May 10th
Matilijas in full bloom, Dr. Suess bushes going crazy, arugula gone to seed...
I was going to write about reality. But something got in the way.
I was thinking, and have been thinking for awhile, about the nature of reality in our manufactured world.
So, it's 2006 and you build a Tudor style house in Southern California. A house designed a long, long time ago in merry old England. Think about Tudor. Perhaps there are timbers because that was an affordable way to build a house, since timber was everywhere and made great frames. The whole style of the house was based on the reality of the situation. Much of it was build out of need, economy, and some style. Yet, here we are, hundreds of years later, trying to protect the forests and spending a lot more money to build a house which doesn't fit any bill except that it is pretty and makes us all think of England.
When people come in they think the house is charming. It whisks them back to another era. I don't know about you, but that wasn't a particularly healthy era when it came to living past 40 years old. We are, in so many senses, living in this fantasyland and dreaming about a place we don't really know.
Those people, way back a when, lived more in reality. Hopefully they were looking at their surroundings and acting upon them. When all they had was mud, they made a mud house. Attractive? Maybe not particularly, but it did, and here's the only word I can think of to describe it, resonate. Resonated with the surroundings, with their economy, with their tribe who lived in like houses.
It's exactly the same with the garden. We put 40% of our water into lawns, which remain highly unused for the most part, then complain that the well is going dry. (Okay, maybe we don't complain, but if you read the papers, scientists and farmers are complaining.) Speaking of England, that's where the idea of a grass lawn comes from. A country whose trademark item is an umbrella.
Like I said, I was going to write about it (and in many ways, I guess I am), but walking back from yoga, exhausted, tired, and going by the Korean church with their dandelion garden, I thought, "Who the hell cares?"
Maybe not my best turn of phrase, but I get the point even today. All this complaining and worrying, is it really getting us anywhere? So my neighbor waters his lawn every single night and my other neighbor smothers his grass with pesticides and fertilizer, does it make them worse people? No, they're great people, I just happen to think both are misinformed.
Here's the problem: how do I continue to do what I think is right (in all areas of my life) and not get angry with someone else for their actions?
It's a question I can't really answer today.
But I believe that starting at the beginning, calming myself, working with my hands in the garden, has the answer. In the same way you don't decide to start your diet on the maddest crazy busiest shopping day before Christmas, trying to calm yourself while you're yelling at people just doesn't work.
It feels good.
But it doesn't work.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Reality Bites
May 10th
Matilijas in full bloom, Dr. Suess bushes going crazy, arugula gone to seed...
I was going to write about reality. But something got in the way.
I was thinking, and have been thinking for awhile, about the nature of reality in our manufactured world.
So, it's 2006 and you build a Tudor style house in Southern California. A house designed a long, long time ago in merry old England. Think about Tudor. Perhaps there are timbers because that was an affordable way to build a house, since timber was everywhere and made great frames. The whole style of the house was based on the reality of the situation. Much of it was build out of need, economy, and some style. Yet, here we are, hundreds of years later, trying to protect the forests and spending a lot more money to build a house which doesn't fit any bill except that it is pretty and makes us all think of England.
When people come in they think the house is charming. It whisks them back to another era. I don't know about you, but that wasn't a particularly healthy era when it came to living past 40 years old. We are, in so many senses, living in this fantasyland and dreaming about a place we don't really know.
Those people, way back a when, lived more in reality. Hopefully they were looking at their surroundings and acting upon them. When all they had was mud, they made a mud house. Attractive? Maybe not particularly, but it did, and here's the only word I can think of to describe it, resonate. Resonated with the surroundings, with their economy, with their tribe who lived in like houses.
It's exactly the same with the garden. We put 40% of our water into lawns, which remain highly unused for the most part, then complain that the well is going dry. (Okay, maybe we don't complain, but if you read the papers, scientists and farmers are complaining.) Speaking of England, that's where the idea of a grass lawn comes from. A country whose trademark item is an umbrella.
Like I said, I was going to write about it (and in many ways, I guess I am), but walking back from yoga, exhausted, tired, and going by the Korean church with their dandelion garden, I thought, "Who the hell cares?"
Maybe not my best turn of phrase, but I get the point even today. All this complaining and worrying, is it really getting us anywhere? So my neighbor waters his lawn every single night and my other neighbor smothers his grass with pesticides and fertilizer, does it make them worse people? No, they're great people, I just happen to think both are misinformed.
Here's the problem: how do I continue to do what I think is right (in all areas of my life) and not get angry with someone else for their actions?
It's a question I can't really answer today.
But I believe that starting at the beginning, calming myself, working with my hands in the garden, has the answer. In the same way you don't decide to start your diet on the maddest crazy busiest shopping day before Christmas, trying to calm yourself while you're yelling at people just doesn't work.
It feels good.
But it doesn't work.
Matilijas in full bloom, Dr. Suess bushes going crazy, arugula gone to seed...
I was going to write about reality. But something got in the way.
I was thinking, and have been thinking for awhile, about the nature of reality in our manufactured world.
So, it's 2006 and you build a Tudor style house in Southern California. A house designed a long, long time ago in merry old England. Think about Tudor. Perhaps there are timbers because that was an affordable way to build a house, since timber was everywhere and made great frames. The whole style of the house was based on the reality of the situation. Much of it was build out of need, economy, and some style. Yet, here we are, hundreds of years later, trying to protect the forests and spending a lot more money to build a house which doesn't fit any bill except that it is pretty and makes us all think of England.
When people come in they think the house is charming. It whisks them back to another era. I don't know about you, but that wasn't a particularly healthy era when it came to living past 40 years old. We are, in so many senses, living in this fantasyland and dreaming about a place we don't really know.
Those people, way back a when, lived more in reality. Hopefully they were looking at their surroundings and acting upon them. When all they had was mud, they made a mud house. Attractive? Maybe not particularly, but it did, and here's the only word I can think of to describe it, resonate. Resonated with the surroundings, with their economy, with their tribe who lived in like houses.
It's exactly the same with the garden. We put 40% of our water into lawns, which remain highly unused for the most part, then complain that the well is going dry. (Okay, maybe we don't complain, but if you read the papers, scientists and farmers are complaining.) Speaking of England, that's where the idea of a grass lawn comes from. A country whose trademark item is an umbrella.
Like I said, I was going to write about it (and in many ways, I guess I am), but walking back from yoga, exhausted, tired, and going by the Korean church with their dandelion garden, I thought, "Who the hell cares?"
Maybe not my best turn of phrase, but I get the point even today. All this complaining and worrying, is it really getting us anywhere? So my neighbor waters his lawn every single night and my other neighbor smothers his grass with pesticides and fertilizer, does it make them worse people? No, they're great people, I just happen to think both are misinformed.
Here's the problem: how do I continue to do what I think is right (in all areas of my life) and not get angry with someone else for their actions?
It's a question I can't really answer today.
But I believe that starting at the beginning, calming myself, working with my hands in the garden, has the answer. In the same way you don't decide to start your diet on the maddest crazy busiest shopping day before Christmas, trying to calm yourself while you're yelling at people just doesn't work.
It feels good.
But it doesn't work.
Reality Bites
May 10th
Matilijas in full bloom, Dr. Suess bushes going crazy, arugula gone to seed...
I was going to write about reality. But something got in the way.
I was thinking, and have been thinking for awhile, about the nature of reality in our manufactured world.
So, it's 2006 and you build a Tudor style house in Southern California. A house designed a long, long time ago in merry old England. Think about Tudor. Perhaps there are timbers because that was an affordable way to build a house, since timber was everywhere and made great frames. The whole style of the house was based on the reality of the situation. Much of it was build out of need, economy, and some style. Yet, here we are, hundreds of years later, trying to protect the forests and spending a lot more money to build a house which doesn't fit any bill except that it is pretty and makes us all think of England.
When people come in they think the house is charming. It whisks them back to another era. I don't know about you, but that wasn't a particularly healthy era when it came to living past 40 years old. We are, in so many senses, living in this fantasyland and dreaming about a place we don't really know.
Those people, way back a when, lived more in reality. Hopefully they were looking at their surroundings and acting upon them. When all they had was mud, they made a mud house. Attractive? Maybe not particularly, but it did, and here's the only word I can think of to describe it, resonate. Resonated with the surroundings, with their economy, with their tribe who lived in like houses.
It's exactly the same with the garden. We put 40% of our water into lawns, which remain highly unused for the most part, then complain that the well is going dry. (Okay, maybe we don't complain, but if you read the papers, scientists and farmers are complaining.) Speaking of England, that's where the idea of a grass lawn comes from. A country whose trademark item is an umbrella.
Like I said, I was going to write about it (and in many ways, I guess I am), but walking back from yoga, exhausted, tired, and going by the Korean church with their dandelion garden, I thought, "Who the hell cares?"
Maybe not my best turn of phrase, but I get the point even today. All this complaining and worrying, is it really getting us anywhere? So my neighbor waters his lawn every single night and my other neighbor smothers his grass with pesticides and fertilizer, does it make them worse people? No, they're great people, I just happen to think both are misinformed.
Here's the problem: how do I continue to do what I think is right (in all areas of my life) and not get angry with someone else for their actions?
It's a question I can't really answer today.
But I believe that starting at the beginning, calming myself, working with my hands in the garden, has the answer. In the same way you don't decide to start your diet on the maddest crazy busiest shopping day before Christmas, trying to calm yourself while you're yelling at people just doesn't work.
It feels good.
But it doesn't work.
Matilijas in full bloom, Dr. Suess bushes going crazy, arugula gone to seed...
I was going to write about reality. But something got in the way.
I was thinking, and have been thinking for awhile, about the nature of reality in our manufactured world.
So, it's 2006 and you build a Tudor style house in Southern California. A house designed a long, long time ago in merry old England. Think about Tudor. Perhaps there are timbers because that was an affordable way to build a house, since timber was everywhere and made great frames. The whole style of the house was based on the reality of the situation. Much of it was build out of need, economy, and some style. Yet, here we are, hundreds of years later, trying to protect the forests and spending a lot more money to build a house which doesn't fit any bill except that it is pretty and makes us all think of England.
When people come in they think the house is charming. It whisks them back to another era. I don't know about you, but that wasn't a particularly healthy era when it came to living past 40 years old. We are, in so many senses, living in this fantasyland and dreaming about a place we don't really know.
Those people, way back a when, lived more in reality. Hopefully they were looking at their surroundings and acting upon them. When all they had was mud, they made a mud house. Attractive? Maybe not particularly, but it did, and here's the only word I can think of to describe it, resonate. Resonated with the surroundings, with their economy, with their tribe who lived in like houses.
It's exactly the same with the garden. We put 40% of our water into lawns, which remain highly unused for the most part, then complain that the well is going dry. (Okay, maybe we don't complain, but if you read the papers, scientists and farmers are complaining.) Speaking of England, that's where the idea of a grass lawn comes from. A country whose trademark item is an umbrella.
Like I said, I was going to write about it (and in many ways, I guess I am), but walking back from yoga, exhausted, tired, and going by the Korean church with their dandelion garden, I thought, "Who the hell cares?"
