Pop Quiz

Q: What do you do when:
a) Your front "lawn" contains more weeds than grass and more bare spots than anything, and
b) Your official vegetable garden is totally full and you've somehow (despite previous resolutions) acquired still more overflow-from-the-farm veggie plants that need a home?

A: Invite a turtle to move in. (Of course.)I don't know quite how it happened. On Monday night this is what it looked like:By dusk on Tuesday, it had become this:
And now, after I added a random assortment of celeriac, squash, and hot pepper seedlings, the veggie turtle is happily sunning itself in the front yard. Pretending to be snoozing as neighbors wander over, curious, and strike up conversations - although I suspect it is actually listening with amusement.I'm sure you can imagine the view once those squash vines have filled in. I'm also thinking of adding, perhaps, a patchwork of other greenery to demarcate the sections of the turtle's shell - or maybe that'll be next year, instead of squash. I also need to figure out how to make the limbs more permanent than their current rock-outline sketches. I'm thinking maybe low-growing herbs. Or stepping stone mosaics, if I can construct molds for concrete in custom shapes instead of the standard circular ones - which would make lawn-mowing around this creature easier. Further ideas welcome!

Oh, and I have seven more tomato plants that need to go somewhere, too. And lots more front yard available for colonization. Stay tuned...

Mystery No More

This is the mystery bud on my mystery plant: which has now unfurled into this cheerful sunny flower:And the mystery is solved! With flower as key clue, I again perused the list of ingredients in my "beneficial insect mix" seed packet, from whence the mystery plant came. With a little help from an online image search, I soon zeroed in on this: golden marguerite.

But what's in a name? Does it really matter that I know what to call it? Sure, now I can tell you that it's a perennial in the aster family, can be divided in spring or fall, blooms throughout the summer, and has a tendency to spread. Knowledge is power. And names are a particularly powerful form of knowledge. You could ask Rumpelstiltskin, except that he imploded with rage after his plans were foiled - all because his name was discovered.

But in the age of Google, with endless instant information at our fingertips, I also think there's value in NOT knowing. Or in delayed gratification. There was something delicious about this mystery, in the fact that neither I nor Google could come up with a quick answer, and especially in the reality that I had to wait for it to grow and bloom in its own good time.

It's easy to reduce things to single, simple characteristics, and I think that's one of the dangers of names. Because I had no name for this plant, I watched it grow all the more carefully, studied the shape of its foliage, crushed a leaf between my fingers and sniffed it, and checked the progress of the flower buds each time I passed by. Would I have done that if I already knew what it was? Probably not. Am I doing that with the daisies and black-eyed susans and other familiar things growing right next to my mystery plant? Nope. In fact, I'm a little sad that I can no longer call it my mystery plant.

Two falls ago I started paying far more attention to mushrooms thanks to a fall fungi class in Petoskey. In that case, having names for things (and the attendant information) meant I looked closer and noticed many more of the colorful, strange, oddly fascinating mushrooms poking up out of moist soil and rotting wood. I saw them everywhere. In fact, many things - birds, wildflowers, trees, rocks - have jumped into sharper focus as I've learned to see and name the species and types. But it's also true that knowing the name of any individual specimen - and whether it's edible or not, native or not, common or rare - reduces it to a mere category.

"To see a wren in a bush, call it "wren," and go on walking is to have (self-importantly) seen nothing. To see a bird and stop, watch, feel, forget yourself for a moment, be in the bushy shadows, maybe then feel "wren" - that is to have joined in a larger moment with the world."
- Gary Snyder, Language Goes Two Ways

I like knowing what to call the other living things with which I share my space. I like the little labels in the garden that tell me a given patch of seeded soil will soon bring forth "Red Russian Kale" or "White Satin Carrots" or "French Breakfast Radishes," and the fact that my tomato plants have names such as "Stupice" and "Sungold" and "Green Zebra."

