother huddled next to our radio one April evening, listening to classical music. Her face radiated awe and incredulity.

Someone was playing the piano, and it was glorious. Commanding. And so powerful it knocked me back. A mountain of Sound washed over me, thick with orchestra, deep drums, and oh, that pianist!

Finally, we heard wild, sustained applause and cheers. Tears streaked our faces. “My God.”  My mother’s exclamation was reverent. I was bewildered. What was happening? And who was playing?

Ages later the announcer spoke key words:

And much later, gasps:

Van Cliburn takes The Soviet Union’s First Prize!

The world’s major newspapers announced his triumph with huge headlines.

The next week we learned that New York City had given Cliburn- just back from the Soviet Union- a ticker-tape parade, the only time that honor has ever been granted to a classical pianist. I saw that he was just a boy, really, a slim, very tall 23-year-old Texan. Time Magazine put his face on its cover. Overnight, he was world-famous. This shy pianist had single-handedly brought two superpowers, wallowing in the murky nightmare of the Cold War, much closer.  (RCA’s subsequent recording of his triumph went triple-platinum, and remained a worldwide best seller for more than a decade.)

His accomplishment marked the apex of countless thousands of hours of study and practice. The child began his musical odyssey at age three, when he tried to play what his mother’s piano students were playing. He almost managed it. She immediately took him in hand, as it was clear he had talent, even that young. Cliburn handily won every competition he entered in Texas, and made his successful debut with the Houston Symphony Orchestra when he was just 12.

Imagine the scene in Moscow just 5 years later, when the Moscow Symphony Orchestra and Van Cliburn released the Tchaikovsky concerto’s last note. Pandemonium! Flowers- and bravos- flooded the stage. Cliburn was treated to over eight minutes of thunderous applause. The firm, one-bow rule had to be tossed. The jurors (composed of the greatest musicians in the Soviet Union) were astounded. They’d never heard Tchaikovsky played so magnificently.

Here’s the thing: The Soviet Union, basking in the glow of its successful launch of Sputnik in 1957, had organized the first annual International Tchaikovsky Competition to show off its cultural superiority. A Russian would win, of course! Only Russians understood- and could correctly interpret- Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff’s wonderful, fiendishly difficult music, which had become part of their national soul.

Piano contestants poured in from all over the world.

But Van Cliburn’s mastery of Russia’s musical giants knocked the jurors off their chairs. He buried every other national and international contestant in the preliminaries, brilliantly delivering the music of Shostakovich, Liszt and Beethoven. ‘Cleeburn’ – their pronunciation- was on every Russian tongue.

The awed, nervous jury was in a quandary. This was so embarrassing, not to mention politically devastating! He wasn’t Russian! Some frightened jurors refused to mark him up, awarding him just three or four points, while heavily favoring Russian contestants. Others, angry at this sabotage, compensated by awarding Cliburn 100 points, though the highest score permitted was 10; those ballads were snatched back and the 100s furiously erased. Shouting ensued.

Is Cliburn the best?   Gulp. Would they dare to be honest?

Oh, yes, sir!

Well then, in that case, give it to him!

Cliburn’s unprecedented triumph marked the first time the two paranoid superpowers had actually perceived one another as fellow human beings. Khrushchev loved classical music- who knew! Now both countries could rejoice in its non-threatening power to tap deep into human emotion, and leave all of us feeling clean.

I saw him in person four years later at the Interlochen Music Camp when he played for us. (He’d just returned from a stay at Khrushchev’s Dacha on the Black Sea; the two men had become friends.) There he was, enjoying the campus for a few days, wearing the camp’s traditional comfy blue cords, and chatting up the kids. I was far too shy to approach him. I have always regretted that.

Fast-forward fifty years.

I was working in the garden a few days ago, when, out of nowhere, his name popped into my head. It had been so long! Where was he these days? I went straight into the house, and looked him up on Google. And saw that he’d died of bone cancer in February, at age 78.