Maybe not my best turn of phrase, but I get the point even today. All this complaining and worrying, is it really getting us anywhere? So my neighbor waters his lawn every single night and my other neighbor smothers his grass with pesticides and fertilizer, does it make them worse people? No, they're great people, I just happen to think both are misinformed.
Here's the problem: how do I continue to do what I think is right (in all areas of my life) and not get angry with someone else for their actions?
It's a question I can't really answer today.
But I believe that starting at the beginning, calming myself, working with my hands in the garden, has the answer. In the same way you don't decide to start your diet on the maddest crazy busiest shopping day before Christmas, trying to calm yourself while you're yelling at people just doesn't work.
It feels good.
But it doesn't work.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Love Lies Bleeding in my Hands
May 1st
May Day.
The Matillija poppies have risen their full 8 foot height and are just beginning to open in their "dancer's pose", as Wendy likes to call it, or "fried egg" pose, as I do. Love-in-a-Mist, a flower from the time when they named them beautifully (think Love-Lies-Bleeding or Fireman's Britches) cluster around what is left of an ancient cactus garden I have yet to rip out. That area, so hot, hot in the summer time you couldn't walk across it, was home to so many borage plants, it's hard to believe I only have one left.
Just thinking about them reminds me how charmed I was when we moved into this house. By the late-20's era, by my new love, by this massive garden that had gone to seed after one of the men withered and passed away from AIDS. I remember sun, heat, and opportunity. At that time I was still hoping to write for television or movies and did not have children.
It's easier to look back, right? To see everything was much easier then? We forget so much. I was in emotional pain then and had trouble with direction in my life. More trouble than now, if you can believe it.
This house has so much history, built by a surgeon, lived in by a landscape architect. We're only the third owners in all those years. With all the terrible things that have gone on around here (and I believe I've only heard more since joining the Neighborhood Watch Program), I still feel so rooted historically to this house.
I was going to write today about what is real and what is not, something that's been on my mind since I worked at Disney and was intrigued by the arguments against the Disneyfication of Fill-in-the-Blank (New York, LA, Paris, the world), but it doesn't feel like that kind of day.
Yesterday was tiring and uplifting in the garden. The lawn hadn't been mowed in two weeks and Mark, my neighbor, just got his new lawn in. And is one of those people who picks up every leaf that falls. Sharp contrast to the people who used to rent the place. I hate to take part in competition, but there's nothing that quickens your game as much as someone who is excellent at what they do.
I finally ripped out two large lavender bushes and an enormous fortnight lilly that had taken over part of my front walk. I'd spend the last four years fighting them, continually cutting them back, only to have them return with a vengeance. Maybe taking over my own garden instead of having someone else do it for me has someone empowered me, because I ripped both out without much pity, then stood back and saw how good it looked. I stopped and tried to think why I was so concerned about ripping them out before. There is a great possibility they were part of my "If it's green, it stays" policy. We'd lost so many plants over the years, I was hesitant to clear something out that was actually doing well. No one likes a hole in a garden and what are the chances whatever you put there will do well? (The answer to that is 60/40.)
I did, however, take the time to divide the fortnight lilly into 10 smaller plants and put them out back, which is something that still amazes me to no end.
The thing that always surprises me in regards to yard work, is where my interests lie. There is nothing so enjoyable as sitting down with a catalog and picking out new plants and nothing so disheartening as seeing those plants or seeds fail to grow, get eaten, or downright perish.
But with all the big work putting in walkways, clearing out brush, dividing perennials, nothing comes close to the act of solitude known as weeding. You can be amazed through all your other big actions in the garden, but I feel you can only enjoy God's presence or "the big picture" in the small act of getting your face ten inches from the soil and picking out a weed.
And yes, I don't think I did enough weeding yesterday.
As luck would have it, there's still time tonight.
May Day.
The Matillija poppies have risen their full 8 foot height and are just beginning to open in their "dancer's pose", as Wendy likes to call it, or "fried egg" pose, as I do. Love-in-a-Mist, a flower from the time when they named them beautifully (think Love-Lies-Bleeding or Fireman's Britches) cluster around what is left of an ancient cactus garden I have yet to rip out. That area, so hot, hot in the summer time you couldn't walk across it, was home to so many borage plants, it's hard to believe I only have one left.
Just thinking about them reminds me how charmed I was when we moved into this house. By the late-20's era, by my new love, by this massive garden that had gone to seed after one of the men withered and passed away from AIDS. I remember sun, heat, and opportunity. At that time I was still hoping to write for television or movies and did not have children.
It's easier to look back, right? To see everything was much easier then? We forget so much. I was in emotional pain then and had trouble with direction in my life. More trouble than now, if you can believe it.
This house has so much history, built by a surgeon, lived in by a landscape architect. We're only the third owners in all those years. With all the terrible things that have gone on around here (and I believe I've only heard more since joining the Neighborhood Watch Program), I still feel so rooted historically to this house.
I was going to write today about what is real and what is not, something that's been on my mind since I worked at Disney and was intrigued by the arguments against the Disneyfication of Fill-in-the-Blank (New York, LA, Paris, the world), but it doesn't feel like that kind of day.
Yesterday was tiring and uplifting in the garden. The lawn hadn't been mowed in two weeks and Mark, my neighbor, just got his new lawn in. And is one of those people who picks up every leaf that falls. Sharp contrast to the people who used to rent the place. I hate to take part in competition, but there's nothing that quickens your game as much as someone who is excellent at what they do.
I finally ripped out two large lavender bushes and an enormous fortnight lilly that had taken over part of my front walk. I'd spend the last four years fighting them, continually cutting them back, only to have them return with a vengeance. Maybe taking over my own garden instead of having someone else do it for me has someone empowered me, because I ripped both out without much pity, then stood back and saw how good it looked. I stopped and tried to think why I was so concerned about ripping them out before. There is a great possibility they were part of my "If it's green, it stays" policy. We'd lost so many plants over the years, I was hesitant to clear something out that was actually doing well. No one likes a hole in a garden and what are the chances whatever you put there will do well? (The answer to that is 60/40.)
I did, however, take the time to divide the fortnight lilly into 10 smaller plants and put them out back, which is something that still amazes me to no end.
The thing that always surprises me in regards to yard work, is where my interests lie. There is nothing so enjoyable as sitting down with a catalog and picking out new plants and nothing so disheartening as seeing those plants or seeds fail to grow, get eaten, or downright perish.
But with all the big work putting in walkways, clearing out brush, dividing perennials, nothing comes close to the act of solitude known as weeding. You can be amazed through all your other big actions in the garden, but I feel you can only enjoy God's presence or "the big picture" in the small act of getting your face ten inches from the soil and picking out a weed.
And yes, I don't think I did enough weeding yesterday.
As luck would have it, there's still time tonight.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Marketing Nature's Own
March 29, 2006
Rains again. Rains expected.
Ryan has 4 zucchini seedlings up now and you have never seen a kid so excited by vegetables. Well, he likes watching them grown and picking them he doesn’t necessarily enjoy eating them.
Someone was cursing Marketing and Marketers the other day, primarily because it’s so difficult to keep track of what’s good for you because they are constantly playing with the words. If wheat bread is good for you, they’ll include something in the title of their product like Ground Wheat Flour (which I believe is actually just flour, ground from wheat, which we eat all the time) to make you buy it with the understanding that this is good for you like wheat bread is. Which is essentially a lie.
I laughed. It imitates Nature herself, don’t you see?
Let’s say there’s a butterfly, like the Monarch, which tastes good to birds. Somewhere along the line, nature produced a toxin in some of them which made them taste horrible to birds. In time that feature came to be in all Monarchs, and as a direct result, birds won’t eat them. What is also interesting is that birds will associate the color and pattern of the Monarch with the foul taste. Now along comes this other butterfly (and I’ll be damned if I can remember the name) who develops the same coloring and marking of the Monarch but, get this, don’t contain the toxin that makes them so inedible. They are mimicking in order to increase their chances of survival.
And if that’s not Marketing, I’ll eat my hat.
Our ancestors didn’t have it any easier, so don’t fool yourself. Anyone who foraged had to be able to tell the difference between an edible morel mushroom and a Death Cap. They also needed to know the time to pick wild berries, roots, and tubers, because doing so at the wrong time could cause illness or death. They needed to be able to read seasons, prepare meats, buy meats and vegetables from sometimes untrustworthy sources; in other words they had a hell of a lot of work to do that we never even think about.
These people were up at dawn and asleep before their heads hit their pillows.
So complaining about a bunch of stuffed white shirts making marketing campaigns trying to fool you doesn’t get you very far when you look back historically.
In fact, we look bad because we have it so damn easy. If the Marketers are trying to stick it to us, don’t just sit and complain, you’ve got 3,000 pages of reference materials all over the Web on any subject from Types of Wheat Flour to the difference between Biodegradable and Compostable.
As my mother always used to tell me, referring to those hucksters who sold vegetables on the streets of South Philly, “Did you ever hear a huckster yell, ‘Rotten tomatoes!’”
Stay one step ahead of the Marketers and read as much as you can to give your family the nourishment they need, your planet the treatment it deserves, or the company the money for products made that agree with your actual standards, not ones laid on afterwards by a campaign team.
And don’t be surprised when they change their stripes because you aren’t buying.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Lying Down
March 27th
The rain has just set in. Temperatures in the mid 70s. The California Poppies are just coming up, Ryan was excited to show me two this morning.
The weekend in the yard wasn't a particularly difficult one, I'm still maintaining (or trying to maintain) the balance between working in the house and outside on Saturdays while Wendy is working. And, yes, by the end of the day (5pm) I am ready for a) a long bike ride or b) a cold beer.
We'd all gotten free seeds last week from our little Farmer's Market (I think there are only 10 stalls, one of them devoted entirely to mozzarella, if you can believe it). They're last year's seeds and I don't expect them to take. Thankfully. Abby I believe is trying to grow turnips, which I can't stand. Ryan is frustrated that we have to wait a few weeks before planting the watermelon. We have a few Gold Rush yellow zucchini sprouts up which we'll move to the back, where they did so well last year.
Working in the garden started me thinking (which is actually not such a difficult task) about what is real and what is fake. Moreover, where are we lying to ourselves and where are we true.
I was thinking in particular about this really awful restaurant we took the kids to just outside Disneyland, called Rainforest Cafe. What's so terrifically sad about it is how goddamned misguided the whole adventure is, from the gift shoppe at the front to the food choices for the children. If you can believe it, at a place called the Rainforest Café a child’s plate does not come with fruit. The adult plate does not come with fruit. What a perfect opportunity to give a kid a banana (though, notably, I’m sure plenty of rainforests fall to make way for banana plantations, but still…) And how about donating a portion, even a nickel a plate, to saving the rainforest? How about skipping the desserts and sponsoring a gorilla in the wild? How about compostable plates? Here was the horrible themed restaurant based on a fragile ecosystem which is dying while you eat the fried onion blossom appetizer.
Honestly, you can’t take me anywhere.
We did get drinks, and sometimes that takes me out of If-I-Ran-The-Circus mode.
