My garden lost a great friend yesterday. I am sorry to be so morose. Many of you come here looking for laughs and this past week I have posted little of that. But this blog is about my life and my garden, and I write about what happens therein.  But while this topic is sad, I hope that I make you smile at least once or twice. My Sicily Kitty deserved that much.

Sicily Kitty is… was my cat of 14 years. How old she really is, I do not know, because she came to me as an adult cat.

I knew she was the cat for me because I found her at a plant nursery. My roommate and I had gone to a plant nursery near my parents’ house to find plants. That was when I was a new, new gardener (who thought vegetables would grow in shade if I just willed them too hard enough). I was buying plants for my very first garden, one that was mine and mine only.

My parents live in the country, which has its own odd set of rules. My roommate was from the city, and they know nothing of the country. The two sides met when my roommate, who was moving a planter to look at it, came face to face with what she (urbanite that she was) thought was a bobcat. She screamed. The 12 year old girl at the counter cheerfully commented that the flat faced, round eyed, short tailed stray cat would be shot by her father later that afternoon. A geranium, a planter and a flat faced, round eyed, short tailed stray cat went into the box we put in the car to go home. The cat promptly knocked itself silly on the rear window of my hatchback when she attempted to jump through the glass in an effort to escape. Thus, Sicily Kitty became my pet.

Sicily only had 1/3 of a tail. How she lost the other 2/3s is a mystery. Frost bite as a kitten was one theory, slamming doors was another, human cruelty was yet a third (though I hope not). Regardless, her short tail represented the quality of her life before I adopted her.  It was not an easy one and I imagine that, once she shook off the effects of concussion gained through attempted escape, she must have felt she had fallen into paradise. She never failed to show that she appreciated that. In fact, many people commented that she seemed more dog than cat in her devotion to me.

In my garden, she was an ever present fixture. She often lounged in sunny and shady spots, depending on her mood. But she was not a good for nothing slouch either. She was a keen vole hunter (and never a bird hunter). So skilled she was at vole hunting that it was not uncommon to see her snacking on 2-3 a day in the summer. We then began to worry where all these rodents were hiding and what kind of rodent problem we had because, as far as we could tell, she never left the yard. But as long as she was on the job, we figured she took care of decreasing the surplus vole population.

So talented and skilled a vole hunter she was, that I kid you not, she would occasionally try to entertain us with “vole juggling”. You can imagine the shock (and horror) of dinner guests one summer evening when Sicily started to juggle for us at the outdoor dinner table for a full 15 minutes. She tossed the small, black rodent up into the air and then would catch it in her mouth again and again. They say that cats will play with their food, but Sicily took it to a whole new level.

Sicily took ill a year and 1 month ago. I know that because my husband left for 7 months of training a year and 3 weeks ago.  The vet had told me there was not much that could be done for her and the end would be soon. I held her and cried and told her she could not leave me now. Not when I needed her the most. She pulled a 10^th life out of the deck just for me and made a miraculous recovery.

But when you live on borrowed time, you still have to pay the interest. Sicily was not the same cat. Her heart was there, but her body was failing her. She had slowed down and spent more time in sunny garden spots than hunting voles. She had difficulty jumping and even walking sometimes. But she was not in pain and she was there for me. She kept me company when I was most lonely.

So, when I found her lying listlessly on the steps yesterday, I knew the loan finally needed to be paid. I knew that it would be selfish and cruel to ask for another extension and besides, Death rarely makes that loan twice. She is, after all, an old cat and she deserved her final rest. She was still in no pain, but the strength was simply pouring out of her body.

She could still stumble forward a few steps at a time, and she wanted to go out. I love my garden too, I understood.  So I let her out into the garden where she disappeared into the shadows and sun among the spring flowers for a few hours. She came back in when a late afternoon thundercloud broke into pieces over the garden. She no sooner made it into the house when she collapsed, unable to walk any further. A few hours later, she was gone.

She will be laid to rest in a sunny spot in the garden.  It will be a place of vole legend, I am sure. One that vole parents will warn their vole children to avoid because a great vole hunter’s spirit still resides there, lying in the sun until an unwary vole happens by.

I have found it always starts with a “Mom, [insert pet’s name here] isn’t moving.” And from there the morning rolls right into the shitter.

The rest of the morning is filled with tears and explanations about life and death and the incredibly short life spans of fish/rodents/cats/dogs. This is normally shortly followed by explanations about the average life span of humans and how, “no, I will not be dropping dead tomorrow like the fish/rodent/cat/dog did today”.

Then comes the burial.  The coffin is typically what is at hand. The box from the totally cute pair of shoes bought last week or the box from that really awesome book you ordered from Amazon 2 days ago (they ship fast). These toss offs from commercial purchases take on suddenly greater spiritual duties.

