Rural Thursday: Queen Anne's Lace

Is there anything more rural than a ditch filled  with those happy wanderers from gardens of long ago and nature's favorites?  Yes, nature loves teasels and thistles and dandelions and golden rod.  Afterall, didn't she make them so hardy they we need not tend them like the fragile ballerinas that wave on slender stems in the garden? And of these strays Queen Anne's lace is the most lovely.

 I'm sharing on Rural Thursday today.  Take a walk down a country lane, turn left and there you are...

Favorite Garden Photo

Gardening Gone Wild hosts a monthly photo contest. I've been ooooohing and ahhhhhing over the gorgeous entries for nearly a year, but never entered a photo of my own. This month the theme is favorite garden photo. I have loads of favorites, so I had a hard time deciding which to enter, but I finally made a decision and here it is....

Unfortunately, weeds are a large part of gardening. Fortunately, some weeds are stunning in their own right, while others are whimsical.  It's when the less-loved become invasive and overtake all the wonderful plants we desire in the garden that their names become tarnished. 

Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.

                                                                  ~A. A. Milne

Finding Common Ground in the Garden

Linda from Vulture Peak Muse left the comment, “not sure I would have liked that,” referring to the previous post, You Simply must Plant a Garden. I didn’t like it, but I guess a bride too young needs loads of advice. I had no problems taking suggestions from my mom, the woman I most admire, but taking advice from the mother-in-law just didn’t sit well. Anyhow, since the rain has delayed my garden making, there’s time for another story about Ruth, the mother-in-law I learned to respect and love.

My mother-in-law, Ruth, was a great inspiration. She was brilliant in so many ways, but she was also feisty, strong, and bull headed. One day she stopped by to help me in the garden. We were both trying to find our way from separate paths to one in which we could walk side-by-side as grown women, respectful of each other in our new roles as the mother of a grown son and that grown son’s wife.

Since we lived just down the road in the other family farmhouse, Ruth would stop by unannounced. I heard gravel crunching in the winding lane, looked out a window and saw her driving in. I waited until she knocked to go outdoors.

“Let’s clean up that garden,” she said. With a chip the size of the red barn weighing me down, I drug myself to the garden, hoe in hand. That day we toiled together, pulling weeds that I’d, once again, let get out of hand. As we worked, the sticky moisture from stems joined with sweat making my hands slippery. I yanked and pulled, tossing the flagrant interlopers to the side of the garden, more than a little angry that I had to pull weeds in the first place. After all, I didn’t ASK for a garden, it was just kind of thrust upon me.

Ruth was a talker. She loved to regale listeners with long stories and most of her tales kept me fascinated. As she talked we continued working and my anger began to subside. I grabbed a long stalk and pulled… the tap roots were so long that after tugging and pulling with all my might the obtuse weed refused to come out of its earthy home. I took my frustration out on that weed whacking the top off with the hoe and then grabbing it at the base as sweat dripped down my arms and on to my hands. I gave it one last long heave. The damn weed let go with a sudden release that startled me and sent me flying backward.

“SHIT!” I yelled out as my butt hit the ground.

Ruth stopped working, leaned on her hoe, and said in a very serious tone, “I would not hold in my hand, what you just had in your mouth.”

I stared at the ground between my legs as my ire rose in tandem with a reddening face. I murmured an embarrassed apology, but what I wanted to do was scream at her. Inside my stomach twisted as my hands clenched into tight angry fists. How dare she invite herself to weed my garden, tell me what to do and then reprimand me? Just as I was about to open my mouth and insert hoof, she broke into laughter.

“That’s exactly what my mother-in-law told me the first time she heard me utter the same word in the same way.”

I got up, brushed my bottom off, laughed and saw a woman not so much different than my mother or me. It’s a hard row to hoe finding that common ground between the woman who raised the boy and the woman who married the man. Ruth and I continued to have our ups and downs, but that day was a breaking point for both of us. I began to see her as more than just my mother-in-law. I saw her as a strong, independent woman with passions, yearnings, and realities who deserved my respect and my love. I never would have dreamt that a four-letter, fertilizer word would be the catalyst to a treasured friendship.

Kisses from the Sun

Across my lawn are scattered the yellow kisses from the sun that become the fairies on gossamer wings.  Catch one floating by, make a wish and then set it free to continue its journey. 

Scenes from September

align="center">September’s been a busy month with two weddings, school for Redding, and the end of summer. It’s also been a month of surprises when my son and his girlfriend showed up for a wedding, when I thought they were not going to be coming. In between the joys of family and friends, there’s been a little time to seek September scenes.

align="center">September is falling into October, but before the transition month from summer to fall completes its journey take a look at the beauty found in the ninth month of the year.

One morning I’d planned to meet with my friend Mary Jo for breakfast in Archbold. I left early, providing time to take a few photos of the Fulton & Williams landscape.