But still, where does this enormous corporation get off fooling people into thinking their somehow a part of the circle of life while they run laughing to the bank in their Hummers?
One of the very things I love about my garden is it is true. Whether or not you see it as a weedy mess (and most people don’t, I’m probably the worst offender here), it actually is a pesticide free, fertilizer free, environment for that circle of life Rainforest Café was imitating. Everything from the skunks to the billions of little ants living under my porch have a place to live. You can’t dig in my garden without turning up earthworms. That, my friend, is what they call a good thing.
The birds come in looking to eat the worms, and when they do they don’t have to worry that they’ve been soaked in Malathion or something else. And the worms that live can do their business. This is real, this is what’s happening as you stick your hands in the soil. Not a flock of birds trilling at the push of a button.
I may have said it before, but I always wondered why those crazy Zen monks were always telling you to do the most boring things: wash dishes, weed your garden, sit and stare at a wall for 40 minutes. But here it is, can’t you see? Here is where you can’t escape yourself and you can’t run away from reality. Boring old stupid reality. Just sitting there and clearing out the pond of amusements, taxes that need doing, and plasma screen TVs.
I’m not saying that diversions aren’t fun, and aren’t necessary, but I always crave something deeper, something meaningful. Which often makes me a pain in the ass.
I need to learn to sit and weed and listen and not get up on my high horse (as it were) taking potshots at passers by. Do not judge, lest ye be judged, boy. That’s the difficult part. Even taking away many of the diversions, which I seemed to have done, is not enough, the road is longer, and you have just taken the first steps.
Not that they are bad steps.
There are just a hell of a lot of them.
And I hope they will get easier somewhere along the way.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Green is also the Color of the Ocean
I'm jealous. Today, anyway, of my friend Karen. And Anne Lamott. They're both writers who write during the day and are devoted to it. That's actually a little unfair, since Karen is home schooling children during the day and shouldn't have the energy to write. But they both write anyway.
I think it's painful to write sometimes. Especially when I'm reading Anne Lamott, who not only goes into her past addictions and bad behaviors in general, but brings you into the uncomfortable present. Here she's out of money right near the end of her last book, here her son Sam is telling her how much he hates her, here another parent is worried about her son's school performance. Okay, that last one is hilarious:
"Sam really has a gift for making things out of next to nothing… His last teacher, after expressing some concern about his handwriting, said, "He makes such amazing things out of… of… of," and I said, "Garbage?," and she said, "Yes!"
Sometimes I have a knee-jerk concern that he has so little interest in school. At the end of second grade, on of the mothers said, "Gee he doesn’t go much for homework, does he?," and I wanted to scream, "No, but he makes inventions, you dumb slut, out of garbage. While your kid is an obsequious little Type A suck.
I realize I may be the least bit sensitive."
-- Traveling Mercies
Wendy, my wife, is very shy though startlingly open to those who are open with her. I'm afraid at times to bring my life out into the open, when the open is so horrifyingly scary sometimes. The open, it seems, is Howard Stern and American Idol. It's people who grew up in schools making fun of other people, now spending all their free time to laugh at people on TV. (If you want to know, the people who produce those shows more than likely hate the shows and themselves for making it. They also hate the people watching it. It's a tiny little circle of self-loathing anyone outside of the TV industry cares to talk about. I know, I worked in it for 7 years.)
So I take those moments to the garden. And most times they go away. And I wonder, am I stunting my writing by gardening, or does writing stunt my growth?
I keep thinking of those crazy Zen Buddhist monks telling everyone to shut up and go back to washing dishes. Washing dishes! What the hell can you find there? We should be at revivals, or shopping, or learning new things with our friends, you're telling me I'm going to find peace doing something I wanted to hire a housekeeper to do?
(Those not my personal thoughts at the end there. I can't afford a housekeeper and I do my share of dishes every day.)
The garden brings all those self-loathing, confusing, and horrifying thoughts to soil level. And I don't know how it does it, but it usually can take care of them in an hour or so.
So, I don't know if it's I'm afraid to write because I'm shy or because I'm lazy.
Regardless, lunch hour is over for this day, and I guess I got to spend this time writing at least.
It'll do.
I think it's painful to write sometimes. Especially when I'm reading Anne Lamott, who not only goes into her past addictions and bad behaviors in general, but brings you into the uncomfortable present. Here she's out of money right near the end of her last book, here her son Sam is telling her how much he hates her, here another parent is worried about her son's school performance. Okay, that last one is hilarious:
"Sam really has a gift for making things out of next to nothing… His last teacher, after expressing some concern about his handwriting, said, "He makes such amazing things out of… of… of," and I said, "Garbage?," and she said, "Yes!"
Sometimes I have a knee-jerk concern that he has so little interest in school. At the end of second grade, on of the mothers said, "Gee he doesn’t go much for homework, does he?," and I wanted to scream, "No, but he makes inventions, you dumb slut, out of garbage. While your kid is an obsequious little Type A suck.
I realize I may be the least bit sensitive."
-- Traveling Mercies
Wendy, my wife, is very shy though startlingly open to those who are open with her. I'm afraid at times to bring my life out into the open, when the open is so horrifyingly scary sometimes. The open, it seems, is Howard Stern and American Idol. It's people who grew up in schools making fun of other people, now spending all their free time to laugh at people on TV. (If you want to know, the people who produce those shows more than likely hate the shows and themselves for making it. They also hate the people watching it. It's a tiny little circle of self-loathing anyone outside of the TV industry cares to talk about. I know, I worked in it for 7 years.)
So I take those moments to the garden. And most times they go away. And I wonder, am I stunting my writing by gardening, or does writing stunt my growth?
I keep thinking of those crazy Zen Buddhist monks telling everyone to shut up and go back to washing dishes. Washing dishes! What the hell can you find there? We should be at revivals, or shopping, or learning new things with our friends, you're telling me I'm going to find peace doing something I wanted to hire a housekeeper to do?
(Those not my personal thoughts at the end there. I can't afford a housekeeper and I do my share of dishes every day.)
The garden brings all those self-loathing, confusing, and horrifying thoughts to soil level. And I don't know how it does it, but it usually can take care of them in an hour or so.
So, I don't know if it's I'm afraid to write because I'm shy or because I'm lazy.
Regardless, lunch hour is over for this day, and I guess I got to spend this time writing at least.
It'll do.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Rainy Days and Saturdays
March 4, 2006
The rains are just finishing here today. People in Southern California, the ones who live in the city anyway, look at rain as an inconvenience. Maybe all people in the suburbs and cities around the country do. As if the weather was here for them, to help them go about their days of shopping, soccer practice, golfing, or whatnot. I think it’s one of the beautiful things gardening taught me about the nature of weather and its intimate connection with the growing things on the planet. Without rain, the trees in the forest would never grow, nor the wild berries that feed the bears. It may sound corny, but when my corner of the world gets rain I know intimately about the water percolating down through the soil and each plant bringing in the life-giving nectar. Listen to me, waxing poetic about the rain.
It’s just that in my mind before rain was entwined with bad feelings like loneliness and depression. I imagined Karen Carpenter standing with an umbrella in my front yard singing to herself “Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down”.
Perhaps, too, that our lives are so busy as adults that it’s nice for once to take a break and sit inside. Since there are so few bad weather days here, it’s easy to hear your mother still yelling, “Go outside, it’s a beautiful day.” Going to a movie during a sunny afternoon here is still one of the few guilty pleasures I still love.
Ryan and I have gotten out the seed growing tray and have been trying to germinate some old seeds that the garden store guy gave us last time we were there. They hadn’t taken off all last week so I thought they needed the warmth of being inside. Ryan was very excited yesterday when he showed me the sprouts. Unfortunately they were sprouts of various kinds of mushrooms whose spores must’ve been in the soil mixture. We’re really not the best seed growers. In fact, I’m always surprised at how brown our thumbs are. Sometimes I think I’m just lazy because I don’t want to do all the work so many other gardeners do: the endless watering, daily checking on seeds, fertilizing, double-digging, and mulching. We do some of that, but really we kind of let things fend for themselves and consider it a huge bonus when we get lots of lettuce or see our Spanish lavender blooming.
I’m excited whenever I see a plant with the description Thrives on Neglect.
I guess I swing back and forth in my heart on what a gardener really is. Which is what neurotics do really well. The one thing I can confirm is somehow both our children, Ryan especially, have an appreciation of nature I never had as a child. They are excited, as they should be, when they go pick lettuce for us. Though kids with massive gardens in their back yards may dread going out, that we have just a taste of it brings a sense of wonder which is enough, I think, for city kids.
We will never be great gardeners. That’s just a fact (unless, of course, Ryan suddenly decides when he is older to raise his own vegetables and flowers). We will never be leaving bagfuls of zucchini and tomatoes on our neighbors porches then run away into the night, as we barely grow enough for ourselves.
I think it’s okay we still experience the awe of plants growing and the it drives us out, farther out, to the deserts, the forest, and the ocean. And while others are hell bent on taming it with their noisy, obnoxious machinery, that maybe we will have the patience to sit quietly for a minute or two and fully enjoy God’s bounty and gifts to us.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Gardens Gone Wild
February 5, 2006
Well, it's finally happened, after much hemming and hawing, we've finally let Javier, our gardener, go. It's very strange, because everyone I spoke to about doing this (which, neurotically, were many) kept asking me, "Did you fire your gardener yet?"
But I wasn't actually firing him. I just wasn't going to be using him anymore. Or I have great hope not to be using him in the future. Whether or not that actually happens remains to be seen.
I spent Saturday, after taking Abby and Ryan to a friend's Princess Party running the electric mower and weed whacker and it was strangely refreshing. The mowing, of all things, was incredibly easy, because we have so very little lawn. Where I thought we'd get hung up was in the leaf litter and trimming department. Traditionally, I have always done most of the weeding here as well as cutting back the perennials like the Matillija Poppies and Lion's Tail in the fall and winter. That being said, I wondered if I could add on top of that a weekly foray into the jungle to cut, hack, trim, plus do the mow, blow, and go traditional to Southern California. Well, it's worth a try. The worst that can happen is I can decide this was a terrible choice, call Javier and have him charge me an extra $20 a month to do the job he was doing before, right? Or maybe the worst is I could end up with hundreds of dollars worth of hospital bills. But let's not spend time there yet.
What I did find, was I felt more in control of my garden. Not that I ever felt like a stranger, like those folks in those beautiful houses who have landscape architects incessantly building them Zen rock gardens and koi ponds so they are "surprised every time I come around the corner" (I'm quoting an LA Times article). If you're taken aback when you go into your own garden, you really can't call yourself a gardener. The surprises a gardener gets is when they find the area they haven't been able to get to all season has become a pumpkin patch by accident and is chock full of 10 pounders.
There are beautiful things I don't think translate to normal gardeners, or maybe even normal city dwellers. The beauty of fallen leaves, for instance. Gardeners spend every weekday and weekend blowing them around, herding them into, and putting them into bins and lawn and leaf bags. But when you go into the country, it seems like no one's been in the lawn to mow or rake in weeks, if not months. Removing the leaves, also, destroys nature's very process of decomposition. The leaves suppress weeds around the tree, conserve moisture, and allow microorganisms and earthworms to break the leaves back into usable compost to feed the garden.