Wait a minute! Maybe…just maybe…

I ran to my computer, which is jam-packed with miracles, and searched.

There. It. Was. Incredible! And offered to the world only recently, with YouTube’s birth. (Interested readers should CLICK HERE.)

This is powerful stuff. What I saw, and heard, literally took my breath away and brought me to tears. (Music lovers: wear earphones, and set aside 37 minutes to be riveted- and even shocked-by this music’s controlled ferocity and majesty. It’s amazing that the human mind can learn- and memorize – such a huge, complicated score, and then offer it with perfect accuracy, sensitivity and passion to you and me.)

Mr. Cliburn’s hands are huge, easily spanning 10 keys. (Eight or nine is usual.)  And now, 50 years later, I can sit right next to him and watch that brilliant young man’s fingers fly effortlessly over the ivory as he, Kondrashin and the Moscow Symphony Orchestra bring Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s glorious music to life.

Ah, so many miracles!

I was digging out a deeply embedded weed recently, when I unearthed two big worms. (Since I’ve switched exclusively to cocoa shell mulch, available at any good garden center, that population has massively increased.) Absently I popped the panicked, squirming creatures onto my hat brim while I carried on digging; they’d be safe there for a minute. (When done I’d simply tip my hat; they’d fall back to earth, unscathed, and burrow in again.)

But now I heard the whirr of wings. An adolescent robin landed right next to me, head cocked, wanting to dine on those worms, but baffled as to how to tackle them where they were. I noticed how lean the speckle-breasted birdling was. His parents had wished him well after a decent training period; this gawky youngster was clearly on his own. So far he’d escaped cats, cars, and other disasters. (Half-grown robins are, in my opinion, dangerously naïve, and too quick to trust what they haven’t learned to fear. He’d been lucky.) Now, he was pointedly demanding a worm breakfast.

I found myself in a tricky position.

Compromise, old girl.

I sat back on my heels and tipped off the worms. Plop. Upon landing they immediately began burrowing into the soft earth. The robin waited impatiently as I moved over to give him room. (I took my time.) Only the tip of one worm’s tail was still visible. The robin bounced closer, grabbed its vanishing hind end, and pulled hard. Out it came, after a fight, and gulp- down it went. The other one barely escaped, somehow sensing the breath of death near its twitching rear. The robin was acutely disappointed.

Which triggered a special memory…

When I was a youngster my mother raised a robin one summer at our cottage on Elk Lake. A little guy had been blown out of his nest during a windstorm. In the morning she found him, naked and hollering, under our huge maple tree.  She dashed into the kitchen to roll hamburger worms, fed the shocked, cold baby, then tucked him into a twiggy nest she fashioned in a shoebox. A soft, oven-warmed flannel was placed over Bert- she loved her name for him-  to simulate the security of his bird-mom’s downy breast.

She was pretty much fixed on that bird for weeks, as he demanded enormous amounts of food. Besides developing into an expert bug and worm catcher she kept the nest clean, and the flannel scrap warm and ready.

Gradually, fluffy down changed to operating feathers as he grew into his once-enormous mouth. Eventually Bert hopped onto the grass to practice foraging; he stayed close to home base, though, and Mom made sure he had frequent nest-naps. A little later, after flapping a lot, he practiced short, awkward half-flights around the immediate area. Then one day everything clicked: he soared happily into the summer-blue sky, and vanished. Oh, she missed him, but emphasized that this was The Natural Way of Things. Little ones show up, grow up, and then, they go. (Up, in this case.)

One sunny July day the following summer, while hanging sheets on our long wash line, she heard a familiar tune sung right behind her. When she turned around, her heart leaped! There, beautifully orange-breasted in his adult plumage, was Bert, perched on a low branch. Mom’s face lit up with amazement and happiness.

He looked at her intently, and didn’t panic when she moved close, but wouldn’t allow touching. Instead, head cocked, he watched her for a good while. Remembering?

My reverie was interrupted: the ravenous robin was back! He’d landed on the lawn about three feet away, and was now doing his Oliver Twist ‘bowl-beg:’ Please, Sir; I want some more.