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Goldenrod looking bright on an early morning in September.

The covered bridge in Williams County always presents fascinating photo opportunities. The morning light filtered through the trees created a magical moment.

Colorful small leaves looked like confetti dropped at the gnarled roots of this tree standing on the edge of the Tiffin River that runs beneath the covered bridge.

While heading for a wedding outside of Bowling Green in Wood County I stopped to photograph a windmill rising from a ripening corn field with arms swinging in giant circles and whooshing in the wind.

Who can resist the bright red and greens of Asian peppers ripening in the garden? The colorful heat of the peppers makes fall seem warmer.

One Saturday, Redding and I headed out early in the morning to find September. We came across expanses of yellowing soybeans creating a patchwork of fall across the landscape.

The same morning we stopped at a small wildlife preserve outside of Montpelier. Redding ran along a small dock looking at his reflection while his shadow chased him from behind.

I call them tiny sweet autumn wildflowers, others call them weeds; no matter what you call them, autumn asters brighten the roadsides.

This photo was captured at the wedding of my niece Carrie to Tom Cloutier. The edge of lace on Carrie's train caught a fallen leaf creating an exquisite fall moment during a beautiful late afternoon wedding.

Five apricot pink roses were courageously blooming in the front flower bed this morning. I tried photographing them outdoors, but the wind blew so brisk I decided to cut them and enjoy the last roses of summer indoors.

Scenes from September can be found everywhere...in yards, gardens, along roadsides, and at weddings. As the first frost approaches, leaves will color and fall changing the landscape once again into something old, but oh so new. I'm looking forward to finding the grandeur of October.

Over Analyzing the Garden

I was having a chat with my brother, Paul, yesterday while looking over his flourishing tomato plants. We both agreed that some gardeners over analyze the garden. I’m not about to say that gardening is the easiest thing to do, but it’s not as complicated as some botanists, horticulturists, and avid scientific growers would have us believe.

I learned how to garden from my parents and my mother-in-law. Between them, they grew all manner of vegetables and flowers from kohlrabi to caladiums. I don’t think my dad ever tested the soil with a kit, yet he managed to raise lettuce, peas, green beans, carrots, radishes, sweet corn, beets, onions, broccoli, potatoes, and more. Dad left the flower growing to mom. She planted zinnias, morning glories, marigolds, petunias, fall bulbs, and the prima donna of the garden of the world, roses. How in the heck did they manage to get all those plants to grow without a book, the county extension agency, or the internet to guide them? They learned at the knee of their parents and through trial and error. My dad was a firm believer in planting cool weather vegetables like lettuce, peas, and radishes on Good Friday and unless it was still snowing, he planted on Good Friday. He must have had success because he continued to do it. Each fall, leaves and debris covered the garden and by spring, it had become part of the soil when Dad spaded the garden by hand. He might have looked at the Farmer’s Almanac once in awhile, but mostly he practiced experience and faith.

Today, gardeners scurry to the internet or tune into a garden show on TV where loads of information, varying viewpoints, and scientific data on how to rid the garden of pests leave gardeners confused and trying to analyze which method to use. One summer I kept a coffee can with a tight fitting lid ready to go. I poured about two inches of beer into the can and drank the rest. Each morning the “beer can" accompanied me to the garden along with nippers and a basket filled with gardening paraphernalia. I’d push Japanese beetles off plants with nippers and into the waiting beer. I’ve never needed to know garden chemistry because I’ve never used chemicals in my garden. If I found a toad hopping about, I accommodated it with a turned over pot, enticing it to stay. Praying mantises and real ladybugs, not the nasty orange beetles dubbed slut bugs because friends, they ain’t no lady, were welcomed. I never rid my garden of black and yellow garden spiders, instead I let them weave their magic and eat hearty at the garden pest buffet. These were my garden friends and allies long before it became garden pest de rigueur to let them do the work for you.
I don’t hate weeds. In fact, many of the so-called weeds are lovely to look at. Chicory lining the road gives the world a beautiful flower border to look at while driving in the country. I don’t mind dandelions in my yard and white clover entices honeybees to forage and find. Queen Anne’s lace placed in colored water magically changes delighting children and yes, I confess, me, too. I don’t want to analyze my garden for the best weed protection. If it doesn’t look like what’s been planted, I pull it out. End of story.
I lived on a farm for 20 some years and the amendment to soil was cow or horse manure, aged in the barn. I’ll be honest; I’ve never tested the soil in any garden.

Yes, I get frustrated when I find pests munching their way through a rose bush. I know that weeding a garden is back breaking work, but do we really need to analyze every inch of a garden? Why not just tuck a seed or plant into the soil in spring and see what happens? There’s something to be said for faith that it will grow and turn into exactly what it’s expected to be without over analyzing the garden.