Ah, the kids have found me. They always find me. And of course they want to play on the computer. It's probably because we limit their time on both the computer and watching videos/television (called "screen time" in my brother Jack's house), so every time one is on they tend to look like deer in the headlights.
Soon, I guess, I'll wonder where they and the time have gone.
Of course, that doesn't nothing for my sanity-preservation moves at the moment, but…
Well, it's finally happened, after much hemming and hawing, we've finally let Javier, our gardener, go. It's very strange, because everyone I spoke to about doing this (which, neurotically, were many) kept asking me, "Did you fire your gardener yet?"
But I wasn't actually firing him. I just wasn't going to be using him anymore. Or I have great hope not to be using him in the future. Whether or not that actually happens remains to be seen.
I spent Saturday, after taking Abby and Ryan to a friend's Princess Party running the electric mower and weed whacker and it was strangely refreshing. The mowing, of all things, was incredibly easy, because we have so very little lawn. Where I thought we'd get hung up was in the leaf litter and trimming department. Traditionally, I have always done most of the weeding here as well as cutting back the perennials like the Matillija Poppies and Lion's Tail in the fall and winter. That being said, I wondered if I could add on top of that a weekly foray into the jungle to cut, hack, trim, plus do the mow, blow, and go traditional to Southern California. Well, it's worth a try. The worst that can happen is I can decide this was a terrible choice, call Javier and have him charge me an extra $20 a month to do the job he was doing before, right? Or maybe the worst is I could end up with hundreds of dollars worth of hospital bills. But let's not spend time there yet.
What I did find, was I felt more in control of my garden. Not that I ever felt like a stranger, like those folks in those beautiful houses who have landscape architects incessantly building them Zen rock gardens and koi ponds so they are "surprised every time I come around the corner" (I'm quoting an LA Times article). If you're taken aback when you go into your own garden, you really can't call yourself a gardener. The surprises a gardener gets is when they find the area they haven't been able to get to all season has become a pumpkin patch by accident and is chock full of 10 pounders.
There are beautiful things I don't think translate to normal gardeners, or maybe even normal city dwellers. The beauty of fallen leaves, for instance. Gardeners spend every weekday and weekend blowing them around, herding them into, and putting them into bins and lawn and leaf bags. But when you go into the country, it seems like no one's been in the lawn to mow or rake in weeks, if not months. Removing the leaves, also, destroys nature's very process of decomposition. The leaves suppress weeds around the tree, conserve moisture, and allow microorganisms and earthworms to break the leaves back into usable compost to feed the garden.
Ah, the kids have found me. They always find me. And of course they want to play on the computer. It's probably because we limit their time on both the computer and watching videos/television (called "screen time" in my brother Jack's house), so every time one is on they tend to look like deer in the headlights.
Soon, I guess, I'll wonder where they and the time have gone.
Of course, that doesn't nothing for my sanity-preservation moves at the moment, but…
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Letter to Cal
January 28, 2006
Saturday morning. Wendy’s at work, as she usually is until two, and I’m here with Ryan and Abby.
Saturdays are hard. They always have been for me, unless I had a very, very late Friday and woke up late. I think much of it is the childhood memory of waking up to my mother vacuuming. I was asleep and the world had already started its busy little chores. But my mistake, really, being alive is full of busy little chores, and we are lucky enough to grow up in a time and place where we won’t be spending our day gathering firewood, food, or tending to the plants and animals all day. I know, odd thoughts for a man who lives in the center of Los Angeles, but there you have it. We could deny the reality all day long if we wanted to that other people pick our food and create our energy for us and all we have to do is find to enough work to pay for it, but there you have it. I’ve always been fascinated by what I used to call “those early people”, but let’s face it, those people are living less than 2,000 miles away from me in the heart of Mexico.
I guess the question I ask myself, now that I have children, a wife, and a job where I write every day, what’s next?
Like the rain cloud, I don’t think I can leap to that answer directly. And I believe I’m starting to understand again, the importance of faith. I wrote to you in the past about my attending a Presbyterian church and dong some important work on becoming a Christian. Three and a half years later, I have fallen out of Christianity. Maybe that’s no the right grouping of words. I wanted to become a Christian and attended church regularly and went to Bible studies (which were taught by a really fascinating guy from Belfast, who had a lot to say about “terrorism”), and though I respected the teachers and found my heart softening, I could never grasp the central dogma. I don’t believe either Christianity or Judaism are true to me. I wanted to say true, but that’s not fair. Though all religions have their terrible pasts, the people that really “get it” are miles ahead of the rest of us. I don’t want to belittle their faiths, anymore than I want to belittle those people in the rainforest who believe their gods live in the trees and in thunderclouds. It’s just something I couldn’t take to for a number of reasons. I feel strongly toward Buddhism, and you may know that many years ago I spent two years studying a few times a month with Zen Buddhists, but their work is difficult, and sitting for 30 minutes staring at a wall can be torture.
You probably know this feeling: part of you wants to run off and join a monastery and the other part of you wants to run away screaming.
So many people have said, I believe truly, you see things not as they are but as you are. Probably the most affecting story I’ve heard about this was from Victor Frankl (not sure about that spelling), who was tortured endlessly in a Nazi concentration camp and envisioned himself years from then, telling his pupils about it. (How is it I can’t mention the Nazis without become violently angry and at the same time sad?)
So where does that leave a husband and father of two? I realize I’m being ridiculously black and white about this. I can go a couple times a month to meditate. I don’t need to sell everything I own and go off to the mountains. I still find time to go to yoga once a week, which I love for its workout and calming effects on my crazy head, but its not enough; religious people see (and have seen since the dawn of man) something we don’t, something not only extraordinarily important, but something essential to living with joy. We both are basically non-consumers (well, within reason, right?), but to see the culture of consumerism and media and have nothing that you can hold up against it to say “see, this is what is all about” is disheartening. No, debilitating.
Other men and women have hobbies or sports to turn to. Well, the ones who haven’t turned to the 2+ hours of TV every night. And I think now that the incredibly time-consuming part of raising Ryan and Abby is over, I am ready to do something with my nights more interesting than making sure we have enough money to make it through the month on Microsoft Money.
There’s so much else, but without this essential fact, I think the rest might sound like that fluff you find in the lint filter in the dryer.
And though I, like my mother, spend much of my Saturday cleaning this place up (and starting next month, taking care of the yard in lieu of our gardener), but I thought it would be better spent kicking off with a letter to someone I find so important.
Um, that’d be you.
I miss your voice and your talks and hope one of us is smart enough this February to pick up the damn phone and call.
You know my time zone, right?
Hoping you and everyone you love is doing well,
Tim
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Gangsta Crap
October 24, 2005
It’s misting again outside, but harder than it has been the past two mornings. It’s enough to change the timbre of the cars as they pass by our house, enough to start the germination of all those native seeds I have yet to plant. Enough to make you a little sad if you stand in it by yourself and feel the fall coming on.
Maybe it’s just because I’m done paying bills (which is always excruciating to me), or because my wife is talking to her estranged father on the phone, but the sadness gripped me when I stood on the porch looking out at the massive juvenile California sycamore we planted when Ryan was born.
There are reasons I’m a frustrated gardener. Probably one is, like the bonsai artists, I want to control the world, and it angers me when it doesn’t listen to my commands.
Looking at that beautiful tree we planted when Ryan was born I think of how different I want the world to be, a longing for peace. In my garden I hope to undo a little of what my fellow humans have instigated on the very ground we walk on. Ridiculous as that sounds as a man who lives in a dirty, crime-ridden city, it’s something I still believe strongly.
There was a day, a cold day last year, maybe the year before, Wendy was working and I took the children to Descanso Gardens to have a look around and ride the train once around the park. It was around this time of year, and the winter rains were just setting in. It wasn’t that cold when we started, but by the time I bought them hot chocolate and I held Abby’s little ice cube hands in mine, I felt terrible for letting her run around without gloves on.
They both fell fast asleep by the time I came home. I put them into their beds, turned on the radio, and started to wash dishes and look out at the beautiful rain.
Just then shots rang out, about a block away from our house. I could barely make out a black SUV driving away and a figure lying down. Police cars arrived in waves no more than three minutes later and neighbors started pouring out of their houses to find out what had happened.
Of course it was gang related. Of course all these misguided kids were killing each other like the assholes they admire so much.
I went back to my house and said, “We are moving”.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of how ineffectual my puttering in the garden had been. How, like the priest in the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby he walks away from the grave and “no one was saved”.
I believed strongly in God when those kids were shot and killed. And I do still, mostly. I don’t wonder how He would let them do something so horrible as that. He has let much, much more horrible things happen on a daily basis for everyone, humans, animals, and insects alike.
I wondered, tonight, staring out at that black, black rain, about another man’s garden, in a country like Iraq. A garden that has seen dictators come and go, withstood wars, jihads, and so much human misery.
Those closest to God, even the Buddhists who don’t necessarily even believe in Him, would tell me to continue to garden, regardless.
Mother Theresa continued to heal the sick though Calcutta would always churn out an infinite number more than she could ever heal, or help through the night as they passed out of her arms and into their Lord’s.
And those people would tell you that Smith & Hawken, Gardener’s Eden, Sunset, and your Sunday supplement are full of shit. There is Gardening, and then there is all the crap thrown on top of it. There is a deep reason for putting your hands in that soil and it may not always be clear. Many of those incredibly, wonderfully, unfathomably smart people would tell you they were not always clear, either, but you should do it.
Because it is in your bones.
Do it if you’re tired. Or nervous. Or feel like taking a rifle to every gangbanger, politician, and black SUV driver in sight.
There is a connection between your hands and the earth that started before you were born. Probably before any of us were born.
And it is as rich as any loam you could find in the finest garden on the earth.
It’s misting again outside, but harder than it has been the past two mornings. It’s enough to change the timbre of the cars as they pass by our house, enough to start the germination of all those native seeds I have yet to plant. Enough to make you a little sad if you stand in it by yourself and feel the fall coming on.
Maybe it’s just because I’m done paying bills (which is always excruciating to me), or because my wife is talking to her estranged father on the phone, but the sadness gripped me when I stood on the porch looking out at the massive juvenile California sycamore we planted when Ryan was born.
There are reasons I’m a frustrated gardener. Probably one is, like the bonsai artists, I want to control the world, and it angers me when it doesn’t listen to my commands.
Looking at that beautiful tree we planted when Ryan was born I think of how different I want the world to be, a longing for peace. In my garden I hope to undo a little of what my fellow humans have instigated on the very ground we walk on. Ridiculous as that sounds as a man who lives in a dirty, crime-ridden city, it’s something I still believe strongly.
There was a day, a cold day last year, maybe the year before, Wendy was working and I took the children to Descanso Gardens to have a look around and ride the train once around the park. It was around this time of year, and the winter rains were just setting in. It wasn’t that cold when we started, but by the time I bought them hot chocolate and I held Abby’s little ice cube hands in mine, I felt terrible for letting her run around without gloves on.
