When I was growing up, way out in the boonies of Clermont County, a stray animal would wander through my mother’s garden at least once a month. Which would explain why we never had less than 2 dogs and 6 cats in the house at any one time. Now that I live in the suburbs, I just don’t see stray dogs. We have a very efficient dog catcher. He points that out to me each time he returns my dog to me.

So this past week, when an unfamiliar dog wandered into my garden, I was surprised. Not only was this a stray dog, but he was a starving dog. Which was strange. Frankly, dogs just don’t starve in the suburbs. There are just too many trash cans. Upon closer inspection, we discovered he had a collar and an odd temporary tag from a realty company in North Carolina, of all places.

The dog came with me easily enough and we fed him a bowl of food right away, to try to keep him from fainting from hunger right there. As I am with all strange dogs, I was a bit wary. But within a day or so, it became obvious that this was the biggest teddy bear there ever was. My 4 year old was dragging this dog, who is nearly as tall as he is, around by the collar and the dog willingly goes.

The more the week has gone along, the more it has become apparent that this dog was once loved by someone. He may have been starved, but he had never been abused. So where does a dog starve in the suburbs but not abused? My husband and I have two theories. He came from the MetroParks or he came off a train from the nearby train yard. Either way, we are fairly certain that someone misses this dog a lot. And so the search began.

We posted ads in the Plain Dealer (free for found ads), CraigsList.com, FidoFinder.com. I started emailing every lost ad with a matching description of this dog. We took him to the vet to get him scanned for a microchip.

We even called Outer Beaches Realty to ask about the tag. It turns out they only give them to people who are staying in one of their houses with a dog. Cheryl at Outer Beaches was as concerned as I was. She pulled the entire list of clients from Ohio who had dogs and started making calls. (If you are looking to vacation in North Carolina I would highly recommend them. If they are willing to go to this length for a former renter, imagine what they will do for a current one.)

And the end result after a week of searching and answering emails? Our lost dog is still a lost dog. *sigh* Maybe we have the real life equivalent of The Incredible Journey but we have no way of finding him safely home to the people who loved him. The best we can do is find him a new home where someone new will love him as well. Right now, we have 2 people who would like the dog so there is no fear that he will not find a new home.

There are some (ok, many) things that I regret about living in suburbia. One of them is chickens. I can’t keep chickens and it is something I would love to try.

As I have mentioned many times on this blog, I grew up in farming country. 4-H, FFA, county fairs and combine traffic delays were a part of everyday life. As were intolerance, racism, ignorance and heavy drug and alcohol abuse*. When I was old enough, I packed up my stuff and was happy to watch the silos and cows fade into the distance behind me. I swore I would never go back except to fulfill my familial obligations (the parents have to see the grandkids sometimes).

I am kind of regretting that statement now. I live in the ‘burbs now, which is something I didn’t really want to do. I wanted to be a city girl. I wanted to be hip and cool. Then I had kids. The city does not really provide room for children to run around. They are a lot like Golden Retrievers. They need a yard to run around in. So we moved to the suburbs because it was not the country.

And you know what I found - intolerance, racism and ignorance. No drugs and alcohol abuse… well, there is but at least they keep it discreetly behind closed doors and only talk about it behind cupped hands.

This past summer, I started sending my sons to spend half the summer with my parents. There are memories I have that my children are lacking and only the country can give them. Memories like finding magical kingdoms in the woods, playing hide and seek in corn fields, bike rides that ranged for miles (with no adult supervision) and freedom. True youthful freedom.

Here in the suburbs, I get the long eye down the nose and an unspoken threat of a call to Children Services if I let them play in my own yard without standing over top of them. Heaven forbid that our children be off our apron strings for a minute, to develop things like courage, an adventurous sprit and common sense. (Gosh, you mean doing that really stupid thing on my bike ends up with me scratching the hell out of my knees?!?  I think I will remember that for next time.)

These days, I toy with the idea of moving back to the country, back to places where I can keep chickens and no one cares if my Christmas lights are up till June (mostly because they can’t see the house from the road) and nobody will say a damn thing if I plant a vegetable garden in the front yard. And, more importantly, I could keep chickens.

Maybe the whole farming community living thing is not that bad. Maybe no matter where you live, you will run into issues and problems. Maybe I just need to weigh the good with the bad and see where the balance weighs out.

