Forget-Me-Not Thoughts

Forget-me-not blues. 

These have dotted my garden in years past, but they 

always seem to die out. Not in an ugly 

way--just not there when you look for them

in the spring. 

When I browsed hopeful rows of perennials this year, the 

sky blue and yellow color combination caught my eye. 

The plant name struck my heart and sealed the deal. 

"You're coming home with me." 

Do you ever whisper to your plants? 

Maybe we shouldn't admit such things.

The blooms are intricately crafted dainties, clustered 

in small bouquets. This would have been enough, 

but my macro lens revealed an extra bit of shareable beauty.

 Tiny yellow hearts ring the center, 

one heart for each petal.

In a season of home-goings, this plant spoke the 

exact language I needed to express a deluge 

of thoughts, emotions, and grief.

A backyard garden often reflects its keeper in this way. 

The gardener walks the rows and remembers--

these were Grandma's favorite flowers.

She spreads protective mulch and ponders--

I want to be tenacious like the tiger lilies.

In hottest July, she waters dry ground and nods along 

with the Master Gardener, whose plan is continually unfolding--

even to include a hydrangea blooming through a fence.

What reminders do the plants in your garden offer? 

What memories do they whisper at nightfall?

Do its citizens inspire any lofty ambitions? 

I'd love to know. 

Hope Tenders

 

January was bleak and quiet, a proper rest after months of holidays piling one 

on top of the next. A person can only eat so much sweet potato casserole*, even if 

the crumble topping is flawlessly crisp and thick.

February's unpredictable nature in this commonwealth may have you shoveling 

snow in your barn boots and sunbathing on the back porch in the same week. 

But as soon as January blows away from this Kentucky landscape, 

you'll find me peering under carpets of leaf mulch, looking for new garden growth. 

Already, the daffodils are inches above ground. 

Thyme plants (lemon and woolly) are greening up and nearly fragrant. 

Daylilies and irises, those workhorses, are 

pushing bold spikes of life above last year's litter.

And the star of February, the Lenten rose, is well on her way

 to making my heart content. Fragile pink blooms  

despite snow and freezing temps. It boggles the skeptical 

mind of this modern age. 

It's all about hope, isn't it? 

*

The sun will shine again, at its full strength.

* 

What we thought was long-gone might, against all odds, reappear. 

*

What seems dead really can become alive again. 

*

Gardeners are hope-tenders.

*Subscribe to my newsletter on Substack, and I'll send you my tried-and-true, much-requested sweet potato casserole recipe. The February installment of "Homeplaces" came out last week. Here's a link to take you there. Message me on Substack with your email address, and you'll have the recipe in time for Easter dinner. 

Don't Squash My Joy

The leaves may be changing early because of drought, it's true. 

"Look, there's some fall color!"

"Naw, that's just the drought. (pause to spit) 

Those trees are a'dying, don't ya know." 

Please, don't squash my small autumn joy. 

Look past the drought--try harder--there's some fall color!

Sweetgum trees always rush to send out 

their first-of-fall ambassadors. 

Some zinnias sport season-long 

shades of orange. 

And nasturtium, well, I guess they take the prize. 

Especially if they're studded with water droplets. 

Droplets from my water hose, because 

don't ya know--

we're in a drought. 

 

Ready to Freeze

 It's spider time on my Kentucky acre,

just ahead of the frost next week.

They're frantically spinning elaborate orbs before they freeze to death.

It's poetic and awfully artsy, don't you think?

I hurriedly inspect these for any scribbled symbol or message. 

The smarter spiders choose to make their last stand in the 

hydrangea bushes. It's an excellent place to freeze.

This year, I have only one blooming Heavenly Blue Morning Glory vine. 

Last year's vine was extravagant, a year of blues I'm sure will never happen again.

Because last year, against my husband's better judgment, 

I allowed the morning glory vines to take over a small dogwood. 

The tree wasn't so happy, but I could blame all the damage 

on the cicada invasion. And I did. 

The first blue bloom opened today, somewhat late in the season. 

But much better later- than never-blooming. 

There's something special about those heavenly blues. 

Even their gracefully-twining vines and 

miniature buds hold unique charm.

You're charmed, right? 

Seasonal Updates

I picked up this ornamental pepper plant

on the last business day at a local plant nursery. 

"Wow--last day! You must be so excited to have some time off."

But the nurseryman didn't seem thrilled. 

At least not as thrilled as I was for him. 

The tiny peppers were all purple, then turned 

a lovely, seasonal orange.

I got outside with my "real" camera on a foggy 

morning this week. Mist laced every spiderweb 

with delicate droplets. As the sun burned through 

the haze, it turned the drops to diamonds.

My heavenly blue morning glory vine is finally showing off. 

The vines have tangled themselves into a crown studded 

with sun-pointing buds. The base of the vine is as 

thick as a young tree--amazing.

