For the Love of Dirt: June 2018

"A delicate fabric of bird song floats in the air. The smell of wet wild earth is everywhere..." -Sara Teasdale

And the roses........oh the roses.

The coast mountains are Azure these days.

Rising above the passage

Even when the days are misty.

New roses, like the Tropicana Rose, have started billowing out over their pots.

And Spencer can scarce veil his eagerness , every day, to hunt for rats.

Lincoln Rose blooms huge.

Petals fluttering in compact dish plates.

Then unfurls like a sail .

And droops its head as it wilts .

Only one is left to rear its head on tall stalks.

As the sun sets past 10 pm over the mountains into the sky

There is a caravan of lavender

And the Peace Rose Still blooms,far past some of the others.

"And I meet, coming thru the dews..." -Emily Dickinson

Another rose blooming in the dusk.

Another Summer's Day.....

"When Beauty grows too great to beat how shall I ease me of its ache, For beauty more than bitterness makes the heart break..."
-Sara Teasdale

Photographs 2018

Smokey 2017

"The past beats inside me , like a beating heart...."
-John Banville, "The Sea"

Long time ago........not in a galaxy far, far, away, however...

There was a piece of property, a huge green space at the bottom of Moss Rocks. It was home. There were maple trees, overgrown bushes, grass that was too high, cracked driveway, quail running here and there a weeping willow, and a hollow tree, where a family of raccoons lived, year after year.Till finally the old tree fell down, and they had to find another piece of real estate....

In the winter it was bare, muddy. Winter rains sloshed mud into puddles . When I was very young, I would roll up leaves into the mud and make pies. Sometimes I'd throw in some rocks for good measure.

In the spring, our willow tree would leaf, the maples bud and everything exploded in frothy. Sun , hidden most winter days, peeked through spaces in leaves. Hummingbirds buzzed through trees. Some years my mother would put out a feeder. Other times not. She often left cat chow for the cat, out on the porch. Raccoons seemed to know this. They were frequent visitors to the cat bowl. My mother hid it at some point. The raccoons still came back and even came into the kitchen, looking for treats.

There were no pots of flowers.

The only cool flowers my mother had was a long row of sweet peas climbing one side of the house.

Near the creaky porch she dug out tough grass;threw out clods on the garden pile near the old shed. She squished nasturtum seeds into the clay- like dirt left behind.They would grow like weeds and become a carpet.

And on the porch, where my dad had built two flower troughs, she planted red geraniums, with blue lobelia. Year in, year out. Every April she would make her journey to Capitol Iron, way at the other end of town, to pick out 10 geraniums and 10 lobelias.I have no idea why she would go so far for geraniums when the local store was three blocks down.

And that would be her garden.......

She was content . She babied those geraniums through heat, wind, storm and more heat.We had a hot plate on an old table on the porch, and it was where she'd fry up potatoe wedges in bubbling oil every Friday night, and cook hamburgers in an iron skillet. She would dead head the geraniums while she fried away.

From that vantage point you could see into the neighbours' driveway. More importantly, see huge trailing peach branches covering the back of their house. When they went away to Vegas for half the summer, every summer, I was allowed to go over and pick peaches to my heart's content. My mother would wave her spatula at me and tell me to leave some for when the neighbours' got back! I would bring home a bag ( or two) full. My mother made peach cobbler, peach pie, peach jam.....peach everything.

We'd sit on the porch and eat the french fries , hamburgers and fresh peach slices in melting vanilla ice cream. A treat. Then and now. She would have the radio on, so we could listen to the news. The radio shoved over to the open door, so we could hear better . During the summer , there would also be Walnut slice, snickerdoodles and caraway seed cake . More often for any company who would happen by. And the peaches, dripping with juice, sweet-tart. Perfect.....

Most summer days were like that. Quiet. Just my mother, and myself, after my father died.I didn't mind it. The routine did not change much year to year, until I was much older and left for school. They were red letter summers. Friends dropped by. Go to the beach in between days.We'd drink Ice tea and gingerale, munch on peaches, walnut slice and jello pops, still jiggly from the freezer.

After chores were done, I would gather up book upon book, crochet patterns, knitting patterns, paper on which to write stories, sometimes the little typewriter that was kept downstairs. I took quite a few trips to haul all of this STUFF outside to the old round beach table my dad had placed under the trees in the backyard. My mother tended to cover it with a tarp over the winter.It had seen better days.She couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.

I loved my books. Some were old poetry books, others from the library. Stacks and stacks that I would read voraciously. And crochet doilies. Doilies that were destined for a tablecloth, but never got that far. I just liked the feel of fine thread whipping through the slim hook.

My mother would come out at some point and tuck herself into one of the round bamboo chairs. She'd read aloud. Poem after poem. Verse after verse. Then it would be my turn...... "the Bird her punctual music brings and lays it in its place....did beauty ever take ...to those that Magic make."-Emily Dickinson

Again, my mother would say. Choose another. And so it would go. Day in. Day out. While the trees danced above us, and time seemed to stand still. Many afternoons I would saunter to the beach again, or the town pool, with one of my friends. But we'd always end back at the garden. In time for ice tea, peaches, or dinner or both. We would read. My mother would listen. Or cook dinner on the hot plate on the porch and dead head the geraniums.......

"Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles....or stand under trees in the woods, or watch honey-bees busy around the hive..." -Walt Whitman

And the summers would wind their peaceful way through torrential tomes , dog eared and book marked till the days smelled of crunchy leaves. Fall. These days, I'm still turning over pages, planting geraniums and watching sunlight fade into dusk at the end of the days.And though I no longer gather peaches from a vine, I still have peaches on the table. They are made even more wonderful with the memories of summers long ago. Summers still full of beaches, ice tea,hummingbirds, friends and poetry that knows no end. Makes for a beautiful summer......