No Mo’ May
And then it was June. Hard to believe it, given how very cold it is this evening - so cold that I was driven to make a fire in the wood stove for the first time since March Break! But tomorrow - oh, tomorrow! - we are expecting the sort of weather that inspired those epic lines from The Vision of Sir Launfal:
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
Tomorrow marks twelve days since I sallied forth from Toronto, our Subaru stuffed to the gills with my seedlings, and since then I’ve been the busiest version of this particular Bee (yes, that’s what some call me) with hands too full of dirt and a head too full of urgent to-dos to sit by the fire and, finally, write. But here I am, now, and… now, let me put another log on the fire; let me pour a splash of blueberry liqueur into this slightly-too-sour red wine.
When, as a writer, one has been negligent, and when so much has piled up in terms of tales to tell and lessons gleaned in such a very short time as less than a fortnight, one is compelled to consider one’s reader and the need to condense for the sake of time and flow. I can not make the last twelve days into any sort of neat package; this time resists being tied up with a bow. So I might do as my childhood best friend’s mother did last night at her daughter’s wedding: make my speech in a series of random memories, numbered one to ten or so. Let’s say twelve. Alright, here we go!
No Mow May. How do you feel about it? I like it in principle, and there’s no doubt that the pollinators do, but when I arrived on the 21st of May to find a “shire” that was knee-high in grass and tens of thousands of dandelion pom-poms (they’d already gone to seed) and a good slathering of mustard garlic, I knew I would not be waiting for it all to grow another foot or so in the ten days before May would be over. You see, we don’t possess a very good mower - she’s alright, but she’s a cheap one from Canadian Tire - and every five minutes she sputters out and has to rest for another thirty before I can rev her up again when she has to deal with a big job like that. So mowing was really my first order of business, and for a few days I green-knuckled my way through being sure that the inconstant on-and-offs of my noisy occupation were hell to bear for my poor neighbours, and worried that they knew that I was unleashing an unholy army of dandelion spawn with every meter I mowed. But whatever, we got through it, and what’s done is done now. And wherever I saw Forget-me-nots or wild violets in sufficient profusion, I simply mowed around them. Did you know that very serious anti-dandelion lawn people say that if it’s gone to seed you ought to take a battery-charged vacuum-cleaner out and hoover up the puffs before you mow? I didn’t do that. Oh, forgive me! For I do know what I have sown!
PFFFDTPFFFDTPFFFDT! The sound and physical sensation of a lovely dovely I hadn’t seen was roosting there when surveying the rose arch that had been pruned in late winter, just a few short months ago, and that is now (and still, because I’m afraid to disturb Ms. D) already overgrown. Do not even try to compare her to that self-sacrificing bird in Oscar Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose. That lovely b*tch is far too self-respecting to die for the sake of any human from a self-administered thorn wound to the chest.
One word: lilacs. And you thought that for every number on this list I’d be going on and on like I have above for the first couple. Pfft! I try to know when to give it a rest ;)
There were daffodils, too, still in bloom when I arrived, although the big yellers were fading. That was okay, though, because I’ve decided I don’t really like them in the garden colour scheme. I have beheaded them and will allow them to finish maturing their bulbs before I move them to the forest path where they’ll be more welcome. What I did get to witness was the blooming of the type species of Narcissus, Narcissus poeticus, aka the poet's daffodil, pheasant's eye, findern flower or pinkster lily. And I quote from Wikipedia: this flower “was one of the first daffodils to be cultivated, and is frequently identified as the narcissus of ancient times… often associated with the Greek legend of Narcissus.” The scent of this more refined white flower with its scarlet and saffron eye is heady as f*ck - less daffy than her Big Bird counterpart - and she’s more than welcome to stay put where she is.
Another quick one: the pure joy it is to see the same dusky pink-brown blooms on the hellebores as it seems I had back in April when I was last here for Easter. The Christmas Rose, as she’s otherwise known (or, the Lenten) is the gift that keeps on giving, all spring and early summer long.
