Coaxing Old Gardening and Blogging Habits and Marketing My Tonico Jardin

"Habit is habit and not to be flung out of the window by any man but coaxed downstairs a step at a time." (from Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar)

As you can see, I've been coaxing my gardening habit since we moved back to Southern Illinois. Old habits die hard and so do (I hope!) old gardeners (and bloggers?). This one anyway is still alive and kicking.

I wonder if the Echinacea I've planted in my garden is adding years to my life? 

Or could it be the Salvia?

Perhaps it's the Bee Balm?

If there were a way to bottle and market this Tonico Jardin I've coaxed here, I would be a wealthy woman... 

...or perhaps I am one already.

Unearthing Earth Day: The Earth is a Crystal Ball

The Earth is a crystal ball you see
It holds the future for you and me
The crystal held within its sphere
Is salty brine or fresh, it's clear

The people who would make Earth "Mom"
Would truly like to read the palm
The outstretched one that You laid bare
To help them out of their despair

That drowns their thoughts of Providence
And takes away their common sense
As ebbing tide will wash the shore
Or springtime floods sweep forest's floor


There is this trouble about special providences--namely, there is so often a doubt as to which party was intended to be the beneficiary. In the case of the children, the bears, and the prophet, the bears got more real satisfaction out of the episode than the prophet did, because they got the children. -- Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar --

Steephead or drainage swale in Murphysboro State Park

Though SAM and I both were brought up in the '70s when Earth Day began to gather steam, we both find peculiar this strange fixation on the health of the planet. Who would have the audacity to think we (alive and present on this Earth) are any worse or better at changing the Earth--for the worse or better--than the generations that came before us? It takes a pudd'nhead, I guess.

Return to Eseldorf and a Strange Ending for Pecan Shells in My Garden

On my way home from attending a class at UWF last Friday afternoon, my cell phone rang. It was a call from SAM.

"Guess what, honey? I have a surprise for you. It's something we've been wanting for a long time!"

What could it be? I wondered. A million dollars? Another grandchild on the way? No, there was something even more special waiting for me when I got home. It was a truck-bed full of pecan shells from the Renfroe Pecan Company. Can you believe it?

I rubbed my eyes because I had trouble believing what I was seeing. We were told earlier this year by the nice young man with the pecan-shell-mulch ad on Craigslist that he had an exclusive contract with the company to pick up their spent shells. So how did SAM finagle a truckload of the stuff? FOR FREE? Well, it turns out that the nice young man must have prevaricated. He stretched the truth. He told a fib. There was no contract with the company, and anyone can pick up a load of pecan shells.

Of course, lying comes so naturally to the human race, especially when money is at stake. Or witches, for that matter. Huh? You'll have to forgive me. Halloween is next week, there's a presidential election the week after, and I've been reading Mark Twain's account of The Mysterious Stranger. Or was it his biographer's account? There is a dispute over who really wrote the tale, and that's probably as it should be. As it turns out, the mysterious stranger is the Great Prevaricator, the Father of Lies, known in one version of the story as No. 44.

Once we got over the shock of being "misled" (it sounds so negative to call it being lied to), we were delighted to find nuts in the mix. Lots of them in fact. Five pounds (about $45 worth if purchased at the grocery store) at least by my reckoning. I have to wonder why there were none in the previous load from the pecan-shell guy. It took us a while to sort through this pile. The neighbors were sure staring, but we were past caring.

The nut pile was growing, but spreading of shells sure was slowing. Wait! I thought. Grandson is coming over for a visit. We will offer him the chance to help. And he did, quite willingly. As a reward, Grandpa SAM offered him the choice between a stack of five quarters and a crisp dollar bill for his efforts on finding more nuts.

"Can't I have both?" he asked.

He's pretty sharp, that one: another good knife in the drawer, a chip off the old block, or a nut that didn't fall far from the tree. SAM said his great-grandpa would have been delighted with him.

Getting back to Mark Twain's story setting of Eseldorf ("ass-ville"), I have to wonder why there was nothing like a good fish story in the midst of it. Animals did play a big part. A faithful dog and a magic cat were presented but no fish. Well, except for the ones that kept multiplying in the frying pan when unexpected company showed up for dinner. That's even better than a whopper of a story about the fish that got away. Or trying to convince someone that some fish have teeth like we do. Yes, sheepshead have human-like teeth. Or do we have sheepshead-like teeth? If Darwin's theory is correct, then the fish were here first, right? Humans came much later. If only fish could talk. I'm sure they wouldn't lie. They have no Moral Sense. Strange. That's what kept getting Twain's Eseldorf-ians in trouble. It should be what keeps us out of trouble.

Firebush: Native or Not? The Burning Question of Plant Miscegenation

A native (I hope) Firebush, Hamelia patens

Adam was but human--this explains it all. He did not want the apple for the apple's sake; he wanted it only because it was forbidden. The mistake was in not forbidding the serpent; then he would have eaten the serpent.  (Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar, Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson)

Gardening seems to be the net that captures much of my attention and folly, often at the same time for some reason. Since laying the blame at someone else's feet seems to be the fashion these days, in politics and elsewhere, why shouldn't I play along and try to fit in?

