ALL MUCH OF A MUCHNESS

            Sorry about the hiatus. It’s been cold-ish here the past two weeks and, except for gainful activity, I retreated inside to spend a good bit of time with my loom. While warmly warping and wefting, it occurred to me there are many similarities between weaving and gardening.

            With both crafts, it helps a lot to have a plan before leaping into action. If what you want to accomplish is simple and straightforward—such as one-note containers or single-color plain weave—sometimes winging it works: more often it doesn’t. Because of a certain, ahem, predisposition on my part to preciseness (I’m anal as hell), I prefer designing every project in two dimensions, to scale if at all possible.

A simple one-color, balanced weave project...

...or plopping a bunch of hens-&-chicks in a pot doesn't require a lot of advance planning.

But some simple-seeming weavings...

...or color-blocked pots of violas benefit from some prior thought.

            Not that a lovely drawing ensures success on the loom/ground. Landscapers who slavishly follow beautiful, curvy, landscape-architect-rendered drawings often find themselves in plant-replacement nightmares punctuated by increasingly menacing phone calls from unhappy clients. Back in the day when Tim and I took on new-construction installations, we learned early on that any paper plan is purely advisory. In the real world, things evolve. In the real world, the grand design emerges over time. Still, it helps to have some idea of where you’re going before you rev the engine and back out of the driveway.

Garden plans evolve from establishing the "bones" of a space...

...to filling in the details.

            Both weaving and gardening require an openness to rearranging elements on the fly. Translating some approximation of your mind’s two-dimensional conception into three-dimensions pleasing to the eye determines the ultimate success or failure of any design. Trust your instincts while you’re working. They’re never wrong.

Weaving plans also evolve. Observe Take 1...

...and Take 2 for the same piece.

             

            In some ways, though, weaving feels more intense than gardening. Lose concentration for a few passes on the loom, and the pattern and/or selvages show it. Not that gardening is mindless, of course. Even weeding requires a modicum of attention if you want to be sure you haven’t plucked out all your dad’s asparagus plants about 43 minutes before they bear. For the first time. Since he’d planted them three years previously. (See November 11, 2011’s “Looking Back” for the whole sad story.) 

 

            The ultimate goal of any endeavor—weaving, gardening, painting, golf—is a result. If at first you don’t succeed, figure out what went wrong, and try, try again. Screw-ups just mean you’ve had an opportunity to learn something. Tim has taken as his mantra an adage that says an individual has to paint a mile of canvas before he starts to get really good at it. The number grows to 20 miles of yarn when applied to weaving. We’ve killed thousands of plants over the years figuring out how to garden in North Carolina. So stick with it, whatever “it” is for you. At the risk of sounding unbearably sanctimonious, if you love to do it, it’s worth doing until you do it well.   

           

This is how the garden turned out...

           

...and here's the final incarnation of that weaving.

            Three “it”s in one sentence! Must be near time to plug in the pictures and thank y’all for dropping by.

            Thanks for dropping by, y’all.

                                                                                    Kathy    

ASPHODEL

             By way of backstory: Poetry magazine just ended its year-long celebration of 100 years in print. In conjunction with this milestone, they published The Open Door: 100 Poems, 100 Years of Poetry, a copy of which I duly procured.

            [Note to poetry fans: it’s a good collection, spanning the ins and outs of the genre over the last century. The thumbnail biographies, although annoyingly freighted with prizes, awards, and past or present teaching positions, are particularly fascinating. Almost a third of the poets represented either committed suicide or died in bizarre circumstances. For example, Frank O’Hara was struck and killed by a dune buggy on Fire Island. Weldon Kees is presumed to have leapt from the Golden Gate Bridge. Randall Jarrell stepped into the path of a oncoming car in Chapel Hill, NC. Hart Crane jumped off a steamship into the Gulf of Mexico. Craig Arnold disappeared while clambering around volcanoes in Japan. And we all know how Sylvia Plath ended up.

            See how these digressions proliferate? Keep reading—it gets worse.]

            Anyway. Ray Bradbury said writers must read poetry every day, so I do. This morning The Open Door opened to the William Carlos Williams snippet, “Of asphodel, that greeny flower,” from the fifth volume of his epic dense and largely unintelligible Paterson. It goes like this:

“Of asphodel, that greeny flower, the least,

                        that is a simple flower

                                                like a buttercup upon its

branching stem, save

                        that it’s green and wooden

                                                We’ve had a long life

and many things have happened in it.

