Reporting on Week #1

Memories of people, places and things continue to spring up on our vacation to Maryland. Annapolis’ changes are even more obvious in the warm weather than they were at Christmas. *

When our son and his family came for a visit, we walked around downtown Annapolis, re-visiting spots where we once strolled, often during the  “children’s hour.”  Around four o’clock, back then, if things got dicey on the home-front, we bundled up and headed out for a quick visit to the State House lawn; we hopped aboard the cannon and rode out the craziness. Or, we walked up and down Main Street, popping into Rookie's for a few groceries to carry home for dinner.

In the 1980’s, when we lived here, Annapolis was still a small town with shops and businesses that served families first, and then tourists who liked architecture, sailing, and quaintness.  Now, sidewalk vendors, bars and outdoor restaurants abound, spilling over onto sidewalks – aimed at tourists, impeding those who want to meander with a small child and while away a few moments, enjoying the views.   

Now, as we jostled our way along West Street – experiencing all the changes that come with upscale retail, I will stipulate the little mom & pop stores never looked as good back then, as they do in my memories.  We pressed on. Wending our way to the left on Church Circle, we discovered the campus at St. John's College was empty of weekend revelers and its students. It has enjoyed a decidedly elegant renovation since our son scampered up and down its brick walks.  Watching him and his wife now stroll with his son, it was a happy flashback to some walks with him and his sister. 

Heading back to our vacation apartment, I could see how formerly modest homes have been renovated, catering to the tastes of those who can afford all the new restaurants, bars and boutiques.  Our old home now hidden among lush foliage overhanging a deep-water pier, looks very high-rent.  

Our Old Home

And what was once a rough row of old houses by a hospital-parking garage had been transformed into a tidy waterfront park for children and parents who might no longer enjoy wandering about downtown Annapolis.

The more things change, the more they change.  :0)

o   Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom. ~Marcel Proust

o   Don't let yesterday use up too much of today. ~Cherokee Indian Proverb

o   What you need to know about the past is that no matter what has happened, it has all worked together to bring you to this very moment. And this is the moment you can choose to make everything new. Right now. ~Author Unknown

*Strolling Down Memory Lane

*Christmas in Annapolis

Gardening Update

We are headed back into triple digit territory this week – just when I thought fall might saunter in  . . . and just after I made a modest investment in more flowers for the garden!

New editions

The former hot spell a few weeks ago wilted so much, I thought some fresh flowers and plants might celebrate the new season. I shopped carefully for drought tolerant and sun-dependent additions. I bought some zinnias, plumbago, and porchulaca, some plant food and a Mexican-made planter to keep the black eyed Susans company.   

I got started early Saturday morning – stopping only when my eyes stung with perspiration. In the midst of potting new plants, I repotted a few old plants, and fed the lantana and morning glory that had survived. The Texas geraniums had survived – even if with few blooms. One plant flourished – sorry to say, I don’t know its name.
 

What is this blooming thing?

 But what delighted me when I closely inspected it – the impatiens I had rooted from a broken branch lived and flourished in the heat and haphazard watering that has been my recent gardening habits.

Survivor!

It was confirmation that a little shade and a little water can overcome lazy gardening habits. But the wonder is not a pass so that I can be careless with the newbies – especially if the heat and drought linger.

The blooming impatiens was like God saying to me – You gave up tending this plant, and yet I nurtured it.  Seeing that little basket, from my kitchen window, prods me to think again about my prayer habits. Prayer is doing what I can and trusting God to do what He has promised – even when I see no help – relief – on the horizon. (Maybe I need to reread Habakkuk?)

I don’t see how things can work out in Syria, or Egypt, or the Sudan. But that doesn’t mean I can give up praying for the relief of all those folks, and for humility and wisdom for all our leaders.

I don’t see how the church is going to cope with the assaults on Christ or His commission. But that doesn’t mean I stop praying and serving.

