I look a little like Santa creeping around the yard with a big black sack thrown on my back. Wonder why no one ever told me before that you can compost all those leaves in your yard with a couple of simple steps? Jane Loveless, one of my garden mentors, announced that we are throwing out the baby with the bath water by bagging our leaves and leaving them on the curb to be hauled to the landfill.
I love to create interesting vignettes in my garden. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. The above is one of my favorites (not mine unfortunately), and I’m searching junk shops for old galvanized pots. I’m especially interested in one on an stand which I assume were created for pioneer homemakers as a wash-day convenience. Boy has convenience come a long way, Baby.
I’ve been out of Mississippi for a few days, only to return to the annual show-stopping, mind-blowing return of one of my most favorite native bloomers:: Naked Ladies.
They make their all too brief appearance in August of each year and leave as abruptly as a pole dancer who is accosted by a drunken sailor.
I know, I know. People always look at me funny when I say I believe in signs – like a pansy blooming in a bed of snow, a sunset that promises a beautiful tomorrow or my unlikelihood of growing a beautiful rose.
But this time, I had a sign that can never be disputed. These blooms are mine.
Everyone is nervous about terrorists, so if you see me in the garden center and hear a ticking noise emanating from my pocket, not to worry. It’s only my kitchen timer which I’m using to motivate myself to attack my overgrown garden. It’s so attention-deprived, it has morphed into a mini jungle.