I wasn’t about to hand him a fat squirmer; he needed to work for his dinner. I remembered with amusement how fully-fledged young robins would land noisily on the garden lawn and squawk loudly, demanding bugs from their frazzled parents. The weary adults did comply, but reluctantly. (Six weeks of servitude for their never-satisfied offspring is a hard-wired response, difficult to abandon overnight.) Finally, though, they felt they’d done quite enough, thank you. Food was offered crawler-slowly, and then- not at all.

They were done. The kids were launched, like it or not.

I did grab a generous handful of rich, mulched earth, turn it over, and quickly leave. I’ll say this: there was no grass growing on that avian. He rushed over there to pounce on a truly epic worm. It was gone in a few gulps. Then, after listening hard, he pulled out another. Eventually he flew off, crammed with what I guessed was his first really decent meal.

My grin was guilt-free.

Ollie (short for Olivia) lives in Saginaw, Michigan with a family who cherishes her. She’s kept slim on a healthy diet and walked daily under her street’s huge shade trees so she can ‘read the news’ with that astute nose. Her wavy auburn-honey coat is brushed ‘til it shines. For years she’s been a seamless part of her humans’ lives, and though the two species are as different as it’s possible to be, they fit together perfectly, connected by mutual respect and love.

Golden retrievers have two passions that help define them. Often, though, the means to enjoy them aren’t possible. Ollie’s hard-working family has had scant time or energy to indulge in frivolity.

One fine day a week ago, though, she was abruptly introduced to a world completely different from the quiet, predictable, in-town life she knows in Saginaw. Her people left their watches behind, packed up her food, bowl and leash, threw their own bulging suitcases and favorite pillows into their cars and hit the road. Three hours later they met up with more family and dear friends at a beautiful rental cottage on Silver Lake, just west of Traverse City.

A mystified Ollie began her lake vacation. 

First, she thoroughly inspected the big interior, sorting out bedrooms and kitchen topography. The air was filled with delighted laughter as ten people settled in. (Including the dog in this adventure had cost more money, but no one could imagine leaving their quiet, well-behaved Ollie behind.)

Then, her busy nose picked up an unusual, yet vaguely familiar scent...Her family opened big sliding doors and invited her outside. Lawn wandered down to a sandy beach warmed by the late morning sun. Wowf!! Water! Everywhere! Incredulous, she put her front paws in the cool lake, then looked up.

Thrilled, Ollie threw herself in and swam. And swam. And lapped and lapped the lake as though to drink it all, and swam some more, and poked her head underneath to inspect the bottom sand, and then paddled round and round in huge circles, then up and down the cottage’s generous shoreline. Ages later she staggered out and shook, but, irresistibly lured by liquid-love, plunged back in to swim again. Everyone marveled. Would she ever tire?

Ollie was in Golden heaven.

What was that! Something caught her eye much further out that begged for retrieval! Joyfully she swam into deeper water, grabbed a small bobbing buoy- oh, fetching it felt so fine- and turned to carry it triumphantly home…Ugg! Attached by a long tether to a large cinderblock on the lake bottom (probably to secure a small diving platform), it just wouldn’t cooperate. In fact, she couldn’t move it one inch.

Soon, noticing her mounting frustration, her family called, “No, Ollie. Come!” She shot the recalcitrant buoy a firm ‘I’ll be back’ glare and reluctantly swam to shore. Twice more that afternoon she tried to fetch it; twice more her family explained, their word-stream sprinkled with multiple ‘nos.’ Ollie cocked her head, mystified. No? That-‘thing’- perfect for her gentle mouth, kept bobbing nicely and beckoning to her- but then, it wouldn’t budge! Why?

Finally, she grudgingly accepted that its behavior was inexplicable. Sometimes the world worked oddly, just to confuse a sensible, dedicated dog.

Never mind: her family obligingly tossed in objects she could fetch, so that made the beckoning buoy bummer a bit more bearable.