So, it all started years ago when I helped my parents with their vegetable garden. It was never complicated then. Plant seeds or seedlings, tend the plants to adulthood, eat them or their progeny. Consume, consume, consume! The carnage continued in later years but on a more sophisticated level within the slick pages of plant catalogues. See that beautiful plant pictured here in all of its impeccably air-brushed glory? Buy it, buy it, buy it! The more exotic the name, the better. Especially if it ended in sinensis. If the Chinese were having smashing success in their country with a certain plant, why not give it a go here in the good ol' U.S. of A.? If they can make it grow, we can make it flourish. Then I started hearing cries--very faint at first and gradually getting louder--DON'T BUY IMPORTED PLANTS! USE NATIVE PLANTS! Would I succumb to my hedonistic, Adam-ant, consumerist instincts or listen to reason?

I bought the plant pictured above at a Master Gardener plant sale earlier this year. As far as I can tell, based on this UF/IFAS article about firebush, it has orange-red flowers and hairy leaves. It must be a native firebush. Hooray! For once, I had chosen well and listened to reason. But wait...There's more.

Hamelia patens, var. glabra?

Three additional shrubs purchased a few months later at one of the big box stores and also labelled Hamelia patens joined their sister (brother? cousin?) in the garden. Only now do I discover that the blooms start out red but turn into trumpets of yellow. And--worst of all!--I finally notice that the leaves are hairless. Could it be the dreaded Hamelia patens var. glabra?

So, what's the harm in putting native and non-native firebushes together in the landscape? Could there be a possibility of plant miscegenation beginning its insidious work here, gradually corrupting the native population and confusing a bunch of pollinators? Read the article and decide for yourself. Don't believe me. I'm just a gardening fool, and I like reading, especially Pudd'nhead Wilson. Don't read it! I forbid it! You might end up liking it too.

Are We in the Pink Yet?

Peanut, also known as OPP, the One-Pink-Paw cat, joins me on the sofa sometimes while I watch the early morning news. I just love the cutesy terms media people come up with to dispel fear and anxiety. They do such a good job of fomenting crises, I suppose an equal measure of ratcheting those crises down has to be considered from time to time. People with short fuses seem to be going off with great regularity these days. I've been hearing a lot lately about "The New Normal." According to the wise folks at ABC News, we as good citizens should be investigating what implications that term might have for us personally. What will we do when the recession is over and things return to new-normal? I guess some of us will not have to sell our homes and belongings for pennies on the dollar or send our pets packing. We might even be able to retire with some dignity and see some of the world before we die. I hope so. Some nice travel agents from India have been commenting here lately, and I, for one, would like to help them increase their business. Of course, beautiful places exist right here in these United States, in Florida even, and I never get tired of revisiting them. Sights like Mimosa trees in bloom along the Blackwater Heritage State Trail evoke a simpler time brought to life by Mark Twain's rosy descriptions of small-town life in his novel Pudd'nhead Wilson. Things are not quite what they seem, though, in his idyllic setting, and it pays to remember that Twain paints a pretty-in-pink picture of tranquil living just so he can tease out the tangled mess he finds in human nature. If you look closely enough, it's easy to detect how gullible we humans are when the social structure du jour has its way with us. I really like his style.


"In 1830 it was a snug little collection of modest one- and two-storey frame dwellings whose white-washed exteriors were almost concealed from sight by climbing tangles of rose-vines, honeysuckles, and morning-glories. Each of these pretty homes had a garden in front, fenced with white palings and opulently stocked with hollyhocks, marigolds, touch-me-nots, prince's-feathers, and other old-fashioned flowers; while on the window-sills of the houses stood wooden boxes containing moss-rose plants and terra-cotta pots in which grew a breed of geranium whose spread of intensely red blossoms accented the prevailing pink tint of the rose-clad house-front like an explosion of flame. When there was room on the ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was there--in sunny weather--stretched at full length, asleep and blissful, with her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose. Then that house was complete, and its contentment and peace were made manifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is infallible. A home without a cat--and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat--may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?" (from Chapter 1 of Pudd'nhead Wilson)

Let It All Hang Out

"In the stillness and the darkness, realization soon began to supplement knowledge. The mere knowledge of a fact is pale; but when you come to realize your fact, it takes on color..."
--from Chapter 6, "The Eclipse," Mark Twain's A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court--

Sometimes when your life has already been turned inside out for a while, a bit of a scare doesn't seem to faze you much at first. At least not until you wake up in the middle of the night before a big test that you cannot study for but hope to pass all the same. And the worry starts to gnaw at you inside until the morning comes.

Last Sunday, Easter smiles and surprises swept away another kind of funk. It was the kind that makes you wonder about that old saying "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." I should know by now that there are some arguments I can never win and that certain naysayers will have their say no matter what. Anyway, that funk dissolved in the Easter sunshine.

Funk #2 came out of nowhere Thursday morning in the form of a phone call from the local mammography center. The radiologist was not satisfied with an image of the right breast taken a week ago. Would I be kind enough to visit the main facility in Pensacola and submit to even more torture? Sure, be glad to. See you Friday morning.