They both fell fast asleep by the time I came home. I put them into their beds, turned on the radio, and started to wash dishes and look out at the beautiful rain.
Just then shots rang out, about a block away from our house. I could barely make out a black SUV driving away and a figure lying down. Police cars arrived in waves no more than three minutes later and neighbors started pouring out of their houses to find out what had happened.
Of course it was gang related. Of course all these misguided kids were killing each other like the assholes they admire so much.
I went back to my house and said, “We are moving”.
I couldn’t shake the feeling of how ineffectual my puttering in the garden had been. How, like the priest in the Beatles’ Eleanor Rigby he walks away from the grave and “no one was saved”.
I believed strongly in God when those kids were shot and killed. And I do still, mostly. I don’t wonder how He would let them do something so horrible as that. He has let much, much more horrible things happen on a daily basis for everyone, humans, animals, and insects alike.
I wondered, tonight, staring out at that black, black rain, about another man’s garden, in a country like Iraq. A garden that has seen dictators come and go, withstood wars, jihads, and so much human misery.
Those closest to God, even the Buddhists who don’t necessarily even believe in Him, would tell me to continue to garden, regardless.
Mother Theresa continued to heal the sick though Calcutta would always churn out an infinite number more than she could ever heal, or help through the night as they passed out of her arms and into their Lord’s.
And those people would tell you that Smith & Hawken, Gardener’s Eden, Sunset, and your Sunday supplement are full of shit. There is Gardening, and then there is all the crap thrown on top of it. There is a deep reason for putting your hands in that soil and it may not always be clear. Many of those incredibly, wonderfully, unfathomably smart people would tell you they were not always clear, either, but you should do it.
Because it is in your bones.
Do it if you’re tired. Or nervous. Or feel like taking a rifle to every gangbanger, politician, and black SUV driver in sight.
There is a connection between your hands and the earth that started before you were born. Probably before any of us were born.
And it is as rich as any loam you could find in the finest garden on the earth.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Box Stores and Gardeners and Whiskers on Kittens
October 20, 2005
It’s 8:30 at night, 68 degrees outside, the children are (finally) asleep, Wendy is being taken out for her birthday by our friend Denise, and, I finally get a chance to sit down and write.
This morning, the light came streaming in where the eucalyptus once stood. All that remain of the giant are tiny woodchips and (ironically) a little replanted jade plant the tree guys had to relocate when they disassembled the fence to get the stump grinder in.
I’m not going to be romantic about this tree. You can write poems about them, you can drain them of sap to make syrup, use their fronds for houses, curse them when you hit your head on them, and you can cut them down when they become a nuisance. I’m not crazy about killing living things, but there are several factors about this tree you have to consider. One, in a good wind limbs drop on my roof. In fact, all the crap it drops on a regular basis are giving my saltillo tile roof a half life (I’m guessing $20K to replace). These things explode when they catch fire. Okay, maybe that’s a myth, but still… Two, it really doesn’t belong here in the first place. All the eucalyptus trees you see in California are related to ones brought over by one guy from Australia in the 30’s and 40’s as windbreaks, landscaping, etc. Yes, they are drought tolerant, but they don’t feed any wildlife that I know of and they stink to high hell. Which brings us to point three: they stink to high hell. Wendy wanted to get rid of it when we moved in and has always regretted not doing it before we did.
For the job of removal we ended up going with Paul instead of Javier, our normal gardener. Besides the money thing (which was about a $2K difference) I was unsure if Javier could pull the dang thing off without killing him and us in the process. What I haven’t done, unfortunately, is tell him someone else ripped out the tree. I have four days to do that before he comes over here and discovers it for himself.
Worse yet, I’m going to have to tell him we’re going to attempt to take care of the yard ourselves starting next month. “Just in time for Christmas”, Wendy commented when I told her.
I told her that wasn’t making the decision any less difficult. Javier has been working in this garden for at least 15 years. I’ve heard about his kids going to school and then college, and for a guy who came from Zacatecas, Mexico 30 some years ago, he’s done all right. It’s nice knowing, too, in some way we helped him by being his clients. It’s the opposite feeling you get when you go to visit the near Dead people at Costco or Wal-Mart to purchase some cheap shoes made for a nickel in China.
Okay, I’ve got a thing about box stores. And though I was probably halfway there anyway, working with my hands in the garden and seeing the fruits of my own labors (so to speak) has certainly pushed me the rest of the distance to hating gross consumerism.
The Javier decision is an economic one. We can either try to keep the filth in the house under control by bringing in a maid once or twice a month or we could have Javier. We can’t have both. We’re damn lucky to have even one. But my Saturdays are spent vacuuming and cleaning bathrooms while Wendy is at work, so you can probably venture a guess I’d much rather be out in the yard on those days.
What worries me, of course, is what if I make the discovery I can’t keep up with the damn thing.
He and his helper can fill one of those 90-gallon green trashcans every week with stuff from our yard. I have to figure out if I can do that without losing my mind and killing my family. Honestly, there’s a lot to love about this yard: we’re organic, we’re certified by the National Wildlife Federation as a Backyard Wildlife Habitat (or front in our case), and whenever I’m out working I always here people say, “I love your yard”.
But then again, there’s a hell of a lot to hate: we’re inundated with Bermuda grass that Paul, the guy who lived here before, failed to kill before planting drought tolerant plants, it always looks like a mess to me, and I honestly get the feeling on some days I’m Sisyphus trying to roll that boulder up the hill before the damn thing comes down again and tries to run me over.
Maybe I should get my Master’s in Mythology of Gardening.
Hell, it’s California, someone’s probably already offering it.
Probably Berkeley.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Stinky Australians
October 5, 2005
The Santa Ana winds are up. People in many parts of the country are putting on their warm jackets and collecting leaves to burn. In Los Angeles today it was 94 degrees and the leaves and the trees and the grass and several houses were burning regardless of anyone trying to collect them.
I think about the Santa Anas every year when they come up. Like the French Mistral winds, they are full of mystery. I can imagine people in the 1800s blaming all sorts of things on these winds. Anything from ripping down a neighbor’s fence to murder. Notably, I’ve never seen anyone go crazy from these particular winds. And even in a litiginious state like this has its limits for alibis. (Up to now, anyway.)
I’m going back to the back yard.
I started here years ago. And now I’m back. If I stay another 11 years, I imagine I’ll be back again a few times. Maybe I’ll leave a note for myself so I don’t forget what I’ve done.
We’ve decided to finally call it a day on the grass. Yes, men of suburban USA, I have given up on this goddamn grass and I am putting in something else. Something that uses less water maybe. Something that doesn’t die in patches when you put a pool on it for 4 hours one summer day. Something that isn’t a colossal waste of pesticide, herbicide, fertilizer, and insecticide. Maybe bark. Wendy and I did take an honest look at the area (it didn’t take long, it’s only 500 sq. feet. There was still time for drinks and snacks.) and after thinking of what we use it for – parties, setting up the kids’ pool, something to waste water on – we both decided that grass was a waste. Unfortunately, I, like every other man in this country it seems, have been indoctrinated with pictures of kids lying on the cool, downy soft grass and watching clouds pass by. “Damn it, why can’t I give my kids at least that!”, I’d say in my head as I watered the browning St. Augustine, Bermuda, or what have you. I will try to remind myself that I am a former cult member and these thoughts, along with looking at pictures of naked women and taking bong hits while driving, were never really such a hot idea in the first place. And were a lot less hot after getting married.
It was only a matter of time, of course, for Wendy to look up at the towering 80 foot Eucalyptus that some ignoramus planted three feet from my house (and thus leaning precariously over my roof) and say, “We’ve really got to get rid of that thing.” She’s right, I know. Those things explode when they catch fire. They stink. They peel incessantly. Their branches fall on everything including my roof and my neighbor’s cactus garden. And my roofer told me I could take 5 years off the life of my roof if I don’t do anything about it. “But it’s been there for, what, 20 years?” I still counter, hoping that it doesn’t sound as dumb to her as it does to me.
But of course it does. So the first call I make is to our gardener, Javier. He shows up as I’m trying to eat lunch on a Sunday. He’s dressed in church clothes or realtor clothes (I can never tell) and assesses the situation. He pats the tree and says, “Mr. Tim. I’ve talked to a couple guys who have the equipment. And I’m thinking to cut down this tree and that one (he points to the other godforsaken eucalyptus which is also three feet away from my house, but has chosen to try to knock over my fence instead of smashing through my roof)… is, um…” And he pauses. I’m not a fan of his pauses. Because even though he does things very inexpensively when he pauses it means it sounds like a lot of money, even to him. “It’s a big tree, Mr. Tim.” Okay, that’s worse than a pause. That is a big red light warning me to run away. But I just stand there and take it like a man. A man who has chosen to put in bark instead of a lawn and will discuss this very expensive subject so his wife can sleep during the night when the winds blow. “Five, maybe six thousand.”
Man am I hoping he’s talking pesos. Even if it’s the new pesos, it’s still going to be cheaper than dollars.
But he is talking dollars. I go over the whole dance: what if we just take one down, trim two, trim one, and, lastly, take fifteen bucks and go in and tell my wife it’s impossible without knocking down the house first.
I do call another tree guy, Paul Shiver, who cut down the (Jesus, who are the people who planted this bunch of loser trees around this property? Can I find them? Can I sue them?) 80-foot cottonwood tree which ripped up our entire front sidewalk and was, get this, something like 8 years old. Yes, that’s 10 feet a year. If you are looking for a tree to rip up everything in its path to give you shade, here’s your best bet. Did I fail to mention that they are riparian, nee river, trees? That means they put their roots out nice and low looking for water everywhere, thus the ripping up asphalt and concrete problem. It also means that these 80-foot wonders don’t hold onto a heck of a lot of soil and can end up in your house with Piglet, Pooh, and Owl on a particularly blustery day.
Paul, who ripped out the cottonwood 5 years ago remembers our house when I call him. Not the house, the tree. “That was a big tree,” he says. For some reason I thought these guys were always ripping out big trees. Wow, he’s going to love his next challenge. But I called him, because even though I asked Javier if he’s bonded, I’m not really sure he is. And I’d hate to discover that moments after one of his guys accidentally bungee jumps through our front window.
Which leaves me hear, 9pm, 70 degrees, and waiting for Paul Shiver’s bid so I can actually bite my tongue off in conversation.
I could look at my bank account again. But that’s not really going to do me much good. I know this money’s coming out of the home equity loan. You remember that loan, don’t you? The one your financial guy tells you not to touch and yet the home equity people keep dreaming up new ideas how to use it: new bathroom, new car, new pool… or, in my case, new hole in your back yard where that stupid ass eucalyptus used to be.
The Santa Ana winds are up. People in many parts of the country are putting on their warm jackets and collecting leaves to burn. In Los Angeles today it was 94 degrees and the leaves and the trees and the grass and several houses were burning regardless of anyone trying to collect them.