In April, if you recall, I declared this the Year of the Bean. We planted quite a few heirloom, bizarro varieties then, and I’m pleased to report that they’ve nearly all sprouted, and some will soon need me to go round with twine for support as they vine up. I can’t wait for the taste of those “Slippery Silks”, those “Urizun Winged”, those “Jade Fort Portal”. And the “Red Rat’s Tail” radish planted back then are coming up roses, too. And don’t get me started on the beets, the carrots, the garlic, or the fact that last year’s lost potatoes are currently breeding like the most devout Catholics, bent on parading out their progeny in next year’s St. Paddy’s Day stew.
Lu now has a patch of earth worthy of Lovejoy Mason in Rumer Godden’s An Episode of Sparrows (a novel right up there with Godden’s The Greengage Times in my list of all-time favourites). A couple of dear friends from Toronto visited me last week, one of whom is an avid gardener. He was keen to help me plant up the veg patch with my seedlings, and when I mentioned that Lu had expressed a wish to grow a few things in a space of her own, he also helped me to create a new bed that will be just for her. It has full sun and pride of place, right by the millstone.
Under the tarp that covers our compost heap, I discovered a garden snake who was so unfussed by my presence and my sh*t-shoveling that she stayed put for a quarter of an hour before making her retreat. I could have told her I planned to frack underneath her once my wheelbarrow of compost was full, and all she’d have done was stick out her tongue.
Perhaps she was happy with me in the knowledge of good and evil that was my fruit tree-planting saga this week. Perhaps that snake knew that it would soon enough be time to tempt an Eve with a peach, plum, or pear. I bought the trees en route home from my nephew’s bar mitzvah last Sunday - yes, this is an era of constant bar mitzvahs and weddings for us, and fortunately not yet one of funerals as quipped by my dear neighbours who had me over for a few negronis and the most wonderful chat - and their complete planting will only be done tomorrow as I’ve had to deal with Gummosis in the plums and to weigh the benefits and drawbacks of staking for support against the winds and source a mulch appropriate to them and to the Wine Cap mushrooms I’d like to grow atop it (we’re going to go with poplar). Anyway, tough as it is to plant a tree alone and have it plumb and all of that, this was the culmination of decades of dreaming, and I am grateful and humbled and joyful, and yet something tells me that the hard work of caring for fruit trees in a post-Eden context is only just beginning.
Deciding that Some Sort of Structure must be made (by me? Oh, boy) for vining grapes and kiwi. These things must be transplanted from their Hail Mary spots and given proper sun and support if they are to really do something, I’ve realized. But I’m glad that the blueberries and currants have found a shadeless spot and seem to be off to a good start this season. And the strawberries, once they were rid of their dainty, tight lace collar of lierre terrestre, started fruiting like mad. The first red ones are predicted to be here by next week this time.
Speaking of finding the right spots for things, of embracing conditions as they are and not flailing about against them, I’ve been leaning in hard to the utter delight that is making a shade garden. Originally, I created a quote-unquote flower patch by path down to the forest in the hopes of growing all manner of blooms, but several years of experimentation with things like dahlias and gladioli have taught me that they just do not get enough sun down there. The foxgloves are thriving - God bless them for being so tolerant - and I’m only now getting enthusiastic about just how many other flowers might be happy there. So: anenomes in profusion, Astilbe, Bugbane. Myosotis and ferns from the forest. In the “Sissinghurst Garden”, aka “Léo’s Garden” thanks to all his rock work there, we can enjoy the lupins, alliums, hollyhocks, et j’en passe… and different varieties of irises can tie the two worlds together. And I’ve moved the glads around to a few different sunnier spots: at the front of the house, in an old washtub in the original garden, in a line behind the fruit trees where they’ll catch the full brunt of the sun and fall back into the prickly embrace of the raspberry bushes.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OTns5EnMGjI. So very nice to be visited by The Divine Ms. O all week, and I hope she’ll decide that here’s a better place than Baltimore. Especially given the current American administration. But I digress.