Consider the Lilies

It's been a summer of the richest blooms. 

This year, I watched for the last daylily bloom 

and made sure to admire and enjoy it. 

Of course, lots of years have passed in which 

I didn't notice or care that the daylilies 

were almost gone, and I certainly 

didn't take note of the last one. 

Surely we rejoice that we have a
hope-filled future, brimming with 
unimagined amazements and 
exceeding great joy. 

But looking forward to these doesn't cancel 

the wisdom of savoring what's before us in the now. 

So consider the lilies in your life—savor and enjoy. 

This may be wisdom born of years, friends . . .

since I'll be fifty-five this year, 

I can say things like this. 

For a picture book that will drive 
home the message and maybe 

give you a good cry, check out 

Let Me Hold You Longer by Karen Kingsbury. 

Have tissues at the ready. 

When Inspiration Strikes

Clean out and throw away!

Okay, lots of times we give away instead of throw away. 

I'm not sure Goodwill appreciates it, but that's not the point. 

It's a hard fact that we can't keep adding to our nest 

without pushing some stuff over the edge and into a Goodwill bin.

And so, please consider the wagon in the photo. 

This rusty Radio Flyer's done its time here on our one acre. It's hauled plants, 

kids, weapons of Nerf warfare, and more plants. 

During the spring greenhouse clean-up, 

I declared it finished ... mort ... trash-day fodder.

"Take it to the garbage," I instructed my doubtful crew of two. 

The beat-up wagon spent quite a few weeks upended near the garbage cans  

waiting for a final trip, this time for roadside collection.

But then, just in time—inspiration struck. 

 

 And now it has a new life as garden hardscape.

* * *

Other inspirational sights from our getaway to Madison, Indiana: 

I'd like to replicate this shutter's rubbed-off, old blue on our upcoming garden gate.

We have a mostly-forgotten, single oar to add to the playground platform. 

I just need a good slogan ... 

send suggestions!

This canvas placed in the top three items we considered buying as 

 an anniversary gift to ourselves. 

The arc created by these doortops is what I'd like in a garden gate. 

Side note: Doors are unreasonably expensive right now.

* * *

And a final photo of us on our thirty-third anniversary -

We stayed at the Iron Gate Inn and are happy to highly recommend it.

They provided comfy accommodations and an excellent breakfast. 

This ponderable message was just inside the door—

Suddenly, Spring

February blurred past mostly like this—

Now we've arrived in March, and our one Kentucky acre 

has bounded ahead to this—

(grape hyacinth)

(lenten rose)

(daffodils)

When the weather turns again and temperatures dip ...

they just will ...

Well, that's gonna leave a mark. 

But today, we'll eat our meals outside, walk the gardens, 

and make plans for the months ahead. 

And we'll hope against hope they don't include any more of this—

Almost-Fall Words to Share

It's pink diamond hydrangea season on our Kentucky acre. 

Piled in this old silver-plated stand, their rural elegance shines.

TIp: If you cut these after the petals feel papery-dry, 

they'll stay lovely through the fall, until you throw them 

out and deck the halls for Christmas.

And they pair so well with ghostly-white pumpkins. 

Small ball gourds--scrubbed, polished, and ready for purchase. 

This one with the twig wreath opening is a favorite.

Lots of time to ponder while scrubbing gourds ... 

And one of four tiny hooligan pumpkins that the deer missed, grown 

from last year's seeds. 

Who does not enjoy saying hooligan pumpkin?

I'll be repeating that the rest of the day.

This from a person who chooses paint 

colors based on the chip titles ... 

It's why September Fog is on the walls in our guest room. 

Words, my friends, make all the difference. 

All.

Finally, Buds

I planted three moonflower vines and one Heavenly Blue vine 

in the same pot and popped on a trellis-style topper.

Experienced vine-growers among you will immediately 

recognize my mistake: too many plants in one pot.

It happens. 

Spring was long-gone into summer, and there I 

stood with more seedlings than I really wanted. 

Instead of throwing them away--

I'd already given many of them away--

I just tucked them all together, shot it with a hose, 

and declared the planting season "finished."

They've been battling it out, overcrowded and slow to produce any kind of bud—not 

a bloom in sight. This photo shows the vines still reaching, tender tips 

tapping the air, seeking anything to grab and entwine. 

It's the name of the game for vines, right? 

Here in September, these plants have finally gotten the message that 

there's nothing else to grab—no fence, tree, or trellis nearby to support it.

That's when the buds start to appear.

Much to ponder here ...

I'll share photos of the blooms as they arrive.

This is a moonflower bud. I hope to see the white moonflowers and 

 blue morning glories on the same trellis, blooming at opposite 

times of day. That's the master plan, at least. 