I think about the Santa Anas every year when they come up. Like the French Mistral winds, they are full of mystery. I can imagine people in the 1800s blaming all sorts of things on these winds. Anything from ripping down a neighbor’s fence to murder. Notably, I’ve never seen anyone go crazy from these particular winds. And even in a litiginious state like this has its limits for alibis. (Up to now, anyway.)
I’m going back to the back yard.
I started here years ago. And now I’m back. If I stay another 11 years, I imagine I’ll be back again a few times. Maybe I’ll leave a note for myself so I don’t forget what I’ve done.
We’ve decided to finally call it a day on the grass. Yes, men of suburban USA, I have given up on this goddamn grass and I am putting in something else. Something that uses less water maybe. Something that doesn’t die in patches when you put a pool on it for 4 hours one summer day. Something that isn’t a colossal waste of pesticide, herbicide, fertilizer, and insecticide. Maybe bark. Wendy and I did take an honest look at the area (it didn’t take long, it’s only 500 sq. feet. There was still time for drinks and snacks.) and after thinking of what we use it for – parties, setting up the kids’ pool, something to waste water on – we both decided that grass was a waste. Unfortunately, I, like every other man in this country it seems, have been indoctrinated with pictures of kids lying on the cool, downy soft grass and watching clouds pass by. “Damn it, why can’t I give my kids at least that!”, I’d say in my head as I watered the browning St. Augustine, Bermuda, or what have you. I will try to remind myself that I am a former cult member and these thoughts, along with looking at pictures of naked women and taking bong hits while driving, were never really such a hot idea in the first place. And were a lot less hot after getting married.
It was only a matter of time, of course, for Wendy to look up at the towering 80 foot Eucalyptus that some ignoramus planted three feet from my house (and thus leaning precariously over my roof) and say, “We’ve really got to get rid of that thing.” She’s right, I know. Those things explode when they catch fire. They stink. They peel incessantly. Their branches fall on everything including my roof and my neighbor’s cactus garden. And my roofer told me I could take 5 years off the life of my roof if I don’t do anything about it. “But it’s been there for, what, 20 years?” I still counter, hoping that it doesn’t sound as dumb to her as it does to me.
But of course it does. So the first call I make is to our gardener, Javier. He shows up as I’m trying to eat lunch on a Sunday. He’s dressed in church clothes or realtor clothes (I can never tell) and assesses the situation. He pats the tree and says, “Mr. Tim. I’ve talked to a couple guys who have the equipment. And I’m thinking to cut down this tree and that one (he points to the other godforsaken eucalyptus which is also three feet away from my house, but has chosen to try to knock over my fence instead of smashing through my roof)… is, um…” And he pauses. I’m not a fan of his pauses. Because even though he does things very inexpensively when he pauses it means it sounds like a lot of money, even to him. “It’s a big tree, Mr. Tim.” Okay, that’s worse than a pause. That is a big red light warning me to run away. But I just stand there and take it like a man. A man who has chosen to put in bark instead of a lawn and will discuss this very expensive subject so his wife can sleep during the night when the winds blow. “Five, maybe six thousand.”
Man am I hoping he’s talking pesos. Even if it’s the new pesos, it’s still going to be cheaper than dollars.
But he is talking dollars. I go over the whole dance: what if we just take one down, trim two, trim one, and, lastly, take fifteen bucks and go in and tell my wife it’s impossible without knocking down the house first.
I do call another tree guy, Paul Shiver, who cut down the (Jesus, who are the people who planted this bunch of loser trees around this property? Can I find them? Can I sue them?) 80-foot cottonwood tree which ripped up our entire front sidewalk and was, get this, something like 8 years old. Yes, that’s 10 feet a year. If you are looking for a tree to rip up everything in its path to give you shade, here’s your best bet. Did I fail to mention that they are riparian, nee river, trees? That means they put their roots out nice and low looking for water everywhere, thus the ripping up asphalt and concrete problem. It also means that these 80-foot wonders don’t hold onto a heck of a lot of soil and can end up in your house with Piglet, Pooh, and Owl on a particularly blustery day.
Paul, who ripped out the cottonwood 5 years ago remembers our house when I call him. Not the house, the tree. “That was a big tree,” he says. For some reason I thought these guys were always ripping out big trees. Wow, he’s going to love his next challenge. But I called him, because even though I asked Javier if he’s bonded, I’m not really sure he is. And I’d hate to discover that moments after one of his guys accidentally bungee jumps through our front window.
Which leaves me hear, 9pm, 70 degrees, and waiting for Paul Shiver’s bid so I can actually bite my tongue off in conversation.
I could look at my bank account again. But that’s not really going to do me much good. I know this money’s coming out of the home equity loan. You remember that loan, don’t you? The one your financial guy tells you not to touch and yet the home equity people keep dreaming up new ideas how to use it: new bathroom, new car, new pool… or, in my case, new hole in your back yard where that stupid ass eucalyptus used to be.
Monday, September 19, 2005
September 19, 2005
First rain of the season. First rain! Good lord, when was the last time we saw rain in September? My notes are bad, or I would tell you.
Everything is approaching the end of the season here, which means it’s time to go out and begin the heavy work of the fall. It’s different here than a lot of the rest of North America, fall is actually the best time to plant native plants, shrubs, and trees, because the rains of winter will soak the soil and let them set their roots deep into the earth. The rest of everything must be cut back. Not because the snows will bury them, but they’ll begin new green growth through the spring. The Matilijas, Mexican Sage, Butterfly Bush, and Fennel, all who have become heavy with seeds, must be cut down to the ground. No matter how many times I do it, I am always in awe that they come back, and just how quickly. The Lion’s Tail is leggy, as it is twice a year, and will have to be cut back by a third. The roses are coming back into bloom, after a month’s break (mine never seem to bloom during the heat of the summer – perhaps it’s because I starve them for water, which is no matter for me – we have native roses that make it here, these can certainly give it the old college try).
The rains, of course, have got me to thinking about the garage roof and the gutters I’ve failed to clean out. The leaves have just barely begun to fall on many of the trees, and I’ve been putting off going on to the roof for a month now. And not just because Ryan is insisting on “helping” me this year. We’ve got a 60 foot eucalyptus tree about four feet from our house that looms precariously over the roof. It scares the bejeezus out of Wendy. So much so that she wants it cut down. I’m not quite at that point, but I do often wonder who was stupid enough to plant a tree like that so close to the house. I know it sure as hell wasn’t me. When you live in a house and garden this old, you get used to looking at people’s mistakes (and your own) and learn to live with them until you can a) fix them yourself b) pay someone else to fix them. Getting rid of that tree, which I’m sure will run $2K, is not at the top of my list. You know that list, the one where everything costs two thousand dollars and above? Insulation, refinish the hardwood floors, paint the outside of the house, rip out the trees, get new gutters, install a fence around the front yard… Need I go on? You have your own list, so I’m sure I don’t have to. It’s depressing, that list. I don’t have it written down anywhere, it’s just we start talking about something like the tree and all those other items magically appear as if out of thin air. We talk a bit about making an actual list (we could have already crossed out redoing the moulding in the kitchen), but we become too exhausted about three-quarters of the way of discussing it. I think it’s me who usually changes the subject.
Which is why, if we have another record breaking rainy season, I am going to get it when it starts to really come down.
I installed the garage gutter by myself. And I just had the roofing guys come and take a look at why it was leaking (which wonderfully had nothing to do with my crappy handling of tools and vinyl guttering). Still, it’s a small area back there and I should really divert the water, like everyone else in the city, down into the gutter system so it can make the LA River swell to an enormous size. Every year our playroom, which used to be the two car garage, leaks a little bit. And it makes me nervous. I have no idea why I don’t just call the damn gutter guy. Maybe I believe it’s admitting defeat. I have a rain barrel back there which I’m sure is helping me save the earth with every 50 gallons I save (which is like a lot of people’s morning showers). Maybe I’m just damn cheap.
Honestly, I did call four gutter guys last year and exactly one called me back. One. When I arranged to meet him, I waiting here for four hours, and called him twice and left messages. I talked to this guy on the phone for 15 minutes, he knows what my house looks like, what the problem is, I know that his son lives close by. And yet, and yet, I never heard from him again. I called him the next day, just to make sure he’d gotten my messages. Got me. If I learned one thing from the experience, it’s that I know I should have my son go into gutter repair if he wants to make a good living.
Hey, they’re doing so well, they don’t every have to call anyone back.
Everything is approaching the end of the season here, which means it’s time to go out and begin the heavy work of the fall. It’s different here than a lot of the rest of North America, fall is actually the best time to plant native plants, shrubs, and trees, because the rains of winter will soak the soil and let them set their roots deep into the earth. The rest of everything must be cut back. Not because the snows will bury them, but they’ll begin new green growth through the spring. The Matilijas, Mexican Sage, Butterfly Bush, and Fennel, all who have become heavy with seeds, must be cut down to the ground. No matter how many times I do it, I am always in awe that they come back, and just how quickly. The Lion’s Tail is leggy, as it is twice a year, and will have to be cut back by a third. The roses are coming back into bloom, after a month’s break (mine never seem to bloom during the heat of the summer – perhaps it’s because I starve them for water, which is no matter for me – we have native roses that make it here, these can certainly give it the old college try).
The rains, of course, have got me to thinking about the garage roof and the gutters I’ve failed to clean out. The leaves have just barely begun to fall on many of the trees, and I’ve been putting off going on to the roof for a month now. And not just because Ryan is insisting on “helping” me this year. We’ve got a 60 foot eucalyptus tree about four feet from our house that looms precariously over the roof. It scares the bejeezus out of Wendy. So much so that she wants it cut down. I’m not quite at that point, but I do often wonder who was stupid enough to plant a tree like that so close to the house. I know it sure as hell wasn’t me. When you live in a house and garden this old, you get used to looking at people’s mistakes (and your own) and learn to live with them until you can a) fix them yourself b) pay someone else to fix them. Getting rid of that tree, which I’m sure will run $2K, is not at the top of my list. You know that list, the one where everything costs two thousand dollars and above? Insulation, refinish the hardwood floors, paint the outside of the house, rip out the trees, get new gutters, install a fence around the front yard… Need I go on? You have your own list, so I’m sure I don’t have to. It’s depressing, that list. I don’t have it written down anywhere, it’s just we start talking about something like the tree and all those other items magically appear as if out of thin air. We talk a bit about making an actual list (we could have already crossed out redoing the moulding in the kitchen), but we become too exhausted about three-quarters of the way of discussing it. I think it’s me who usually changes the subject.
Which is why, if we have another record breaking rainy season, I am going to get it when it starts to really come down.
I installed the garage gutter by myself. And I just had the roofing guys come and take a look at why it was leaking (which wonderfully had nothing to do with my crappy handling of tools and vinyl guttering). Still, it’s a small area back there and I should really divert the water, like everyone else in the city, down into the gutter system so it can make the LA River swell to an enormous size. Every year our playroom, which used to be the two car garage, leaks a little bit. And it makes me nervous. I have no idea why I don’t just call the damn gutter guy. Maybe I believe it’s admitting defeat. I have a rain barrel back there which I’m sure is helping me save the earth with every 50 gallons I save (which is like a lot of people’s morning showers). Maybe I’m just damn cheap.