I don’t see how some of our family and friends can bear up under their loads – but that is no pass from prayer.

“This is God’s Message, the God who made earth, made it livable and lasting, known everywhere as God: ‘Call to me and I will answer you. I’ll tell you marvelous and wondrous things that you could never figure out on your own.’” (Jeremiah 33:3)

Time and weather will wither that happy little impatiens plant – the first cold snap will destroy it. But I hope I remember its lesson.

God makes not His abode in a narrow heart. 
(Jacopone Da Todi)

Lunching in Triple Digits

Still Standing @ 100 degrees!

Here we are in Texas for the month of August, an unexpected opportunity to live through triple digit temperatures, because our trip to Maryland was postponed.  Of course, the humidity here is quite low, so it is a dry heat.   I actually felt cooler until a friend reminded that an oven puts out dry heat too, and it can get plenty hot!

This afternoon I met a friend for lunch; she is a native of west Texas – Amarillo. Texas women are tough – no  wilting under any magnolia branches for them!  And she was waiting for me on the patio of a favorite spot, Celebration, where we ate lunch in all that wonderful dry heat. But two or three icy glasses of tea, consumed in the deep shade of the patio, and under a fan, made it a remarkable adventure.

I was just proud of myself for not passing out!

I have forgotten what it felt like to eat in hot weather, sans air-conditioning. For the heat, albeit dry, reminded me how summer felt in Baltimore in the 1950’s.  And what I discovered was I ate more slowly, and listened more closely to my friend – and chose my own words carefully – who wants to waste breath on unnecessary words?   

The change in travel plans has meant I have time to consider how our garden is growing – We’ re reaching the scraggily stage. The long hot days and dry nights can wilt even the hardy Pentas  I put in the front of the house. But in the back of the house, the black-eyed Susans seem determined to keep growing. I see them out my kitchen window, waving bravely in the sun and heat.  At lunch today, I believe I channeled my inner state flower, and put up a good show.

Maybe one day, I can treat my friend to a crab feast on an August afternoon in Maryland?

Cantler's Riverside Inn*

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone.

~Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting

 *PHOTO Source

The End of Summer

 

September 23, 2011 is weeks away, the official end of summer. But today is Labor Day – and the temperature is 69 degrees – with an anticipated high of 86! However many hot days may come, the triple digits appear to struck their tents and departed.

A photograph from last Labor Day shows a few of the roses we enjoyed through out the end of August and into September. What a difference a few months of 100+ days can make, huh? Perhaps the cool weather will comfort those old rose bushes . . . until rains can deeply revive their roots? Living through an almost record –setting time  has been a wee bit wearing, and expensive.  But because of air conditioning, perhaps a contributor to the high temperature according to some, we did better than the roses in our back yard.

Growing up, I dreaded Labor Day; it meant getting back into academic harness again. It also was the day our community pool closed, ending the days of unstructured hours, and all the promises spring made as she slipped into summer. When we were ourselves pool owners, I felt daring keeping our pool open beyond this holiday – as if I were breaking an unwritten rule.  Keeping it open staved off the feelings of regret about all I did not accomplish [again] with so much free time.

By the way, those unwritten rules about the end of summer still affect me; they include no white or patent leather shoes. And today I am somewhat anxious to set aside summer purses, summery jewelry, and all the linen apparel, although the anxiety is manageable with another cup of coffee and the prospect reading a good book, outside on our patio. 

Hope your day, dear reader, is blessed with relief, rest and renewal. Some borrowed thoughts to share on this refreshingly cool (but dry) Dallas morning:  

• Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop.  ~Ovid
• God give me work, till my life shall end
  And life, till my work is done. ~Epitaph of Winifred Holtby (a 20^th century English novelist)

The News from Texas:

 

I got out and walked this morning, before it got too hot; ten weeks from now what feels warm – 85+ degrees – will feel chilly, portending the coming of fall. Until then, every day I can get out and about, breathing in and out comfortably, I am glad.  