Then there is the hole in the garden.  Normally dug by a parent then filled in by a child. Our children hold very real mock funerals for what we know is practice for the very real thing to come some day soon.

Sometimes the vet can talk us into cremation or pet cemeteries, but the fact of the matter is we feel better when we bring these pets home.  Our gardens are safe places for the mortuary remains of fond furry memories. They are places that our children can visit when the mood strikes them… someday, even after we have moved on. “Ma’am, you don’t  know me, but I lived here once and my favorite pet is buried in your backyard. Can I stop by?” Who would deny such a request?

Here lies Speedy, faithful pet rat for one year to his owner Logan (who is six). Speedy’s life was tragically shortened by a stroke.  May he rest in peace in perpetuity under the peonies and ash tree, next to the other much beloved pets that came before him.

The sun is shining, my front beds are cleaned out and I have settled down with a nice, new seed catalog that has just come in the mail – the Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds catalog.  It is a delightful pleasure.

I have written a few times about seed catalogs, be it the paper they use to the times they are mailed. Few people realize what complicated things catalogs are.

In many respects , catalogs are like magazines. The intent is similar in that the maker of the catalog has collected a large amount of information and needs to keep the reader interested enough to keep turning the pages and also create a few items that spark enough attention that you stop and ponder it for a few minutes.

Catalogs do not have the benefit of advertising to support it though.  That is because the catalog is the advertisement. Which can be hard. How do you keep a reader interested when all you are trying to do is sell them things?

Catalogs have figured this out a long time ago, but for the benefit oh you readers who have not been through Direct Marketing 101, I am going to phase over to TV to get my point across because the concept is easier to understand there as it is more blatant.

Most TV media is entertainment (even if you are watching PBS or Discover, it is ultimately entertainment. Admit it, you could have picked up a book) supported by advertising. There is a clear line (although TV commercials are getting almost more entertaining than the TV itself, but I digress). But there is television that is not entertainment.

Yeah, I see you out there Mr. and Mrs. Smarty Pants. You are thinking to yourself you know what that is.  It is the Snuggie-Slap Chop-OxiClean-Shamwow type TV that I am talking about. And in a way, you are right.  This is very blatant extended advertising. But the very best advertising is so good, you are only vaguely  aware it is advertising. How many of you watch Extreme Makeover Home Edition?  Watch carefully the next time you see it, because the only difference between the ShamWow guy and Ty Pennington is that I know Ty Pennington’s name. It is certainly not that one is less annoying than the other.

Didn’t know that Extreme Makeover Home Edition was an infomercial? Yeah, I am sure Sears does all of that for free. Yes, it is an infomercial – but it is funny (if you are halfway into a 6-pack), it tugs at the heart strings and, hey, who doesn’t love to see desperate people exploited for money? Oh, don’t look guilty.  Face it, it is a car accident with a happy ending and a generous Ford representative standing by.  We like that.

So let’s apply what we know to catalogs. Your Park Seed and Gurney’s catalogs are your ShamWow guy. Cheap paper, flat images – but, wait there’s more – buy 2 plants today and you will get a 3rd for only $9.99. There is a need for these catalogs, but they are what they are.

But then you have the seed catalogs that transcend their catalog nature and manage to sell while still being a true pleasure (and *bonus* avoid involving Ty Pennington levels of annoyance). Your Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds catalog is rich paper, stunning plant photography, amusing or wise gardening quotes and fact and filled with botanical rarities that would make any gardener drool.

And so, after enjoying the sun and soil, I can sit down with a glass of wine and enjoy savoring the pages of the Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds catalog.

Hello?

Is there anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me.

Is there anyone at home?

Come on, now,

I hear you’re feeling down.

Well I can ease your pain

Get you on your feet again.

Relax.

I’ll need some information first.

Just the basic facts.

Can you show me where it grows?

I am sorry. I abandoned you all. But I had good reason. I needed a break. A good long break.

My world, as we knew it, has changed astronomically since we last talked. And in a really, really good way. So let’s take a trip (not that kind of trip) in Hanna’s Way-Back-Machine.

When last we spoke, it was August. My husband was gone, my tomatoes were being ravaged, and I was working 70-80 hours per week. Life was interesting. And that is putting it mildly. Actually, it just kind of sucked all round.

Lots of things happened since that time. Some I will share, some just are not your damn business. But let’s just say that all of it culminated it me needing a break. A nice long break.

So let’s talk about good things.