                        There are flowers also

                                                in hell. So today I’ve come

to talk to you about them, among

                        other things, of flowers

                                                that we both love, even

of the poor, colorless

                        thing which no one living

                                                prizes but the dead see

and ask among themselves,

                        What do we remember that was shaped

                                                as this thing

is shaped? as their eyes

                        fill

                                                with tears. By which

and by the weak wash of crimson

                        colors it, the rose

                                                is predicated.”

Asphodelus ramosus, branched asphodel

        
            All new-to-me-plant sensors aquiver, I lumbered into the kitchen for coffee and to type “asphodel” in the Google search bar. Ninety minutes later, I knew that there are 17 species of tuberous Asphodelus, and as many, if not more, genera with the common name “false asphodel.” Taxonomists, apparently bored now that Aster has been successfully rechristened Symphyotrichum,  recently moved asphodel from the lily family, Liliaceae, to the much harder to pronounce Xanthorrhoeaceae (zan-thor-REE-uh-cee-ee, I’m guessing, from the Greek for yellow—xanthos—and flow—rheo—referring to the resin the plants may or may not excrete), which also contains the daylily and the single-species Australian grasstree sub-families. All of them originate in Mediterranean-like environments.

            [For a graphic look at how those wacky taxonomists operate, check out the phylogenic tree in Wikipedia’s Xanthorrhoeaceae entry.]

When is an asphodel not an asphodel? When it's a de affodil.

            Another interesting lexicographic wrinkle is that the word “daffodil” may have come from a corruption of asphodel, “affodil”; specifically, from the bulb-loving Dutch de affodil. This in turn might explain why the blog UrbanArt Wallpapers offers a picture of a mini-daff to beautify your computer screen and calls it asphodel.  

Asphodel tubers, yummy when boiled

           
            Asphodels have an impressive recorded history. As Williams tells us, they are the flowers of Hades. In The Odyssey, Homer blankets the Elysian fields of the Isles of the Blessed with them. Ancient Greeks believed they were the favorite food of the dead, and planted them near graves. This belief was reinforced by the fact that poor Greeks boiled and ate the tubers. In case you’re interested (or hungry), most parts of the plant are edible when cooked.

Asphodelus aestivus/ramosus/microcarpus

My research leads me to believe Williams’ “greeny flower” refers to Asphodelus ramosus, or branched asphodel, pictured above. In yet another example of taxonomic love of confusion, A. ramosus (“branching”) is synonymous with A. aestivus (“of summer”) and A. microcarpus (“small fruit”), depending on which Linnaean descendant you personally rely upon.

This is how I’ve blown a perfectly lovely mild and sunny January Saturday. I am in good hopes that further cyber-digging will bring me to a source for asphodels—the real ones, not the fakes—to plant in my yard. Should I ever turn off the computer and go out to dig in the yard instead. I’ll let you know how that works out.

Thanks for dropping by.

                                                                        Kathy

Prunus mume 'Peggy Clarke'

 P.S. -- Look what was blooming on our deck this morning! Why, it's spicy-scented 'Peggy Clarke' ornamental apricot!

WHAT'S UP?

             Lots of neat things happen over our heads in the depths of winter. Like what? you ask. Well, for starters, Earth reached its annual perihelion with the sun on New Year’s Day, when the center of our planet cozied up to within a mere 91.4 million miles of Old Sol. Did’ja notice how unseasonably warm it was? No, probably not here in the Northern Hemisphere. Aphelion, or the greatest distance between star and planet, occurs on July 5^th, when the wobble in Earth’s orbit makes us 94.5 million miles distant. Save the date!

            Also under the rubric of “You’ve Already Missed It,” the annual Quadrantid meteor shower reached its peak in the wee hours of the third. Didn’t know about meteor showers other than the Perseids in August?  Gracious, there are six others besides the two mentioned above over the course of the year: the Lyrids in April; the Eta Aquarids in May; the Southern Delta Aquarids in July; the Orionids in October; the Leonids in November; and the Geminids in December. Except for the Quadrantids, meteors emanate from a radiant, or a specific area of the sky, named for a constellation—Lyra, Aquarius, Perseus, Orion, Leo, and Gemini. The Quadrantids’ radiant is Bootes. Perhaps astronomy’s equivalent of taxonomists couldn’t quite stretch to the inane sounding “Bootids.”

            Moving right along to events that are not entirely past, The Globe at Night light-pollution tracking project is calling for citizen-scientist observations of Orion January 3 to 12. This is the first of five opportunities this winter and spring to add your bit to charting where starlight can still be enjoyed. Go to The Globe at Night’s website for information on collecting and submitting data.