*It is a little known fact that drug and alcohol issues are more prevalent in rural areas than in their nearby urban centers. For example, the second largest drug bust in Ohio when I was a kid happened in a little nearby town that had a population of about 200. Think about it, wide open spaces for growing (marijujana) and fertilizer availability (meth), make rural areas ideal for production. The fact that it takes you a freaking half hour to drive to ANYTHING, and so most teens and poor adults have nothing to do, makes it ideal for consumption as well.

I don’t get sick. At least I didn’t get sick until this past week when I had the flu. Holy shit, is the flu a real endgame for things like working and playing and it puts a damper on breathing and a sex life as well. You can do both when you have the flu, but neither is all that enjoyable.

I can just put down the flu as one more reason why winter sucks. Cold, snow, no plants AND illnesses that make you wish you were dead. It is a wonder that anyone lives where it gets cold at all.

I am missing my garden so much right now. It is still a smidgen too early to start seeds, my houseplants are all dead, the weather here in Cleveland can’t decide if it wants to be record high or record low. Things just seem desperate.

I suppose that I could trot on down to the Home and Garden Show (because if I drove, I would have to pay $8 for parking even though there is NO WHERE ELSE TO PARK), but frankly the thought of having to trudge through a mile of As-seen-on-TV, how-did-you-live-without-it, buy-this-because-I-talk-with-an-accent garbage just to look at a half hearted attempt by a Home Depot manager of the month to create a whole new garden using every fertilizer and plastic lawn adornment known to man or at least for sale at Home Depot is enough to make me want to take a greenhouse hostage with a spray gun.

In case you could not tell, I am in a foul mood. I don’t have the winter blues. I have the winter blacks. Screw you, Winter, and the damn horse you rode in on too.  I can’t wait for Spring.

Now with the holidays over, I can sit back and relax and take in the humorous frenzy of everyone else. My family and I celebrate the Solstice as opposed to Christmas. Our celebration is not that far different from most other people’s Christmas celebration. Santa still comes*, we still have an evergreen tree decked in lights and baubles, we eat way too much food and drink way to many eggnogs, we even mostly call it Christmas, more out of habit than anything else.

Now, our Christmas date was changed due to a sad fact of modern society. Divorced with children. After witnessing one Christmas holiday literally ripped in two for the benefit of a court drawn paper and the needs to two adults, I told my husband (then boyfriend) we needed to make a few changes. As my husband is atheist and I am… (well, I don’t know what I am, but it is not Christian), we decided that we would simply move the date. It was only a number to us. That way we get a holiday that resembles what I remember from my childhood and my stepson never has to feel guilty about which house he spends the holiday at.

As I just mentioned, I am not Christian. The reasons I gave up the faith are many and complex and better left for a different kind of blog. But while I gave up Christianity, because I am a gardener, I could not give up God. One only has to witness the seasonal dance, or the delicate crafting of a flower blossom to know that there must be some greater force directing all of it.

We settled on the date of the Solstice because of my religious beliefs. Solstice is the date of the longest night of the year. It is a promise, in a sense. It signifies that the worst of it is over. That from here on out, the sun will visit for longer and longer periods each day and eventually the flowers and plants will return. This has strong meaning for me as a gardener and it seemed fitting that that promise should be incorporated into my personal celebration schedule.

No matter what your religious background, I hope that you enjoy(ed) your winter holiday as much as I did! Joy and peace to all of you, many high calorie meals and many dreams of gardens for future garden beds.

*Although we do not ascribe to the idea he goes around the world in a single night. We are well aware that he visit children in Spain on January 12th, children in Holland & Eastern Europe on December 6th and is like this for many other dates and places. Our kids just happen to have parents with an in with the big man in the North Pole who pulled some strings to get them moved up on the delivery schedule.

My husband’s grandmother passed away this morning. She finally succumbed to the massive stroke that she had suffered from a few weeks ago. While normally I try to be light hearted on this blog, I do feel obligated to note the passing of those who are dear to me in some way and who I feel leave the gardening world a little less by their passing. Grandma Mary was certainly one of those people.