In our back yard, the battle with the squirrels over the domain rights to my growing collection of flower and plant pots continues. I tried applying concentrated pepper, and got talked into (dried) fox urine – sprinkling it around the edges of the pots. After a few days, the squirrels may have noticed, no fox was lurking – and perhaps, because this is Texas, the squirrels don’t mind extra pepper.  Today, when I noticed one persistent critter, digging in a freshly potted hibiscus I resolutely added both pepper and urine to all the pots!  Hope the plants survive.

Speaking of my garden: at least half a dozen black-eyed Susan’s are waving bravely in the sun and this mornings gentle breeze.  Started from seeds last year, they did not appear until this spring; I despaired that they would bloom. Chilly weather and strong winds have knocked them about; some rains and hail pummeled them – but they were upright and boldly at attention when I took action against the squirrels – cheery reminders of the Old Line State.

Also emerging unexpectedly – for I worried the squirrels had forged the bulbs – a stargazer lily. Other shoots are tentatively appearing. Another surprise, and reappearing this year with more blooms and brighter colors, is canna lilies, planted by the former owner. The flowers are a combination of brilliant red and pure yellow against deep green foliage – Viva Mexico! Alas, the freesias are languishing. Perhaps they resent the squirrels’ incessant foraging? Or maybe pepper and fox urine discouraged them?

On another hopeful gardening note, though, the pansies have not given up. The remains of what I planted in the fall, pansies and ornamental cabbage, seem inexhaustible.  Daily, as I cut them to file tiny arrangements in the house, more flowers appear. Indeed, my gardening friend told me pansies are also known as the grandmother’s flowers, for busy little hands can never wholly demolish their beds.

And speaking of grandchildren, my morning walks have become as if I have a small child in tow. This morning, just as I reached a heart-healthy pace, the magnolia trees distracted me. The blooms are lovely and profuse this year, tempting me to draw close, bend a branch down and inhale their unique fragrance.  Slowing down, I had to have a stern talk with myself about not touching other people’s property.  Mercifully, I didn’t have to explain why to myself.  

Why Do I Have to Go to Church?

It’s a magnificent Sunday morning in Dallas! Breezy, sunny and oh so quiet.

Wandering around I am overcome – first by the labors of other hands. The roses are waving – fragrant hands of pink, salmon, deep red, pail pink and yellow. The climbing roses – that heretofore have only shown leaves – have blossomed, their dark red buds opening, revealing bright yellow centers. All got a severe pruning in February – but not as much I was told to prune roses in Maryland.

My black-eyed Susans are garnering strength, I hope will burst forth in warmer, drier weather, when the roses languish. My tiny new garden is flourishing; this morning I sowed some marigolds. The lavender I planted last year, and I feared was lost, is branching out. In between the multicolored roses, I planted some lilies – with another batch on the way. My favorites – the red geraniums – enjoy the warm sun. But, in a few weeks, I must find more shade if they are to survive the Texas summer. In Maryland, geraniums did well in the sun; fifteen hundred miles south and west – the rays are lethal. The squirrels may have assassinated the freesia bulbs I planted in an accommodating large pot. Fuzzy rodents!

The sprinkler system we inherited is a luxury – I watered by hand most summer evenings in Maryland – a therapy session, if you will, where I worked through the weeds in my heart and mind. Here, a simple timer turns on sprinkle heads which cover the beds and yard thoroughly. But we struggle with getting the timing and duration properly apportioned. Water evaporated quickly – but even a few extra minutes twice a day is too much for some plants, and I may have drowned the wax crepe myrtle we planted when we first moved in.

Surely God can be worshiped as well in a garden as church? I see His handiwork and my deficits clearly – He has preserved and brought forth “life” from plants that seemed fit only for discarding – and seeds that bore no resemblance to the flowers I enjoy. And my soul agrees – “How Great Thou Art!” But, singing a capella in my mind, in my garden, isn’t how the God of the Bible commanded worship.