I visited on the second day and watched her paddle out there while furtively glancing back toward shore. She circled that irritating buoy and nudged it delicately with her nose to remind it of her presence. Her mouth remained obediently closed, though.

After paddling back and staggering onto the beach Ollie shook vigorously, then immediately waded in again- but this time just chest-deep, to glide effortlessly along on furry tiptoes, loving the incredible lightness of buoyancy. Her coat waved and billowed gracefully atop the calm water.

I loved witnessing her pleasure in these little joys.

She did occasionally leave the lake to bolt a quick meal, but always hurried out again to swim, or roll luxuriously in the warm, pale sand at water’s edge before falling asleep, belly up.

Every evening the clan and a happily exhausted Ollie sat around a beach bonfire and traded stories and jokes while scarfing down treats.

The cottage’s big, nicely appointed pontoon boat offered new adventures. There were inlets and small islands to investigate, and fishermen to hail. After admiring bobbing ducks awhile Ollie would nod off, lulled by the craft’s gentle motion. Occasionally someone would slip a delectable bit of ham under her nose...

The last morning arrived too soon. A little fatter and a lot tanned, with hair and fur peppered with sand, everyone packed up again and drove back to Saginaw to resume their normal lives.

Even better: one nagging failure will be sorted satisfactorily night after night, when she’ll wallow in golden dreams of swimming and retrieving, with the same triumphant theme- and, just perhaps, one variation:

Paddling powerfully out to deeper water Ollie successfully Fetches The Beckoning Buoy every time. Impressed by her prowess and persistence, it always gives up without a fight and goes along quietly.

(Oh, and once in a awhile she digs a decent sand hole and noses it in, just to make a point.)

P.S. Next year her family plans to rent the same cottage.

First, the toilet wouldn’t stop running. Turns out the tank’s valve chain kept snagging on itself. Plus, the little fill-hose in there had directed itself up to squirt the lid’s edge. That water had then trickled down to the floor. I sorted it all out, but then the old white towel rag I was using to wipe my hands slipped quietly out of my pants pocket into the bowl. I flushed experimentally while peering into the tank- overflow! I snatched the darn thing out, but not before the floor got even wetter. What a way to begin the day!

The garden, though, cheered me up. I deadheaded happily, reaching and stretching to snare dead blossoms. Then, trotting past the big fountain and pool, I pulled up suddenly. Whoa! The water level was too low! I unwound the hose and dragged it over. Three inches higher ought to do it. The fountain pump would certainly be happier.

You know what will happen, don’t you?

I’m not going to flood the lawn again!  No way! Those other times were flukes…

Uh-huh.

Stay close, old girl; your record stinks!

True, but I won’t stand by for ages to watch the pool fill. How incredibly boring! Nope, I’ll deadhead nearby and keep a close eye on the water level…

Right.

Much later I re-entered the garden from the alley after cleaning behind the Lamb’s Ears and thumping Japanese beetles. I felt smug. Those jobs had really needed doing.

For ages I did penance, lugging bucket after heavy bucket of overflow water into the alley. Fifteen trips later my arms ached, and my shirt dripped sloshing water and yucky pool bottom gunk. I was certainly paying for another senior moment. Clearly I’d have to chain myself to the bench next time, and watch!

Finally the water level dropped to just below the pool rim. I could stop bailing. It was just eight o’clock in the morning, and already I’d experienced two watery messes. What else could possibly happen?

Ah, life is never dull, here. Mid-morning, chatting with visitors about dogwood trees, I gazed up at the sky as we walked toward the folly. A private plane was buzzing by- an unusual sight these days. Civil aviation was, for all practical purposes, dead, as fuel costs were astronomical.

The visitors gaped, sputtered, and then, overcome with the absurdity of the situation, began to laugh, and couldn’t stop. I turned redder than a fire truck on a hot date and slowly waded out, dumb with embarrassment. Sometimes there is simply nothing reasonable to say. Only a sheepish grin and a weak shrug are possible.