Once upon a time I talked about dreams. And I am fairly certain for any gardener a giant dream is making money from gardening. Any “beyond my wildest dreams” dream for a gardener is making enough money to live off of gardening. Well, hold on to your panties ladies and gentlemen (and if you gentlemen have panties, return them to their lady owners ASAP or just don’t tell me about it), I am there. For the better part of 3 years, I put in the equivalent of a second part (and many times full) time job to be able to accomplish that. In August (note when I stopped writing here – sorry, I was tired of doing oh so much for way too long), I quit my day job and became a full fledged, money making, garden guru. How awesome is that?

My break from this blog can only be described to gardeners in terms of an August garden. You spent so much time up until August cleaning and grooming and working, that you just need a break and you let it all go to pot just so you can enjoy the beauty of what you have created.

So now, this is my life. I wake up every day now and all I have to do is write about gardening. Could you really ask for more?

It turns out you can.

My hubby is home. It was hard and it was worth it. If the last 12 months have taught me anything, it is that shit, even the good shit, does not come free. The real things in life have a cost, and the cost is worth it. I had a good marriage before. A solid marriage. But you always have questions. I don’t have questions anymore, and that means a lot in terms of marital bliss.

And, with all those questions out of the way, my husband and I (with the blessing of our three lovely male children) decided that while we had everything we could ask for, we were missing something still. So as we speak, and as I run around in frantic circles like a chicken with its head cut off trying to locate obscure but important information, my family is going through the process of adopting a child. A girl. I love my boys, but a woman can only take so much dinosaurs, Star Wars and swords before she decides that a future with the possibility of dress up, prom dresses and un-peed on toilet seats looks mighty fine.

And then there is spring. It is here and it does spring hope on an eternal basis. Today the temps in Cleveland were up over 60F. Don’t worry, it will be snowing next week, I am sure. But today it felt like it was time to get back out into the world. There were snowdrops blooming and the top on my convertible was down.

Welcome back world. This garden has missed you terribly.

I am a big fan of the Lord of the Rings movies. I am not afraid to admit (now that it is many years past) that I actually risked a very good job to go to the showing of the entire trilogy at a local movie theater. I walked out of work in the morning and hoped no one would notice that I was gone the rest of the day. It worked. I went with my husband to see the full 9+ hours of the LOTR movies on the big screen. The experience was amazing and (in the hindsight light of the fact that I did not lose my job) was worth the worth the risk.

Many people do not realize that a very large theme of the LOTR trilogy (books or movie) is about what is precious to people. Every character in the series is faced with dealing with what is precious to them and the trials that prove that what is precious is worth the cost. Rings, love, friendship, family, country and community. These things are precious to the characters and the series is based on examining these concepts. Gollum even refers to what is precious to him by this very word. The Ring is his Precious. He would go to the ends of the world, kill and even eventually die for it.

I am faced with my own trial of precious these days. Tomorrow, I will walk into a military building with my husband and I will walk out without him. For the next 2 months, I will only have minimal contact with him, basically whatever a drill sergeant deems necessary, which I am told is not much.

Tomorrow, when many of you are reading this, I will be releasing what is precious to me. And I am given something precious in return. I am given the rare opportunity to examine my life and all that is precious in it. I can understand just how very precious these things are, without the painfully messy divorce papers or horrific loss of a loved one’s life that normally comes with this kind of situation.

While it may seem trite, my husband and I have what I have always thought of as the rare and elusive true love. We adore, idolize and desire each other, even after 12 years of being together. Life without the other is unimaginable. For god sakes, we still talk the sickeningly sweet, cutsie baby talk to each other.

But in true Holiday Golightly and butterfly fashion, we are separating because dreams should be followed and love does return when it is real.

When it comes to what is precious to me, as you may have surmised, there is my husband. My children are precious as well. All of which I have given much thought to lately, thankful that I have them, but now more keenly aware that in a heartbeat they could be gone.

Then there is my gardening. It is also precious to me, though in a different way. It is my escape and solace. Right now, I have more seedlings growing than I know what I will do with. I just keep packing cups with dirt and shoving seeds into them. One after another, like it will make a difference that I bring tiny lives to life while mine gets turned upside down. And maybe it does make a difference. Doing, not thinking, is a very precious thing about gardening.

J.R. Tolkien also made big of gardening in his books, considering that one of his main characters was a gardener. Hobbits were people of the earth, and plants were precious to them, maybe for reasons why it is precious to me. Gardening reminds us that we have power over our world, no matter how small and powerless we are or feel. It is a precious thing to know that you can bring food to the table, joy to the heart and life to the world in spite of everything the world can throw at us.

As some of you may have noticed, I have been lax in posting since my vacation. I just did not feel like posting. I came home to cold and dreary. Death had firmly settled on the world around me in more ways than one. And I was feeling just a bit petulant about the whole order of things. Death is not supposed to happen, not in the garden, not to my grandfather.