I am pleased that I can now introduce my new friend Golden Marguerite to garden visitors when they ask about her identity. But I hope that when I look at her, she'll remind me to inhale the scents of rosemary and cilantro and anise hyssop as if I'd never smelled them before and to examine the newly emerged leaves of beans and zucchini for clues about the purpose of their existence, just as I did early this spring when Marguerite first appeared in my life. And if future springs bring me new mystery plants to contemplate, I will count myself lucky!

Beans and Greens

A blank page, if I think about it too much, is terribly daunting. I could say anything here. Anything! In any form I choose! Prose or poetry, scientific report or meandering musings or tall, tall tale. Yet the thoughts I share with you seem to be mostly photo captions corralled into several neat categories: 1) what projects I've completed at my work-in-progress house, 2) what Maisie and I have encountered on our recent walks, and 3) what's coming up in my garden. It's not that that's all that goes on in my life, and it's not even that those are the only things that fit neatly into the making-a-home-and-sinking-roots theme I assigned to this blog. Maybe it's just what's easy. Or photogenic. But maybe it's also what's important in this particular chapter of my story.

In any case, here's another "what's coming up in the garden" post. I'm sorry. I just can't resist. It's the main tale to tell right now. And it's where my camera lens keeps pointing, even if I try to focus on other things.

So here you have a little bean story. It's told in three parts:And here is a poem, perhaps, of luscious leafy lettuces . . . and glistening green spinach . . .as beautiful as any carefully crafted work of word art.

Eating Green

Lots of arugula

leads to

lots of pesto!
Perfect picnic fare for a post-planting potluck at the farm.

Clues

Remember the mystery plant? Now about three feet tall and as big around as a bush, its identity remains unclear to me.
However, I think its secret is about to be revealed!

Prospects and Promises

The garden is mostly planted. And mostly, with the exception of a few things I started weeks ago (including the mustard and arugula explosions above), it's still just a promise of things to come. A blank canvas of soil in some places, tiny sprouts in others - all poised on the brink, coiled up tight with potential energy. Pockets of the possible tucked into each rich brown row.

In the new bed formerly known as Squash Mountain, patches of perennials wait to be overtaken by cosmos and crazy striped marigolds, possibly the occasional cucumber or melon vine, and whichever other of the many seeds I scattered here manage to thrive.

Here's the current state of the sunflower border. If last year is any gauge, it'll be towering in full sunny splendor in a month or so.

Speaking of last year, right about now is when I dug up a bit of rhubarb from the plant in my parents' yard and stuck it in along the fence. Looks to be quite well established this year!
It was also about a year ago that I was trying to figure out how to move the large and unwieldy compost pile out of the way of the about-to-be-built garage. Glad to have both of those tasks behind me, I'm also very pleased with my tidy new compost bin, built with help from Dad and a big saw from a single long pallet that held the load of new siding last fall.

Some close-up glimpses of the green, growing, potential-laden garden plants:

Followed by some full-on flower glory:Meanwhile, I'm full of plans for expansion. I acquired a number of new shade-lovers from two recent native plant sales and my mom's extras, with which I aim to replace the messy row of rocks alongside the house. (Celandine poppy, foamflower, ostrich ferns, sweet woodruff.)

The plants can go in as soon as I finish the major rock-removal operation. Then . . . I can add more rocks! (Big ones in a border instead of the annoying catch-in-the-rake gravel that ends up strewn all over the yard.)

More ferns are unfurling in curly fronds this year after being salvaged last summer from a neighbor's pile of cast-offs. These will get moved from their temporary home under the front bushes to join the others in the shady side bed.
And then I just might be tempted to create yet another new bed to ring the oak tree and house a little woodland garden with trillium, solomon's seal, bloodroot, and hepatica.
And then I am banned from purchasing, gleaning, dividing, or seeding any more plants for a while, as I've been obsessed to the point of ignoring most other home-owning duties lately!