Literally half my current garden comes from the bittersweet kindness of Grandma Mary. When she became too ill to care for her own garden, she offered to let me have whatever I would like from the yard. I carefully dug up plants and moved them to my own garden. Miniature irises, daylilies, peonies, a beautiful dinner plate hibiscus and a great many other plants came to my yard to live on. She was sad that she could not care for them, but glad that another gardener would be able to enjoy them.

Grandma Mary’s garden was the stuff of horticultural legends, so I am told. A cottage garden of cottage gardens, to hear my husband tell of it. Whatever she saw that took her fancy, she found a home in her garden for it. No rhyme or reason to their placement, just a cacophony of beautiful things to look at. Everything flourished under her hands.

My husband has often spoken of the fact that he thinks that I am a lot like his Grandma Mary, which honors me greatly. He speaks fondly of her vigor for life and how she was a strong woman. Frailty of the heart was something that took her body and beloved plants away from her, so I think that she is happy in the peace that she has now found.

Somewhere up in heaven, there is an empty plot of land that is rich in good dark soil that only wanted its owner to finally arrive and tend to it. She has arrived and I bet if we could see her now, she would be planting her very first flower in her new beds with hands that are once again strong.

I know that sometimes my husband’s Uncle John stops by to read this blog, so if you are out there Uncle John… I am so sorry for your loss. She was a wonderful woman.

Do a happy dance. Pumpkin Patch is over. Not that any of you care (thanks if you do), but much of my free time for the past month has been taken up by the annual festival at my kids’ school, which is called the Pumpkin Patch Festival. It was this past Saturday and was very successful, but the python that it was has been lifted from my life and I can get back to the important things like mailing seeds (sorry if I owe them to you), posting on my blog and gardening.

I have heard more than a few times that gardening is dying out. At one point in time, I believed that. But now I know the truth. Gardening is not dying out, is a luxery afforded by those with spare time (i.e. you lack small offspring at home and/or you don’t have a demanding job).

The rest of us snatch spare moments. Spare moments and spare time are like pennies and dollars. Sure, one adds up to the other but one doesn’t buy nearly as much as the other.

Then what do you do when your spare moments get stolen? Are you really suppose to tell the teacher no? The boss no? The bill collector no? Just because you want to pull a few weeds?

Don’t get me wrong. I do say that sometimes. I feel really guilty, but my garden looks better for it. I have turned down 2 playdates, one husband date and 3 dates with friends so that next weekend is mine, mine, mine. The weeds have won and I have to muster the forces or else this spring will see my garden buried so far I will never dig it out.

Gardening should not have to take a backseat to the rest of my life or maybe it should, but it seems really damn unfair if that is the case.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of attending the 3rd wedding for my long-time and dear friend Walaya Arayawongkul.  Believe it or not, she has married the same guy (Michael Kretzmer) in all three weddings.  Thanks to the quirky nature of US immigration law, her wedding in her native Thailand was not valid in the US, the JP wedding was to get the green card process going and the third wedding was so that all of their American friends could enjoy the celebration.  It was a lovely wedding and Walaya was holding up surprising well for a woman who had gone through three weddings in such a short time.  I know for myself, my one wedding was enough to make me swear off weddings forever (much to my husband’s relief).

The ceremony took place in Owego, NY, right at the edge of the Susquehanna River.  Just a fantastic view.

What I thought was really cool about this wedding was that Walaya and Michael gave baby Christmas trees away as the favor.  I took two.  I have no idea where I will plant them (probably in the MetroParks, to be honest.  My yard is already pretty full), but they were just so damn cute, I couldn’t resist. 

It seems to me that giving away live plants as a wedding favor is, well, picking up favor these days.  I know for my own wedding, I gave away herbs.  I see many brides-to-be on the gardening forums talking about how they will be giving away various plants to friends and family who attend their wedding.  As a gardener, I think getting a plant at a wedding certainly beats getting sugared almonds or a pie server.  Yes, I did really get a pie server as a favor at a wedding once.  I have no idea what the significance of it was, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was a subconcious commentary of the inevitable divorce.

The significance of plants is superficially apparent.  Life and growth are both embodied in the plants you give as symbols of your union.  But I do recall feeling a bit apprehensive about giving plants at my wedding.  I knew that not many of those plants were destined to live much past a month.  What did that say (in a symbolic, superstitious sort of way) about the future of my marriage?