I simply carried on. All day long my shoes (which emitted pathetic little squeaks and squirts with every step) and soaked jeans attracted twigs, leaves, flower petals, bugs, bits of grass and muddy earth. Blank-faced, I’d frequently look down on my organically cluttered lower parts, and sigh. Served me right.

The waterlogged day ended in spectacular fashion. I sat in the kitchen just after six o’clock, glumly sipping tea and trying not to think about possessing a brain so dense that light bends around it- when the phone jingled.

Oh, boy! It was definitely down under. The police could find no obvious reason why this disaster had happened. Everything electrical, including the bilge pump, had packed up. Traverse Dockside Marine, responding promptly, emptied the poor thing with a gasoline-powered pump, then raised it, groaning, from the river. We heaved it onto the boat trailer and hauled it away for a proper shop investigation.

Huh! ‘Hosed’ yet again! See what I mean about themes?

On the bright side (metaphysical piles of poop usually have ponies hiding in there somewhere), no family member had slept in the little cuddy cabin for fun last night, and-we have great insurance.

There was one other hugely comforting thought I embraced with a weak grin:
this time it wasn’t my fault.

Ding. The garden bell rang, and in strode a tall, elderly, stick-thin woman. She carried a black cane, wielded like a laser pointer. Wherever the cane went, her eyes followed. I watched, fascinated, as it efficiently directed her eyes toward wherever she needed to observe. I know, that sounds dumb. But that’s how it seemed.

I heard a soft “ Humph.”  She marched to the bench, sat ramrod straight, and obediently looked where the cane pointed- at the fountain. The cane hovered horizontally, the tip unwavering. Her wrists were certainly stronger than mine.

I surreptitiously inspected her while she examined the fountain’s black swans.

She wore a perfectly fitted old-fashioned, belted, paisley-patterned tube-slim, zillion-buttoned dress with no pleats. Long sleeves finished with a froth of cream wrist lace. Its hem stopped inches short of stout brown tie-shoes. On her head was a brown pancake hat, topped with one pink silk rose that stood at attention. The rim was decorated with a gathered brown veil. Underneath, her white hair was swept back into a smooth, hairpinned bun. This woman, Perfectly Proper In Every Way, could easily be Mary Poppins in her later years.

The cane still hovered- not an inch to the left, not an inch to the right. Eventually it rotated to me. I smiled, but it weakened as that steady, cane-guided gaze moved unhurriedly from my grubby sunhat down to my well-worn shoes. Would she ever speak? The cane eventually lost interest in my frame and its rubber end dropped to the dirt. Something warned me to keep my trap shut. She wasn’t menacing, just- commanding. I remembered being measured like this by the teacher-nuns in elementary school. We children knew never to speak unless spoken to. I waited.

The odd ‘inspection spell’ was suddenly broken when two boys, flirting with thirteen, came through the arbor into the sunlight, punching each other’s arms, laughing boisterously and arm-wrestling as they danced around. Their rotund dad padded in behind them, blinking through his spectacles at the colorful main garden. Knobby knees emerged from pressed khaki shorts; his brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt seemed at home in here.

The youngsters, noticing my silent guest, suddenly straightened up and arranged their hair and clothes. “Hello there,” I ventured. They returned the greeting, but their eyes never left the old lady on the bench. Their behavior altered. Now they looked around quietly, pointing here and there, like perfectly trained Edwardian era children. Well-mannered. Correct.

A chipmunk dashed past her ankle. She sat there, unruffled. Surprise and this lady had never met, I decided.

The family moved on quickly, and disappeared around the corner. I heard the distant garden door squeak as they left.

She rose then, and her cane pointed at the cluster of lovely little blue and white flowers sporting ridiculous faux-bristles that stuck out like silk threads at attention.

Oops! Any dumber and I’d need to be watered twice a week! If she took offence at bottoms and poop, would the cane rap my knuckles?