Who is the real Gardener?

A church building isn’t better than my garden to draw near to God. Wherever and whenever I draw near to Him, He draws near to me. It’s the others who come to worship that distinguishes a building from my garden.

Staying alone in my garden would be like the roses – if they could – refusing to be pruned, watered, or insisting on shade rather than sun. It would be like the geraniums – if they could – refusing the shade I will provide when the slant of the summer’s sun scorches.

I need the care of corporate worship –sound teaching – and fellowship. Nothing magic happens there – but something supernatural does. Details after the 11:00 A.M. service.
So let's do it — full of belief, confident that we're presentable inside and out.

Let's keep a firm grip on the promises that keep us going. He always keeps his word. Let's see how inventive we can be in encouraging love and helping out, not avoiding worshiping together as some do but spurring each other on, especially as we see the big Day approaching.

If we give up and turn our backs on all we've learned, all we've been given, all the truth we now know, we repudiate Christ's sacrifice and are left on our own to face the Judgment — and a mighty fierce judgment it will be! (Hebrews 10:22-27 from THE MESSAGE)

Let the Gardening Begin!

Last June, I reported that the Black-eyed Susan seeds sprouted in spite of starting too late, and my careless watering. However, no flowers bloomed, only foliage. I gave up on them, and tucked the greenery in a large pot with a chrysanthemum and liriope – disappointed I would not be seeing any reminders of Maryland in my Texas garden.

But yesterday I was surprised.

Yesterday – a glorious Texas spring day – I gathered my cultivator and spade, “gloved” up and uprooted the wilted winter pansies, flowering broccoli and a ga-zillion shoots from buried acorns from a yard square bed that abuts the covered porch. I preserved three snapdragon plants, hoping they will survive the sun and heat amongst all new flowering plants I intend: Shasta daisies, lemon symphony, lithodoa (grace wind), African daisies and sun bells – all supposed to last in Texas sun and heat.

Then, I spied the large pot, quite green with chrysanthemum leaves and liriope, and a clump of oblong leaves – portending Black-eyed Susans! They made it through the unusual winter we had this year!

Cautiously I extracted them from their companions, and gingerly separated them into seven little plants. Three would be the first plants in the cultivated square! And I put four others along the skinny oblong bed on the far side of the covered porch.

So, if gardens are indeed a form of a form of autobiography, (Sydney Eddison) I started another chapter - a chapter that includes the hope of freesias and lilies – three packets of seeds yet to be sown, and reminders of Maryland. This is indeed an antidote to panic attacks – for I must breathe deeply, exercise, and imagine colors, shapes and smells that divert the anger and anguish the world reports.

Summing up from From quotegarden.com:

“Gardening is about enjoying the smell of things growing in the soil, getting dirty without feeling guilty, and generally taking the time to soak up a little peace and serenity.” ~Lindley Karstens

“ You can bury a lot of troubles digging in the dirt.” ~Author Unknown

They Sprouted!

The tiny than tinier seed whose name is a mouthful, Rudbeckia hirta, sprouted. Well, some of them did. I planted thirty-six starter plants, and at least six of them waved at me this morning when I went to water them. Well, they didn’t really wave.  They are still too minuscule to have much personality.  But the dots of fresh green amongst dark brown is as pleasing as a wave, and a testimony I did not drown them.

Watering teeny, tiny seeds in those diminutive composition flats is tricky. A spray bottle’s application is safer but slower; the watering can is faster – but if I don’t water carefully, I can flood the flats. I flooded a few compartments this past week. The spray bottle was empty, and the watering can was full; so, I used what was easiest on a hot evening – a recently filled watering can. 

Sometimes – too often – that’s how I talk to people. Emotion or fatigue or something wells up in me, and I flood an unsuspecting soul with my words, because it is easier. Full of myself, I will answer loudly, in exasperation; or, I will mutter a caustic remark.