Well, I am still happily married 5 years later (as of next Friday) so I suppose that dead former wedding favor plants have no bearing on the actual health of a marriage.  Still, I feel as though a small burden has been bestowed upon me.  Since these two little trees were given to me as a symbol of a marriage, I now owe it to Walaya and Michael to make sure that these little trees survive.  So I guess I better trek on out to the MetroParks this week to find them homes that they can grow in.

Hopefully they will live as long as Walaya and Michael are happily married, which is hopefully for many happy decades.

Tonight my little sis called me from her humble abode, a double wide trailer in the middle of the desert. Now before you go all getting images about my sister in her trailer, I need to tell you that

1. She lives in California
2. She works as an engineer for NASA
3. She lives near an airstrip (refer back to reason 2 for why this would matter)
4. She could not give a hoot what anybody thinks about her living in a trailer

Now I love my sister, but sometimes her way of linear thinking seems more like the peeing pattern left by a drunk college guy than the straight line the rest of us take. She needs to move her water meter so therefore the yard now needs landscaping. I didn’t ask. She doesn’t like it when people ask questions.

Superficially, my sister called to ask gardening advice. But I don’t think she really wanted advice. She just wanted to share her grand plan for a low maintenance but stunning xeriscape landscape for her yard.

And listening to her, suddenly I was transported back to the early days of my first garden, when I planted my vegetables in deep shade and was certain that no plant would take over any part of my yard because I would diligently keep them all in loving check. *coughbullshitcough* When the neighbor pointed out that there may be problems, I scoffed. They were plants after all, how hard could it be? Yeah, I laugh at my younger self pretty hard these days too.

But the thing is my sister could be right. She is like that too. She researches and plans and makes everything happen as they should (no, she is not part of the space program at NASA). She is logical and practical and would never pick a plant just because it was pretty.

When I would have chaos, she would have order. When I would have a rainbow, she would have color coordinated. When my borders wander, hers would be straight. But the main point is that sometimes, even when all else is different, the fact is that we all dig a hole and place a plant inside it. And it is with that one action that we get to call ourselves by the revered title of Gardener.

I don’t think that I have ever actualy participated in an honest to goodness meme on his blog. But Adekun tagged me, so I think I will take part.

This is the Seven Random Things Meme. I list 7 things about me and then tag seven other garden blogs to do the same. Here we go:

1. The very first thing I remember growing in a garden is green beans.
2. My first garden that belonged to me (and not my parents) was located at a house near the corner of Euclid Avenue and E. Rochelle St. in Cincinnati, OH. Nothing I planted at that house remains there today.
3. My favorite annual is a snapdragon because I can make them talk.
4. I can’t keep cacti alive to save my life.
5. My least favorite decorative flower/plant is a rodedendrum. Ugg.
6. My cat, Sicily, was rescued from a plant nursery. I was plant shopping with a friend when the cat scared her. The girl behind the counter said that her father was going to shoot the cat and the cat came home with me, along with a rose scented geranium and a frog shaped pot.
7. I don’t ever want a big garden. I can barely keep up with this postage stamp one, let alone something bigger.

That’s seven.

Okay, I am picking 7 blogs from my blog list and the are:

A Bumblebee Garden
Dirt Sun Rain
A Study in Contrasts
Cincinnati Cape Cod
wolfie and the sneak
Yard Piddling
Tea and Margaritas in My Garden

I think that is all. I am off to go tag them all.

When I said that this resort could cater to your every need, I certainly didn’t think that this would include providing a vacation garden. To the right is a picture of the view right outside my room. I can step out on the patio and *voila*, I have a small garden. I think later today I may do a little weeding.

Not surprisingly, my vacation garden consists of several plants that, at home, reside in the inner sanctums of office buildings and malls. But while office plants are about as fitting for their surroundings as a peg legged pirate would be, such in not the case here. I am fairly certain, given the fact that I saw these same plants growing wild as we drove in, that these were growing wild. As I had mentioned, the Dominican Republic is mostly sub-tropical. Because of this, these are lush looking plants tend to be drought tolerant for short periods and can take both sun and shade.

Breakfast this morning was quite pleasant. I ordered a plate of fruit for breakfast with the intention of sitting in my little vacation garden while enjoying the passing butterflies. Instead, I enjoyed the passing turkeys. Not quite what I had in mind, but entertaining nonetheless.

Perhaps I should call this my vacation farm instead.