We moved into the Ram’s Head Garden. She paused, and her cane poked the huge tulip tree. “It’s a tulip tree,” I said, obediently, “and its fat yellow tulip-flowers are gorgeous in June. But oh Gawd, the petal-mess lasts for weeks.”

Still, not one word. Jeez.

We moved on, to the big mirror. Her cane rose in surprise and pointed to her reflection. Eyes round with delight, my visitor smiled hugely. Staring, she adjusted her hat carefully, nodding approval at what she saw in there. For a good while she probed its depths, noticing the little fountain, the potted plants, the cattails, the way the view seemed to alter one’s perception, somehow. Mirrors are a bit mysterious, aren’t they? I thought, and she caught my eye and nodded. She’d read my mind! It was unnerving.

Eventually cane and lady moved along the garden path to the last gate. She examined the latch, opened it carefully, and then- that cane rose to my shoulder and rested there. Her gray eyes met mine. She spoke, her voice clear, and gentle.

Her stick dropped to the ground, then led the way up the step. Opening the gate she strode away rapidly, and never once looked back.

I decided I’d been  ‘knighted’ by a monarch.

The word ‘Odd’ stands out, though…

I do encounter the odd bump-in-the-road. Recently, for example, someone bolted the first big door after entering the secret garden; only much later, after other visitors couldn’t get in, did I realize what happened.

This year a lady sneaked her teeny Yorkie into the garden by stuffing it into her large, soft cloth purse. But because I was out there working, she couldn’t let it out. A few distressed yaps later the dog did his business inside it. She left in a hurry, red-faced!

Out-of-towners find parking difficult. When attending big festival events, they might, in desperation, park in my alley flowerbeds.  One embarrassed lady snapped that I shouldn’t be growing plants in the alley, anyway.  Well, she’s right, but I just can’t resist all that uninterrupted sunlight. One hopes for a modicum of courtesy and accomodation, though.

A few visitors wander deep into beds, taking close-up pictures, heedless of the fact that there are obvious, if unstated, boundaries. One fellow, looking perplexed, muttered, “Well, I saw no sign saying I couldn’t.”

There is one lady who always ignores the garden bell when she brings visitors. Through the kitchen window I once heard her comment to her friends; “Oh, that bell nonsense doesn’t pertain to me.” She’ll never know how hard it is for me not to trigger the overhead irrigation. But that would soak her guests, as well. The thing is, I really dislike being startled as I root around out there. The family inside appreciates hearing the bell, too.

Last week I looked out the window to see a visitor crawling along through the rather long grass, looking through it intently. Clearly, she’d lost something. I gulped my meal and went out to help. “Hello! What’s happened?”

She was a little embarrassed. “Oh, my rubbing stone…I have a hole in my jacket pocket, and it fell out. I know it’s somewhere in here.” A rubbing stone? Seeing my confusion, she laughed. “It’s a little oval stone I like to rub, and fondle; my therapist suggested stone-rubbing instead of smoking whenever I get really tense; smoothing it actually helps me relax. I’ve had it for years, and am sort of attached to it. I haven’t located it walking around, so I thought of this.”

Ohhh kaay…

The two of us crawled around in my long grass, scanning. Nothing. Her voice rose as she became more anxious. “It has to be here!”

Minutes passed. We crawled. We peered. Still- no stone.

A man rang the bell, entered, and gaped at us, amazed. Laughing, I explained what we were doing.

The green-kneed woman rushed over to where the lawn met the border edging, laughed with delight, and held it up triumphantly.

I’m frequently asked if I ever get frustrated, or make mistakes. Oh, yes! 

Houttuynia (whoever thought up that name should be dragged off by his eyebrows) is a ground cover with stunningly beautiful multicolored leaves- and another gleeful witness to my folly. Once it touches the earth, it multiplies endlessly. Immediately.

These last twenty years have definitely been an adventure. The odd ‘uh-oh’- with people and plants- just adds flavor!

Midsummer. The heat this past week has been epic. Every day my garden thermometer has registered well over 100 degrees. I can’t remember when I’ve worked so hard, been so sweaty, or felt so tired.