Honestly, I did call four gutter guys last year and exactly one called me back. One. When I arranged to meet him, I waiting here for four hours, and called him twice and left messages. I talked to this guy on the phone for 15 minutes, he knows what my house looks like, what the problem is, I know that his son lives close by. And yet, and yet, I never heard from him again. I called him the next day, just to make sure he’d gotten my messages. Got me. If I learned one thing from the experience, it’s that I know I should have my son go into gutter repair if he wants to make a good living.
Hey, they’re doing so well, they don’t every have to call anyone back.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Scrapping It
So, there's just so much to be said about the past and I'm beginning to realize just how difficult it is to write from your own perspective even two years ago, not to mention nine.
Nine years ago I had exactly zero children (which is one of the few things I'm absolutely sure about) and 500 different plants in my garden. Today ithovers right around two children and 250 plants. Luckily for my wife (and children) I'm a considerably better father than I am gardener.
So, going forward, suffice it to say that when we moved into this house, I had a learning curve equivalent to Ben Franklin's when he popped into the Stevens household on Bewitched.
It's 2005 everybody, get on your party hats.
Gardening with children has its own difficulties. They always want to help, for instance. Yesterday I snuck out to the storage room to get my tools so I could fix a sprinkler in peace. Maybe if I cursed more like my friend Jerry, they'd leave me alone.
It does make me sad, though. My dad wasn't around as much when we were kids and by the time he took me out to show me how to change the oil in the car, I really wanted to just go back inside and listen to the Talking Heads or watch Gilligan's Island.
Yesterday's sprinkler repair wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be, merely swapping out heads. It unfortunately does involve digging a lot of dirt and grass out from around the sprinkler head, something I fail at repeatedly, as I always end up with a great deal of dirt falling back into the pipe where the new head goes. (I always shortcut around this problem by turning the system on and blasting the dirt out via the created geyser shooting up through the pipe.)
I even got a "Man, that job is the worst" from a passing dad, who added, "I've got two at home I've been putting off". Which is much better than what I expected to hear: "I've got two at home you can do when you're done". Though I don't think anyone messes with a guy covered in dirt and laying prostrate on the ground with a screwdriver in his hand.
These sprinkler heads that I'm always fixing, by the way, are located on the area at home we used call "The Dead Zone". It's the area no one wants to mow or water. Located between the street and the sidewalk, the homeowner does not own this land, but is responsible for its upkeep. A fact we learned about when we needed to have our sidewalk repaired due to cottonwood tree roots ripping the living heck out of it.
Everything happens to these sprinkler heads. I see bikes riding over them, strollers, skateboards... I once saw a 16-wheel truck drive over some when making a three-point turn on my corner. I end up replacing one of these every other month. I do have Javier, the gardener, do a few as well (which sucks for him, I let him do all the ones where the line breaks and involves a lot of digging, replacing, and gluing).
I daydream each time I'm on my belly ripping one of these things out that I cover this area in bark and native plants and can forget about doing anything but weeding and summer watering.
But then again, I don't know if I'm up for adding another 15 plants to my care.
Nine years ago I had exactly zero children (which is one of the few things I'm absolutely sure about) and 500 different plants in my garden. Today ithovers right around two children and 250 plants. Luckily for my wife (and children) I'm a considerably better father than I am gardener.
So, going forward, suffice it to say that when we moved into this house, I had a learning curve equivalent to Ben Franklin's when he popped into the Stevens household on Bewitched.
It's 2005 everybody, get on your party hats.
Gardening with children has its own difficulties. They always want to help, for instance. Yesterday I snuck out to the storage room to get my tools so I could fix a sprinkler in peace. Maybe if I cursed more like my friend Jerry, they'd leave me alone.
It does make me sad, though. My dad wasn't around as much when we were kids and by the time he took me out to show me how to change the oil in the car, I really wanted to just go back inside and listen to the Talking Heads or watch Gilligan's Island.
Yesterday's sprinkler repair wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be, merely swapping out heads. It unfortunately does involve digging a lot of dirt and grass out from around the sprinkler head, something I fail at repeatedly, as I always end up with a great deal of dirt falling back into the pipe where the new head goes. (I always shortcut around this problem by turning the system on and blasting the dirt out via the created geyser shooting up through the pipe.)
I even got a "Man, that job is the worst" from a passing dad, who added, "I've got two at home I've been putting off". Which is much better than what I expected to hear: "I've got two at home you can do when you're done". Though I don't think anyone messes with a guy covered in dirt and laying prostrate on the ground with a screwdriver in his hand.
These sprinkler heads that I'm always fixing, by the way, are located on the area at home we used call "The Dead Zone". It's the area no one wants to mow or water. Located between the street and the sidewalk, the homeowner does not own this land, but is responsible for its upkeep. A fact we learned about when we needed to have our sidewalk repaired due to cottonwood tree roots ripping the living heck out of it.
Everything happens to these sprinkler heads. I see bikes riding over them, strollers, skateboards... I once saw a 16-wheel truck drive over some when making a three-point turn on my corner. I end up replacing one of these every other month. I do have Javier, the gardener, do a few as well (which sucks for him, I let him do all the ones where the line breaks and involves a lot of digging, replacing, and gluing).
I daydream each time I'm on my belly ripping one of these things out that I cover this area in bark and native plants and can forget about doing anything but weeding and summer watering.
But then again, I don't know if I'm up for adding another 15 plants to my care.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Mid-April - 1994
I don’t want to be too harsh on the garden or give you the impression that this was a bundle of weeds out my front door, far from it. When we moved in, we saw the lushest array of plants I’d seen since the botanical gardens. The front yard was alive with a riot of flowers (love that expression) in every color and shape imaginable. Gigantic Matilija Poppies at 7 feet with what look like fried eggs atop each, gigantic purple plumes of what we came to call Dr. Suess Plant, blue and white rosemary, 15 different kinds of heirloom roses, canna lilies, ginger, magnolia flowers, acacias, hibiscus, lavenders, love-in-a-mist, borage, oleander... It’s not a big yard, but every part of it was covered in blooms that April. Butterflies floated through our path as we brought moving boxes in the front door, bees swarmed the blues and reds, drunk with nectar, and hummingbirds dove through the foliage at speeds I thought unimaginable. We moved in at just the right time, spring.
That first weekend I took my coffee and sat on the wood bench in the front yard, writing. I thought, “Now I’ve really made it. A house of my own, a garden of my own.” After growing up as an Air Force brat and living for years among the expatriates of Los Angeles, it felt like I was finally at home.
I was at home. But it wasn’t going to be as simple as just sitting there with my cup of coffee and drinking up the cool spring morning.
Endings like that are for movies and books.
And we know better than to believe those, right?
That first weekend I took my coffee and sat on the wood bench in the front yard, writing. I thought, “Now I’ve really made it. A house of my own, a garden of my own.” After growing up as an Air Force brat and living for years among the expatriates of Los Angeles, it felt like I was finally at home.
I was at home. But it wasn’t going to be as simple as just sitting there with my cup of coffee and drinking up the cool spring morning.
Endings like that are for movies and books.
And we know better than to believe those, right?
Sunday, July 24, 2005
April -1994
Javier Montes, who would come to be our gardener for 11 years, came and introduced himself to Wendy while she was still unboxing her stuff and getting my crap out of the hallways and wherever else I had dropped it before going back for more at my apartment. Javier, like many Angelenos, came to this city after growing up somewhere else. In his case it was the region of Mexico named Zacatecas. When he showed up at the door, Wendy was in grubby jeans and t-shirt, after having sweated through moving the bed from one side of the room to another, seeing which way looked best. Javier, on the other hand, was dressed impeccably in a shirt and tie, black hair and mustache slicked back, which we came to know as his Realtor Look. Kind of a roll reversal, I might add. Javier also sells real estate, or tries to, to the mostly Spanish speaking population of nearby Silverlake, Echo Park, and Eagle Rock. From what I gather he’s not incredibly successful, but he does enough to have an office number at a local realty agency and the chutzpah to ask once every 3 months if we are interested in selling our house.
But on the day he came by he was inquiring whether or not we’d be keeping him as the gardener. We’d never questioned it. He’d kept the garden for years and he obviously knew how to keep it, it seemed insane to let him go and try to decipher what the hell was going on out in the front yard ourselves. Our plumbing was already backed up and the bedroom was the color of green we came to call “vomit”, so we already had our work cut out for us.
Wendy and he shook on it, and there we had it, for $80 a month we would have someone to take one more chore off our hands. It seemed a bargain.
Well, it would have been a bargain if Javier took care of the whole garden from top to bottom. But he didn’t. To be honest, unless someone was actually living in a hut in our front yard and working in the soil while the sun was shining, we could never even dream of having this chore off our hands. We quickly learned that Javier is the standard “mow, blow, and go” gardener that homeowners know all-too-well. 80 bucks for four visits, I don’t know quite what we were expecting for $20 a week. But we got the standard watering, mowing, ear-splitting gas blower, a lot of raking, and a hearty Hi-O, Silver. It seemed like enough until we realized many of the plants were dying or in various stages of dying. An investigation of the drip irrigation system, poorly placed all across the walking paths revealed why: none of the damn system worked.
Drip irrigation systems (which were developed in the deserts of the Middle East) are a series of large tubes leading to smaller tubes leading to tiny emitters which spray onto the roots of specific plants, thus delivering water where it’s needed, but not the surrounding weeds. It sounds like a brilliant idea, and it is. But you have to keep in mind that this was probably one of the first non-commercial versions of this system and, like the first version of almost anything, it needed a lot of TLC. Okay, that’s being kind. This system sucked. It also revealed that Paul, the landscape architect who laid this oasis out, decided that his drip system should call the shots with plant’s watering needs instead of common sense. If he could deliver precise amounts of water to cacti and thirsty rose bushes (because he placed them on two different systems), why not stick them right by each other? Brilliant! Yes, brilliant indeed. You wouldn’t do such a thing, clueless, because you could end up selling the house and my girlfriend could go on a rampage against your decrepit Israeli-made piece of crap system and rip out all the hoses before we made any sense of them.
I’m not sure whether we were more screwed before or after the hoses were piled into the driveway roasting in the midday heat, ready to be chucked in the dumpster. But the fact was, we were pretty well screwed.
But on the day he came by he was inquiring whether or not we’d be keeping him as the gardener. We’d never questioned it. He’d kept the garden for years and he obviously knew how to keep it, it seemed insane to let him go and try to decipher what the hell was going on out in the front yard ourselves. Our plumbing was already backed up and the bedroom was the color of green we came to call “vomit”, so we already had our work cut out for us.
Wendy and he shook on it, and there we had it, for $80 a month we would have someone to take one more chore off our hands. It seemed a bargain.