What Orion looked like from my front yard last January

            Winter’s cold and clear nighttime skies provide great opportunities for well-bundled-up star watchers. At this time of year, nine of the 25 brightest stars in the sky are visible within or on the perimeter of the asterism known as The Great Winter Circle. Using Orion’s belt as a starting point, it’s easy to find them all. Going out around 10 pm, draw an imaginary line southeast through the three belt stars to the brightest star in the sky, the Dog Star, or Sirius. At a distance of only slightly more than eight light-years from Earth, proximity accounts for his brightness to our eyes. His distinctive blue color indicates that he is hotter than our Sun.

If you lengthen your imaginary line clockwise from Sirius, the next bright object you’ll intersect is Procyon, Sirius’s little brother in Canis Minor. Another near neighbor of Earth, he lies only 11 light-years away. 

The Great Winter Circle (or Hexagon), as presented on Suite 101

(Betelgeuse is over the "n" in "Orion")

           Continuing the clockwise arc, you run into Pollux and Castor, the Twin Stars of Gemini. Sitting at the northernmost point of the circle is golden Capella, the constellation Auriga’s brightest star. Swooshing down and around to the southwest brings you past Jupiter to Aldebaran, the fiery red "eye" of Taurus, the Bull, Orion's prey.

Closing the circle is brilliant blue Rigel, marking one of Orion’s knees (or his right foot, depending on the source). Although from our vantage point Rigel looks a lot like Sirius, the two stars are very different. Rigel, a blue supergiant, is more than 100 times farther away than the Dog Star:  its luminosity is greater than 50,000 of our Suns. In other words, were Rigel as close to Earth as Sirius, it would appear as big as a full moon, and scare us all silly.

Betelgeuse, the ruddy star marking Orion’s shoulder, sits at the center of this "Great Winter Circle.” A red supergiant that has consumed all of the hydrogen at its center, Betelgeuse is nearing the end of his life… but he’ll still outlast all of us.

I find looking up to be a grounding activity. My petty problems and woes shrink away to nearly nothing in the presence of the silence and majesty of the cosmos. Digging in the dirt and staring at the stars brings balance to a life. And, if you’re in a pickle over something and can’t do one, you can do the other until you regain perspective. Works for me, anyway.

Thanks for dropping by.

                                                            Kathy

P.S.—Want to learn more? These three websites will get you on your way: Sea and Sky; Suite 101; and the U.S. Naval Observatory’s SkyGuy’s up-to-the-minute posts on The Sky This Week.

PROMISES TO KEEP

 

            I just spent two irretrievable hours of my life wearing one of Tim’s hard white art erasers (not to mention my thumb) down to frass removing the first three months of journal entries from my second-decade weather observation book. Seemed like a good idea back in 2010, making brief daily jottings on the goings-on in the yard in a ten-years-at-a-glance context. When all interest in continuing evaporated that same May—about the time when being in the garden was ’way more appealing than writing about the garden—I shelved the idea and the book, resolving to deal with the latter before 2013.

            Guess what arrives tomorrow?

            Guess what arrived today? A New Year’s resolution I know I can keep: after 50 years in the trenches, I’m swearing off formal journaling.

            Obsessive journaling is really a sort of masturbation. It’s why the blogosphere thrives. There’s the titillation of others reading, perhaps commenting on, your revelations. There’s also the possibility of the odd 15 minutes of fame, such as the kvetching blogging mom who declared her own kid would be the next Adam Lantz, garnering herself appearances on the morning talk shows. I mean, really. No wonder the kid has problems.

            The realization dawned that I’m no Samuel Pepys (pronounced PEEPS, not PEP-is). The realization also dawned that I turn 60 in 2013. Over the past several years, I’ve been moving steadily toward the place where it’s a lot more important to be out living life rather than just writing about it.

            Does that mean GFTGU has finished its run? No. At least not yet. Playing in the dirt is a life-long love affair, and the best education, and the best therapy ever. But, to steal from Robert Frost,

                                    I have promises to keep

                                    And miles to go before I sleep,

                                    And miles to go before I sleep.

            Happy New Year, y’all. And thanks for dropping by.

                                                                                    Kathy

P.S. – Wanna know the most profound thing I erased this morning? On March 2, 2010, I wrote: “Met Allan Armitage [at the Davidson College Gardening Symposium]. He’s a jerk.”