And I am really bad with customer service operators. 

For someone who says she believes in the fruit of the spirit, when I am trying to settle a bill or other service problem an eavesdropper would be hard-pressed to hear kernels of kindness. Frustration can culminate  in disrespect  – and I speak as I would never wish to be addressed.

Harsh words to strangers (to anyone) can become stumbling blocks. Mahatma Gandhi once declared  he was impressed with Christ, but not with Christians:  “I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.”   Apparently,  a churchman in a South African church had barred Mr. Gandhi from entering the church, and used intemperate speech, and he remembered the insult.  Why do I “forget” that my words to an unseen person may inflict life-changing harm?

Speaking to someone thousands of miles from me is a feat of communication that Paul or John could not have envisioned. Instead being filled with  awe that God has provided me such a venue to be His ambassador, I have too often blown the occasion, flooding the flats of another person’s soul, when I could have taken the time, “refilled” with the Holy Spirit, and misted their hearts’ soil.

The comfort and blessing of God’s word are that my Advocate not only defends me before my accuser but He pleads my case, and paid my court costs before I understood their magnitude. (1 John 1:9-10) The mercy is He did not treat me as I deserved. (Psalm 103) And therefore, because of Him, I can treat others with forbearance, kindness and respect. So, making sure the spray bottle is filled, before I water those tender sprouts next time – I pray God reminds me the mission field may just be the next service call I must make!

Reading My Garden

Sydney Eddison, gardener and author,  observed, “Gardens are a form of autobiography,” and I see a comparison between my gardening adventures and my life.  In Maryland I knew what I wanted to plant, but I didn’t always bother with a few important details of how to make the plants flourish. Sometimes, I put the flowers in an inhospitable location – like the year I planted Black-eyed Susans.  I didn’t have so much luck growing them in Maryland. I made some basic gardening mistakes the time I tried. I  didn’t transplant the containers of flowers deep enough into prepared soil. I chose a part of the garden that didn’t get as much sustained sunlight, and the soil was too sandy to retain water, and I did not divide them at the end of the season or deadhead expired blooms.

So, they did not flourish or bloom again.

Doing the right things in the wrong way – or with the wrong attitude – often ends badly, no matter how hard I worked. Just because I wanted to plant something, didn’t mean I knew how; just because I wanted it to grow in a particular spot, didn’t mean it could or would. Soil preparation, proper plant tending, light and water matter – so does knowledge.

But,  as grim a reflection of my gardening skills (and character defects) that  my gardens sometimes show, they are happy reminders that God redeems what I count as losses.  He shows me that ignorant enthusiasm can be harnessed, and redirected. And the mystery of life is grander than my blunders. However, as I now read more carefully the directions jammed in the plant pots, I make sure where I plant plants corresponds with what is labeled with bright yellow or purple suns.  By building on what I am learning, I am not killing so many plants. Except for the pineapple sage I just planted in the wrong place.

Now, I am hoping I had time to add some Maryland color in our Texas garden.  Starting some Black-eyed Susans from seeds, yesterday, I knew I was late . . . two months late. They’re  wild flowers, one of the most common, so I am hoping the seeds I just committed to starter containers will not be temperamental.

Reading the directions on the packet, I learned the seeds, smaller than poppy seeds, need sun to germinate. And I needed to press them ever so slightly into the soil without covering them up. Teeny-tiny black seeds are hard to see against dark brown potting soil, and figuring out how much pressure presses a minuscule seed no deeper than one-eighth of an inch were challenges,  so late in yesterday’s 100+ degree heat.

Now, I am nervous, wondering how hard I pushed those seeds down – if the spot is too sunny, too hot, or too dry – or if I started too late? I really would like to see them sprout. If they emerge, I will have a perennial reminder of Maryland for they are the state flower of Maryland – and another page in my autobiography.