I came home from vacation to learn that my grandfather had been admitted to the hospital and was not expected to leave. My grandfather was a proud man and age had slipped in like a taxi cab in New York in the pouring rain. A few months ago, his vitality had been whisked away by emphysema in an rude rush, leaving him standing on the curb, short of breath and forlorn. Then, these past few weeks, a common cold took advantage of his stunned state and snatched his life like a common thief.

To be honest, my grandfather seemed to me to be made of mythic materials. Each part of him seemed bigger than me, and it made it hard for me to feel close to him some of the time.

I am told that when he worked in the steel mills, he was renowned for his ability to understand what misbehaving steel was wanting. With a touch of his hand, he could draw out the very soul of the cooled steel in front of him and recommend a correct solution. Indeed, he was so accurate that he was loaned out to other steel mills around the country to correct their smelting processes as well. When he retired, he was replaced by a slew of chemical engineers who accomplished the same thing, though with far more test tubes and fancy machines than my high school educated grandfather ever needed.

He was also an accomplished singer, whose voice was tempered and true as the steel he had cured. He sang for many years in a group that traveled around from church to church raising voices and souls.

He was a man who was dedicated to his faith and his God in a way that I could never hope to understand. God came before everything, except for perhaps his wife.

And, most importantly to me, he was a suburb Uno player, at least minds of his grandchildren. So often did he win, that we frequently accused him of cheating when we were children who knew no better. This grandchild/grandfather bond of Uno was immortalized by the fact that my grandfather will be laid to rest with a pack of the cards at his side. It amuses me to think that some day, thousands of years from now when future archaeologists discover my grandfather’s grave, they will ponder the significance of a pack of brightly colored cards.

As always, since this is a gardening blog, I must remember something from the garden about him. I don’t remember him being a gardener beyond what was necessary to keep the yard up, but I do remember one thing and that was the red raspberries. Along the back fence there were several bushes. And if I was very good, I might be rewarded with a few. And they were a very sweet reward of which my grandfather was very proud.

For as much as I rail against death, I know it is necessary. I may not like it, but death must happen to my garden and to my grandfather. It is wearying to live a full life and we must grant all things their final rest. The beautiful flower, or the wondrous man will live on in memory long past the time that their spots in the world have been covered in snow.

We interrupt our Tomato Tastings to bring you news of Hanna’s life…

I don’t often share the intimate details of my life with this audience. You may know when I lose a dear one or that my children have started school. But beyond these small details, my garden blog is dedicated to… well… gardening things.

Today, I need to share with you one of the most difficult decisions that I have ever had to make in my life. And I can say that with 100% honesty. Nothing was harder than this.

Several years ago, my husband shared with me that he had wanted to join the military. Like any sane wife, I said “Absolutely not.” After all, babies are hard to raise and I certainly did not want to be raising them by myself if I could help it.

But babies grow up and this year they are all grown up enough to go away to school, for the entire day. My husband did not ask, but did look at me imploringly with very convincing puppy eyes. (He has amazingly convincing puppy eyes.) And after saying no like at least 20 more times, I finally said yes.

And so my husband and I decided that he would join the National Guard reserves. After a massive diet and exercise program, a small letter writing campaign, and 2 months of back and forth with a lovely recruiter who seemingly goes only by the one name “Santiago”, at 11:15AM today, my husband was sworn in as a member of the National Guard.

He will leave me April 7, 2009 for a little over 6 months for basic and specialty training. In this current political climate, it also means that it is inevitable that he will be called up for active duty where he will eventually be away for much longer.  Right now, I consider basic to be the training wheels version of deployment.

Since this is a gardening blog, I have to relate this back to gardening, right? Well, what it comes down to is that I will be losing half of myself. While my husband is not an active gardener, as many couples will tell you, your other is an essential part of your garden regardless.

They may do the heavy work, they may lend a helping hand in the creation of yard and project and they may even be an active participant in building a garden masterpiece. But the most important part is that they are an ear. They listen patiently to your triumphs and tribulations, no matter how trivial. They understand that your need to vent about vine borers and slugs is essential to your mental gardening well being. They happily open their mouths and accept the communion of our gardens, whether it be a freshly picked zucchini or a still warm tomato. They understand us. That is what a gardener spouse does better than anything in the world.

And I will lose mine right at that most important time of spring. For the gardening year 2009, I will turn to ask him to mow the lawn or try this fabulous tomato and I will find that he will not be there. He will be in Missouri, doing drill or shooting a gun. Which is so far from my garden on so many levels…

So where does this go? Why did we do this if it hurts so much? Because at the end of the day or a lifetime, a person should be able to stand up and regret only the things they did, not the things they did not. The one hope is that in living like this, you have nothing at all to regret when everything is said and done.

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.