AND NOW FOR THE GOOD NEWS

            "The Avant Gardener" carries good news briefs as well, such as the following:

NOT JUST FOR HEADACHES ANY MORE

            Does an aspirin drench really enhance a plant’s natural defenses to promote growth, reduce stress, and ward off disease and insects? Replying to a reader letter to Fine Gardening, University of Rhode Island Professor Rebecca Brown says yes. One component of aspirin is salicytic acid, a chemical naturally present in all flora. Its name derives from Salix, because willows produce the compound in high concentrations. Dissolve one or two aspirin per gallon of water, and apply generously around the roots of your plants. Dr. Brown recommends a douse every two weeks during the growing season. Seedlings and new transplants benefit from aspirin-water spritzes too. Or you can feed them a tea made of willow twigs steeped in water.

            Except using aspirin’s easier.

*****

In the 'Phenomenal' field

            Know what else is good for headache? Aromatherapy with home-grown lavender. For those of us living in climes somewhat dissimilar to those of the English countryside or Provence, Peace Tree Farms of Pennsylvania has developed a super-hardy cultivar of Lavendula they dubbed ‘Phenomenal.’ Bred for American Horticultural Society’s (AHS) Zones 4 to 8, the silver-foliaged densely branched plant grows to about 36” high and wide, and produces “deep-blue” (hort-speak for “purple”) bloom clusters. Go to Peace Tree Farm’s website for more information.

*****

Honeycrisp apples

             
            Are you hungry? How about a nice apple? U.S. growers produce zillions of them (more or less) every year. Our own USDA expended considerable time and taxpayer dollars to rank our favorite varieties by volume. And the winners are: Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, Gala, Granny Smith, Fuji and Braeburn. But keep an eye out for newcomer Honeycrisp. This yellow and red marbled-fleshed University of Minnesota introduction is on its way to the top.

*****

Blueberry 'Pink Lemonade'

            The busy boys at the USDA’s Agricultural Research Service have released two new blueberry hybrids. Early fruiting ‘Sweetheart’ “… not only holds its sweet flavor longer than other blueberries, it produces a small repeat crop in the fall” after the main run in June, according to “The Avant Gardener.” She’s hardy to AHS Zone 5. In keeping with the American fascination with all things pink, the second AHS entry is ‘Pink Lemonade,’ a blueberry whose fruit is, um, pink. (Why don’t they call it “pinkberry”? No one knows.) Only a moderate producer and hardy only to AHS Zone 6, “this novel blueberry gained a ‘best new shrub’ award at the Far West Horticultural Show.” High praise indeed. I guess.

*****

            Both apples and blueberry provide consumers with lots of fiber, which, as we all know, promotes happy and healthy colons. But listen to this, girls: out of 20,000 women participating in a study, those who got the most fiber from their diets had a 25% lower chance of developing heart disease than their processed-food loving counterparts.

*****

Calm down! Have some raisins.

          

            
            Got raisins? Swedish researchers found that hypertensives eating a handful of raisins a day appreciably reduced their blood pressures. No one knows why, exactly, but then, it doesn’t really matter, does it?

*****

            One last dollop of good-ish news. Today marks the last of the earliest sunsets here in the Southport area. Starting November 28 and continuing through this evening, the sun’s gone down at 5:03 EST. Tomorrow, we gain a minute as it waits until 5:04 to slip below the horizon. On the other end of the day, however, sunrise gets incrementally later until January 3^rd, when it claws its way into the morning sky at 7:17 EST. There it levels off through the 13^th. After that, it’s all good with earlier sunrises and later sunsets until the summer solstice in June, when the slow slide kicks back in.

Those wacky druids at Stonehenge

            The actual shortest day(s) of the year fall around the imminent winter solstice, on December 21 this year. Locally, that plays out to 15 days of 14-hour-6-minute nights. For more insight on the long and short of daylengths, check out my December 10, 2010 post, “The Moon, the Sun, and the Shortest Day.” It’s illuminating (haha).

*****

            Okay, that’s it for me for 2012. There’s a visit to Momma in Williamsburg coming up this weekend, and seasonal shopping to cram in before the trip; our ever-patient clients would really, really like their winter containers filled; I would really, really like to find homes for all the plants in our driveway; a stack of Christmas cards waits on my desk to be addressed and schlepped to the mailbox; six pounds of cranberries languish in the fridge, hoping to become sauce and chutney; there's a weaving sampler I can’t wait to get off the loom because it’s produced so damn many “teachable moments”; and a sweater I've been struggling with since first looping yarn around needle requires ripping out all together as I discovered last night I forgot to make any of the sleeve increases.

            That's life as usual chez Fitz. We wish you the least stressful of holidays and are looking forward to catching up after the furor dies down. Sleep in heavenly peace, if you can. And if not, an occasional Ativan helps smooth out those rough edges.

            Thanks so much for dropping by. It means a lot to me.

                                                                                    Kathy