Nevertheless, the garden awaits me every single morning, wanting food, water, debugging, and cleaning. (Plant poop is a constant reality.)

My Asiatic lilies are as tall as I am. After their huge, gorgeous flowers emerge from the candelabra top of each thick stalk, the individual blooms might last four days. Then, exhausted petals begin to drop. The challenge is to spot those flowers that are nearly done, and snap them off while they’re still hanging on. If I wait too long, cleanup gets trickier. Kneeling, I must weave my arm between the stalks to pluck withered petals off the ground, or tease them from leaves further down the plant.  Much better to stand on tiptoe, arch my arm, carefully reach deep into the bed, snap off the dying flower, then withdraw without disturbing nearby blooms. It’s a workout that involves balance, judgment and coordination as I s-t-r-e-t-c-h to reach flowers without falling into the bed and wreaking everything. (That’s what we gardeners have nightmares about.)

There are lots of other ways to ruin a lily’s few days of life; I can mis-align my armpits and snap off a stunner as I reach up and over, or incorrectly position my elbows, or feel around behind other lily flowers to pinch off a dead bloom, only to discover I’ve taken the live one next to it- Ah, I hate that mistake!

The fun part comes after all the flowers are finished.

Some gardeners scatter a few lily bulbs here and there in their gardens, making naked stems much easier to hide among other blooming flowers.

A few years ago I hit on the idea of making the forest of leggy, topless stalks serve as support poles for twining annuals.

-Mandevilla, for instance, boasting delightful red or pink flowers, can be trained to scramble up and around them. So I carefully park one of these potted stunners in between. Just when the lilies are done the mandevilla will have grown sufficiently to show off their blooms. Everybody’s happy.

-Type II (summer-blooming) clematis are also glad to rely on them.

-This year I’ve planted Crocosmia among the stalks, too. Wow! Their fat-leaved, flame-red flowers should look great as they rise nearly as high as their ripening, bald fellows.

-Silvery licorice, fed and watered regularly, can grow to astounding lengths, and be trained to weave its silver vine-arms between stalks, while completely blanketing the garden floor. Plus, it sniffs of – well, you can guess.

-A dwarf tropical canna lily’s wide bronze or green leaves and bright flowers capture the eye; uninteresting stuff effectively vanishes.

-The graceful fronds of purple fountain grass blur the unlovely poles nicely.

My most time-consuming task is to deadhead (an awful name for a vital job). Every dying flower, and its stem, must be culled. I tackle exhausted daisies, daylilies, cranesbill (perennial geraniums that can eat up twenty minutes), balloon flowers, my few remaining roses (which stab me for my trouble), pansies, violets, bellflowers, sage, and on and on. Even coreopsis can’t escape my fingers. Dead flowers and stems aren’t allowed to ruin a newborn flower’s day(s) in the sun if I can help it.

How much time do I dedicate to this? Well, about two to three hours every morning.

Finally, in early September, I stop. They’re allowed to rest.

What I dread most are Japanese beetles, which are nearly impossible to dislodge. They’re voracious eaters. A giant canna leaf, for example, can be ruined overnight. I’ve stopped smacking the beetles between my palms. They don’t crush, and my hands get too sore. But I can pick them off every morning and drop them into soapy water. It’s a nasty job. Ten cannas tower above me, making it difficult to see the little creatures properly. It’s mostly pointless anyway. There are just too many. Water blasts and chemical sprays make them yawn. These beetles are as adaptable- and prolific- as cockroaches.

Oh- and I also try to remove every yellowing, saggy leaf or frond from every plant. ‘Dirty underwear’ is never an asset.

Some plants- like the lovely (100% poisonous) daturas, or my thirsty meadow rue, sporting seven-foot tall hollow purple stems- happily gulp gallons of water every three or four hours in this heat. (It’s stupid to try to grow rue, a delightful bog plant, in sandy soil, but I’ve stubbornly persevered for years- because I love the darn thing.)