Well, it would have been a bargain if Javier took care of the whole garden from top to bottom. But he didn’t. To be honest, unless someone was actually living in a hut in our front yard and working in the soil while the sun was shining, we could never even dream of having this chore off our hands. We quickly learned that Javier is the standard “mow, blow, and go” gardener that homeowners know all-too-well. 80 bucks for four visits, I don’t know quite what we were expecting for $20 a week. But we got the standard watering, mowing, ear-splitting gas blower, a lot of raking, and a hearty Hi-O, Silver. It seemed like enough until we realized many of the plants were dying or in various stages of dying. An investigation of the drip irrigation system, poorly placed all across the walking paths revealed why: none of the damn system worked.
Drip irrigation systems (which were developed in the deserts of the Middle East) are a series of large tubes leading to smaller tubes leading to tiny emitters which spray onto the roots of specific plants, thus delivering water where it’s needed, but not the surrounding weeds. It sounds like a brilliant idea, and it is. But you have to keep in mind that this was probably one of the first non-commercial versions of this system and, like the first version of almost anything, it needed a lot of TLC. Okay, that’s being kind. This system sucked. It also revealed that Paul, the landscape architect who laid this oasis out, decided that his drip system should call the shots with plant’s watering needs instead of common sense. If he could deliver precise amounts of water to cacti and thirsty rose bushes (because he placed them on two different systems), why not stick them right by each other? Brilliant! Yes, brilliant indeed. You wouldn’t do such a thing, clueless, because you could end up selling the house and my girlfriend could go on a rampage against your decrepit Israeli-made piece of crap system and rip out all the hoses before we made any sense of them.
I’m not sure whether we were more screwed before or after the hoses were piled into the driveway roasting in the midday heat, ready to be chucked in the dumpster. But the fact was, we were pretty well screwed.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Day 1 - April, 1994
This will take place in the past. This much you should know.
My wife (then girlfriend), Wendy, and I moved into this house on a sunny day in 1994, probably one of the nicest houses on the street on a wide, Los Angeles boulevard.
We had been going out for a little over a year, but had been friends long before - 5 years? She had the money then and bought the house. She promised me a month's free rent if I moved in with her. How could I resist?
The house itself was built for a doctor and his family in 1927 in an area of Los Angeles known as Atwater Village, abutting the infamous Los Angeles River itself. A beautiful Spanish Colonial with brown saltillo tiles lining the roof and cupola, curious angles and arches inside, and the garden. My god, the garden.
Two men who lived here before we did, one of them, Paul, was a landscape architect. The house sits on a slight incline on the corner. Houses in our neighborhood aren't known for their big back yards (I'm thinking of my Mother's tiny one and my Dad's non-existent ones in South Philly) but the corner houses were moved clear back to the lot, leaving a wide expanse of lawn to cover the front. That wide expanse wasn't good enough for the landscaper, though. He tore all the grass out and put in plants. And plants. And plants. When we moved in, there must have been 125 different plants out front. Since he'd moved out after his lover had died, his mother had been taken care of the place for a few years. And we found what was left of the drip irrigation system out front. (But I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Wendy had heard over the years how much I loved nature and the outdoors. We would go for walks in the mountains, in Joshua Tree, and through botanical gardens and I'd tell her how amazed I was what I couldn't only call "God's work". What I didn't know was when she began her search for a house that a garden would be a good selling point.
And this was more garden then I'd ever seen before.
We loved it, though and were relaxed once we'd met Javier, Paul's gardener. Thank God, we said, at least there's someone to take care of all this.
Man were we wrong.
My wife (then girlfriend), Wendy, and I moved into this house on a sunny day in 1994, probably one of the nicest houses on the street on a wide, Los Angeles boulevard.
We had been going out for a little over a year, but had been friends long before - 5 years? She had the money then and bought the house. She promised me a month's free rent if I moved in with her. How could I resist?
The house itself was built for a doctor and his family in 1927 in an area of Los Angeles known as Atwater Village, abutting the infamous Los Angeles River itself. A beautiful Spanish Colonial with brown saltillo tiles lining the roof and cupola, curious angles and arches inside, and the garden. My god, the garden.
Two men who lived here before we did, one of them, Paul, was a landscape architect. The house sits on a slight incline on the corner. Houses in our neighborhood aren't known for their big back yards (I'm thinking of my Mother's tiny one and my Dad's non-existent ones in South Philly) but the corner houses were moved clear back to the lot, leaving a wide expanse of lawn to cover the front. That wide expanse wasn't good enough for the landscaper, though. He tore all the grass out and put in plants. And plants. And plants. When we moved in, there must have been 125 different plants out front. Since he'd moved out after his lover had died, his mother had been taken care of the place for a few years. And we found what was left of the drip irrigation system out front. (But I'm getting ahead of myself.)
Wendy had heard over the years how much I loved nature and the outdoors. We would go for walks in the mountains, in Joshua Tree, and through botanical gardens and I'd tell her how amazed I was what I couldn't only call "God's work". What I didn't know was when she began her search for a house that a garden would be a good selling point.
And this was more garden then I'd ever seen before.
We loved it, though and were relaxed once we'd met Javier, Paul's gardener. Thank God, we said, at least there's someone to take care of all this.
Man were we wrong.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
By Way of Introduction
This whole thing was going to be a book, see? Then, after several months of trying in vain to sit down and write it, it became a loose series of journal pages and Word documents, all loosely grouped under the title “Frustrated Gardener”.
--------
Author’s Note
I did not intend on becoming a gardener, much the same way most people did not originally plan on working in middle management, talking all day about the widget industry, or becoming the janitor at their old high school. There’s a famous saying, “Some are born into greatness and others have greatness thrust upon them”, well you could just as easily say, “Some are born into gardening while others have gardening thrust upon them.”
This, my friend, is a tale of the latter.
You start out as a writer in a hovel in Venice, CA, and spending too many late nights in Tiny Naylor’s Diner listening to Talking Heads and filling reams upon reams of notebook pages until 4 AM every weekend, then you wake up one day to find yourself in a ground war to extract the last of the spent California Poppies from your yard while trying to make sure your son doesn’t run into the street.
It’s amazing how that this sort of stuff happens while you’re not paying attention, isn’t it?
I’m not complaining, far from it. I was fairly unhappy back there at Tiny Naylor’s (it may have had something to do with their weak coffee) and many times I find myself in the garden speaking to an unseen audience on such subjects as How to Weed without Hating Yourself and the Rest of the World; Hey, Ho, Where Did My Trowel Go?; and Wow, I’m Actually Learning to Like the Smell of Rotting Compost.
The audience has always been you. At least I hope it’s been you, because otherwise those 5+ years of therapy didn’t really pay off. And someone at Cigna is going to come looking for me.
What I’m saying is, if you meet me at a party, please don’t tell me you put down my book because you just couldn’t take the whining, crying, and bellyaching. I was counting on you to listen to all my drivel so I could go back into my house and not take it out on my wife, my children, and my incredibly cheap bottles of red wine.
You don’t become a frustrated gardener in a day.
Wait, actually you do.
So scratch that. It takes a long time to become a contented gardener. A wise gardener who knows the secrets to saving heirloom tomato seeds and dispenses advice over back fences like ATMs dole out 20 dollar bills.
Apparently, I’m not even halfway there, as I’m still having trouble raising large tomato plants I bought in four inch pots and forget the common and botanical names of plants the moment someone points at something in my yard and says, “What’s that called?”
So if you were looking for that book, please put this one down. I’m not kidding, I don’t want you coming up to me at Trader Joe’s and complaining that it’s not worth the $11.95 or whatever the hell you spent on this (of which I’m getting a nickel, so you can tell it’s REALLY not worth it to me). If that’s what you were looking for then pick up Rodales or Sunset, or, if you live in Southern California, Robert Smaus’ excellent book on growing plants out here. Those people won’t let you down.
I, on the other hand, am a dabbler, a procrastinator, and a guy who has no idea why it is you can plant four identical Mexican Sages in a row and three will do beautifully and one will die.
However, if you were looking to feel better about your own shortcomings as a gardener and maybe even as a human being, then you’ve come to the right place, fella (or ma’am).
I will guaranteed in this long intro that I have wounded, killed, or set fire to four times as many plants as you have. And am still chastising myself about it. (Mostly because Catholic guilt, much like a virus, never seems to go away.)
So this may be the very key to cheering you up.
Go ahead, I could use the nickels.
Tim Donnelly
--------
Author’s Note
I did not intend on becoming a gardener, much the same way most people did not originally plan on working in middle management, talking all day about the widget industry, or becoming the janitor at their old high school. There’s a famous saying, “Some are born into greatness and others have greatness thrust upon them”, well you could just as easily say, “Some are born into gardening while others have gardening thrust upon them.”
This, my friend, is a tale of the latter.
You start out as a writer in a hovel in Venice, CA, and spending too many late nights in Tiny Naylor’s Diner listening to Talking Heads and filling reams upon reams of notebook pages until 4 AM every weekend, then you wake up one day to find yourself in a ground war to extract the last of the spent California Poppies from your yard while trying to make sure your son doesn’t run into the street.
It’s amazing how that this sort of stuff happens while you’re not paying attention, isn’t it?
I’m not complaining, far from it. I was fairly unhappy back there at Tiny Naylor’s (it may have had something to do with their weak coffee) and many times I find myself in the garden speaking to an unseen audience on such subjects as How to Weed without Hating Yourself and the Rest of the World; Hey, Ho, Where Did My Trowel Go?; and Wow, I’m Actually Learning to Like the Smell of Rotting Compost.
The audience has always been you. At least I hope it’s been you, because otherwise those 5+ years of therapy didn’t really pay off. And someone at Cigna is going to come looking for me.
What I’m saying is, if you meet me at a party, please don’t tell me you put down my book because you just couldn’t take the whining, crying, and bellyaching. I was counting on you to listen to all my drivel so I could go back into my house and not take it out on my wife, my children, and my incredibly cheap bottles of red wine.
You don’t become a frustrated gardener in a day.
Wait, actually you do.
So scratch that. It takes a long time to become a contented gardener. A wise gardener who knows the secrets to saving heirloom tomato seeds and dispenses advice over back fences like ATMs dole out 20 dollar bills.
Apparently, I’m not even halfway there, as I’m still having trouble raising large tomato plants I bought in four inch pots and forget the common and botanical names of plants the moment someone points at something in my yard and says, “What’s that called?”
So if you were looking for that book, please put this one down. I’m not kidding, I don’t want you coming up to me at Trader Joe’s and complaining that it’s not worth the $11.95 or whatever the hell you spent on this (of which I’m getting a nickel, so you can tell it’s REALLY not worth it to me). If that’s what you were looking for then pick up Rodales or Sunset, or, if you live in Southern California, Robert Smaus’ excellent book on growing plants out here. Those people won’t let you down.
I, on the other hand, am a dabbler, a procrastinator, and a guy who has no idea why it is you can plant four identical Mexican Sages in a row and three will do beautifully and one will die.
However, if you were looking to feel better about your own shortcomings as a gardener and maybe even as a human being, then you’ve come to the right place, fella (or ma’am).
I will guaranteed in this long intro that I have wounded, killed, or set fire to four times as many plants as you have. And am still chastising myself about it. (Mostly because Catholic guilt, much like a virus, never seems to go away.)
So this may be the very key to cheering you up.
Go ahead, I could use the nickels.
Tim Donnelly
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)