When I used to transcribe medical reports for a living, the tedium of a long day was relieved occasionally by careless docs. The official rule to transcribe exactly as dictated gets ignored when you hear something like this in a SOAP note: "the patient's pus-sy wound looks much better today." Sorry, doc. I'll substitute "purulent" for your choice of words.

I wonder about that fine line between narcissism and reflectiveness. Who really has the right to decide where it falls?


"But it is a blessed provision of nature that at times like these, as soon as a man's mercury has got down to a certain point there comes a revulsion, and he rallies. Hope springs up, and cheerfulness along with it, and then he is in good shape to do something for himself, if anything can be done...."

--from "The Eclipse" as above--

I am in good shape after all.

Addendum: Please, ladies, (yes, and even gents) do yourself and your families a favor and get regular health screenings. The NIH reports that fewer women are getting mammograms these days. So what if it's a little uncomfortable? There are many organizations that can assist with the cost of testing and even treatment, if that's what stands in the way of getting help. And it often does.

April Changes March's Stones to 'Bread' in Florida

April 1. -- This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four. -- Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar (from Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, 1894)


A hailstorm last week in the middle of the night caused not a little concern for some gardeners in northwest Florida. Some fool planted peas to grow up on the hedge. She was too lazy to rig up a proper support system for them. The broken stems and tendrils do not bode well for a harvest anytime soon.

Peter Piper might be able to pick a peck of peppers here and elsewhere in the garden--if he can sneak in ahead of the fool who planted them. The leaves were shredded a bit by the hail, but the fruit wasn't damaged. Daughter picked the largest one today to add to her specialty, chicken enchiladas. I can smell them baking in the oven right now. Mmmm.

Live oak trees are clothed with a fresh growth of leaves. You never see them absolutely bare. Last year's leaves fall off at the same time this year's growth takes over. They are pushed out of the nest, so to speak, by the next generation. Most fools tend to go out on a limb, and I'm no exception. TC, the Write Gardener, has encouraged (challenged?) his friends and fellow-bloggers to try their hands at poetry. Here goes:

Not-So-Foolish Advice

April shakes her soggy head,
Storms and hail recede;
(Kisses of sun-warmth)
Gardener decides to cast her bread
On waters--not soil--no seed.
Drink it in, this day. Be fed.

Son's efforts at gardening may just surpass those of his parents one of these days. I hope so. He might even learn from a fool's mistakes if he pays close attention. Okay, I'm not really a fool--at least not most of the time. I'm (re)learning what's good and what's not, and I'm not afraid to share it.

Mus Maximus Mus(t) Exit(us)

It is easy to find fault, if one has that disposition. There was once a man who, not being able to find any other fault with coal, complained that there were too many prehistoric toads in it.


--from Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, excerpt from Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar--



I might as well face it. The Year of the Rat is over, and the Year of the Ox is being ushered in and welcomed all over the world. The photo of the rat in the first frame is not my own. I am sure there are rats living somewhere nearby, but I have never seen one yet to be able to take its picture. It would probably escape that fate anyway because I would probably drop the camera and run, not walk, as far away as possible, screaming all the way. Calendars serve many useful purposes: measuring the passage of time, serving as a record of history, reminding us of things we need to accomplish, and making us aware of certain obligations like birthdays and anniversaries. I find it interesting that the Chinese have been keeping track of time far longer than any Western civilization has and have been allowing the lunar cycle to determine the method of time-keeping. Time may be considered not in linear terms but in cyclic ones instead. The course of human history could therefore be seen as contours on an isopach map of the world's history, if such a map only existed. Of course, if it did, you would probably see quite a few eraser marks and blank spots as each new generation tries to adjust the contours of its self-concept onto evidence of previous sedimentary layers. Pictures from a recent visit to the Tallahassee Museum of History and Natural Science may just prove my point, whatever it is. I should warn you that I was born in a Year of the Rat, but rest easy. My cycle is nearing the completion of its circuit. January 26, 2009, on the calendar finds the Ox taking over. If you don't like what this new year has in store, there is no need to worry. It too is only part of a cycle, just like the seasons, climate change, and anything else governed by nature.

I had no idea Florida was once home to a "princess." Those Napoleons were quite the characters for changing the world and their personal fortunes along the way.

The museum property borders a lake and swamp. Bald cypress trees dominate the landscape, bearing all of the accoutrements necessary for survival in a watery environment. I still have not found a definitive explanation for the appearance of knees on some trees and none on others.

Panthers once flourished in Florida, but we know what progress can do for certain species of mammals. Of course, progress appears to follow a cyclic pattern of its own.

One day, these panthers might once more roam freely in Florida instead of being confined to cages at a museum.

Wolves and panthers are outstanding symbols of the cunning required for survival of the fittest.

You can also find the grandest symbol of them all at this American museum in the Deep South. I would probably never be able to capture one on camera sitting this still in the wild, if I were even fortunate enough to see one. The way it kept staring at me staring at it, I began to wonder if it thought it was seeing some kind of prey. Maybe a rat?