Hours later I’m a roasting wreak, but mostly satisfied with that morning’s work. Sadly though, one big plant has died this week in spite of my efforts.

Oh, NO! I just looked out the window- the hydrangeas’ leaves are belly-up! Again!  It’s 105 degrees out there, and desiccating winds are pummeling them! So, out I go again to lie on the ground and direct the hose straight to their roots for 15 minutes, muttering “The end is near… The end is near…”

Then- Oh, bliss- I can rest.

I woke up as usual at four a.m., tackled in-house tasks, and then went out to the garden to deadhead, clean the fountain pool, and feed everybody their slurry of fish guts and sea kelp. Today, though, I felt really tired, and my legs were lead-lined. Something wasn’t right…but the work had to be done, so out I went. The garden wove its magic, as usual, and soon I was well into my stride.

The front garden wanted attention, so that’s where I was when a jogger paused to chat. “Hi! Is this your garden? I love to run by here every morning.”

I looked up, grinned, and tried to say “good morning,” but nothing came out! I tried again. A deep, gravelly croak emerged. Good heavens! A frog had crept into my voice box!

Noting my confusion she said, tentatively, “Oh… you must have a bad cold; that’s why you’re wearing a veil…”

I sounded so ridiculous that we both laughed. Or rather, she did. All I could produce was a hoarse, choked gasp.

A bit later a twenty-something man and his rather large dog sauntered by. The animal sniffed happily next to my fence. Finding a delectable scent he lowered his shoulder to roll in it. His owner, ignoring me, jerked the leash to discourage the behavior. Resigned, the dog sniffed again at my daylilies, and assumed the position. A huge load later they began to walk away, leaving me kneeling there amid his deposit’s objectionable perfume, feeling shocked at the fellow’s colossal indifference to doo-doo etiquette. I was supposed to pick up this mess? Uh-uh!

Assuming an outraged ‘woman on the warpath’ position I stumped right up to him. Skewering the poor man with a glare and trying to appear as fearsome as a 5’ tall old lady can look, I pointed behind him at the steaming offense and said in my deepest frog-vampire voice, “Clean. That. Up.”

Unnerved by my-ah- unique sound, he turned back, red-faced, and muttered, “Yeah, yeah, fine.” He used a stick to poke and wheedle the pile of pooch poop toward the street while the dog and I watched. It seemed to take forever.

Finally the last big turd was nudged into the gutter. Arms folded, I fired off one more sally in my deepest basso profundo voice. 

He muttered something (‘…old bag…’)? as they walked rapidly away, and shot me a look that seemed to say, “Imagine waking to that every day!” 

Thoroughly rumpled by his attitude, all I could think to toss back was-“Ribbit!” before continuing my work. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate gardens.

Just before opening time a young woman pulling a small boy in a bright red wagon paused to say hello. “Your flowers are lovely! We’re on the way to the Farmers’ Market to buy some, too.” The boy gazed at my mosquito-netted face with intense curiosity. Without thinking I returned her greeting, and his face blossomed into a huge grin.

“You sound awful,” he stated firmly, and I heartily agreed.

“He won’t budge!”

“Eat lots of ice cream! Froggies don’t like ice.”

“Hey! Great idea! Thanks!” I croaked. (It was!)

He beamed.

“Say something else,” he pleaded.

I obliged, and tried to sing ‘Ba-ba Black Sheep’ in my best frog-in-a-pipe voice. It was hideous, and I faltered after the first phrase. He listened, rapt, then clapped as I went mute, defeated.

Laughing, his mother said goodbye, despite his vigorous protests.

“Nooo… I wanna hear more! ”

She pulled away, waving, while he continued to toss out suggestions from the wagon.

“Throw up!”

“Squeeze your neck real hard!”

“Do cartwheels- he’ll get dizzy n’ fall out!”

Oh boy! The doo-doo indifference had left me indignant and out-of-sorts: here was a young man who cared!

I grinned, moved wearily into the house, and downed some ice cream.

Why not?