I drop this in “gardening.”  Ha!

Anyway, here’s a link to an amazing story:  the use of electricity to revive and improve damaged coral reefs in Indonesia, for those who need some happy news. 

Awesome! (more…)

On Monday I did something I once thought I would never do:  I
bought a weedeater.  It’s electric, it’s small (hell, it weighs
all of four pounds), but it makes all the right noises and it chops
through spider grass, and that was my goal for the day upon getting it
home.  I assembled it with help from Mr. Saturday and then off I went to the front yard to get rid of the foot-high spider grass clogging up the front steps and lawn. 

This might be the best toy I’ve ever bought.

A couple of hours later, my left arm was killing me from swinging the
thing around, but the yard was even, the mulch in the front returned to
view, the side yard reclaimed to be a wide, flat surface rather than a
mountain of tangled greenery.  I edged the lawn out by the street,
cut back the grass around the mailbox, and when done I was (a)
extremely satisfied with myself, almost to the point of swaggering and
(b) coated in grass. I mean, coated.  I was picking grass
clippings out of my hair.

The best part of all of this was my remembrance, standing there in the
hardware store, that I would need safety goggles.  I saw the
standard plastic brick-style glasses my father always wears, and next
to them were big, black-with-reflective-blue-lens safety goggles marked
“Stylish Snow Blue.”  The lenses were of course huge, given they were safety goggles, and they were this sort of wrap-around design.  They were goth safety goggles
I had to have them.  They were the only ones I could possibly ever
buy, once I knew they existed.  I got them home, put them on, and
then said to Mr. Saturday, “I’m…I’m in the Eurythmics!”

It was a banner day. (more…)

So, the garden is dead.  I don’t just mean a little, I mean a
lot.  It’s dead like it was never there in the first place. 
Seriously, it looks as though we built the garden plot and then never
planted, ever.  The rains have finally beaten my little plants to
death, dismembered their corpses, and disposed of the evidence.

In the year of my first real garden, I have learned a valuable
lesson:  do not start from seed right before the heavy summer
storms come.  It is Too Late(tm).

The hosta and the hydrangea have done great, but even the bell peppers
I so diligently nursed back to health from their yellowed, withered
state – the ones so ugly the man at the garden store gave them to me
for free – are dead, despite long weeks of green and growth and health.

Next year, I’m picking a better spot, and starting earlier, and the only seeds I plant will be in trays.

My father always makes gardening seem effortless – an absurd idea,
since I helped him with them year in and year out.  But now,
without that every-Saturday-for-six-months effort of spending all day
helping him plow and till and plant and hoe and weed and prune and
harvest for hours at a time, only hearing of the garden as he sits in
relaxation in an easy chair in his living room, it seems so effortless,
like he just threw some seeds out the window and an acre of well-tended
garden sprang up out of nowhere.

On the upside, I know exactly when to plant the Hoover apple trees this
fall, and I know where, and I’ve kept the yard in shape, and I’m going
to get a trimmer and clean up some of the back, and I have more
realistic expectations regarding the blueberries and the blackberries
(and maybe the grapes?) after doing some reading about them.

Every year I buy an almanac, but next year I’ll actually use it. 
In the meantime, the boyf and I nurse visions of rose boxes and water
gardens.  That’s the best thing about buying a house:  it’ll
all be there for us to play with next year, too. (more…)

Blurry photos of the garden have been posted in RMoED.  Woot! (more…)

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