    

    Entering the publishing world is a lot like being one of these vines. You feel your way gingerly, hoping to find a place for your work — a publishing house that shares your vision ... a place to bloom. When you find one, like I did when I signed with Familius Publishing, it's hard to overstate the excitement. 

    The release of my first title with them has been delayed until 2022 because of the pandemic-slow economy of 2020. I've heard from the publishing folks at Familius though, and while my book-bloom is slightly postponed, Familius is still my place to set buds and eventually bloom. 

    It's hard to overstate the gratitude for this blessing. I might see some illustrations concepts for the Family Dog / Lit Pups project before the end of the year. If I'm allowed to share them, I will. 

 

Summer Snapshots

The pandemic season may have kept me out 

of the garden centers, but my mailbox has done 

a brisk business. Park Seed Company provided 

wonderful seed packets in early spring. 

The entire process of planting and watering provided 

the perfect distraction from virus droplets, 

un-flattened curves, and

the mask/no-mask debate. 

And look at just two of the rewards of that labor: 

cleome

dwarf mix sunflower

This little stripey gourd is from last fall's leftovers.

We're enjoying lots of family gatherings.

Our backyard has never seemed more like a safe haven 

than it does now. 

But we're going out into the wide world soon, 

if we can only remember how to vacation out there.

 I found this reminder from 2015:

My family has changed so drastically since this vacation 

photo was taken. Instead of five, we are nine. 

And now I'm not the only female among men—

I'm joined by three amazing lovelies. 

Together, I think we balance out the group well. 

Grandchildren provide endless entertainment, 

hugs, and giggles—the biggest upgrade of all.

Read the vacation blog post from 2015 here. 

"Worth It" 

Greenhouse Dreams

In January, the greenhouse sleeps while I dream 

of sturdy basil leaves, fragrant sage, and lemony thyme. 

Pie birds sing praise of kelly-green days just over the horizon of seasons. 

Baskets of pine cones vie for attention, offering their timely 

 gift of sticky, scented sap. They demand recognition as one of 

winter's finest features. 

My greenhouse gnome is the portrait of calm patience, 

both hands folded neatly away–no work today.

His scarlet glass hat sits straight and tight with no hint of yearning for spring. 

But many days find me leaning on potting benches, 

rearranging watering cans, and browsing seed packets–

dreaming my greenhouse dreams.

Hurry, Spring!

Bare Bushes

It's time to call it quits in the garden. 

Here on my one Kentucky acre, we've had drought conditions until just 

about two weeks ago. My container plants got just too shabby 

in the dry heat...so I fixed them. 

"Look at this," I said to my patient husband. "I fixed the container plants."

"You sure did," he agreed and took a few steps back.

Because, friends, I pulled them all up and threw their spindly stems

and crispy blooms in the firepit. What a relief! 

I plopped gourds and pumpkins in the empty containers—no watering needed. 

When we finally got a little rain, all the garden plants went back to work, 

creating new leaves and blooms. 

Look at this cypress vine, so cheerful in the summer-like heat.

Then this week on Monday, fall arrived. 

We've had a one-week color change with all the wonder of a true fall compressed 

into just a few days. Yesterday's wind and rain moved the color party to the ground.

Last night we swerved around another seasonal corner as temperatures dropped below freezing. 

I had time to save these beautiful blues, and a few zinnias, 

from the first killing frost.

The bushes are bare, but my windowsills are filled with vases of color. 

Settling into Garnet

The Japanese maples on our acre are always among the first to 

celebrate spring. Trunk and branches store and 

stoke their calling-card color all winter, and in the spring ... 

... it bursts from every stem tip—scarlet flags against a

new-blue, spring canopy.

Now the fanfare is over, and they've settled into a more sedate 

summer color, something along the lines of garnet. 

As many of you know, I signed a contract to publish a children's book with Familius Publishing. I'm thrilled to join this company and add "Debut Author" to my list of life titles. I'd like to give updates here on what the journey to publication has been like for me, and let you know what's coming up next. 

Here's a question I've answered before:

How did you make connections in the writing industry?

In fall, 2013, my youngest son finished eighth grade at the Simpson Home Academy and entered public high school. I cautiously tiptoed into the writing world, staying safely on the edges. My investigations led me to Word Weavers International. Through this organization and its generous leaders, I began to step out of the shadows, meet other writers, and learn about the #writinglife. 

I'd love to answer questions about what's involved in a publication journey, which is unique to every writer. Ask your question or share your own experience in the comments.

A few facts for now: 

* The working title of my book is "Family Dog." It's highly unlikely that the title will stay the same. 

* The book will be in the Spring 2021 Familius catalog but will be available a few months sooner than that. 

* I haven't met the illustrator or the editor of the book yet. 

* I paid for high-resolution photos (headshots) at Portrait Innovations. It was a painfully awkward experience, but the talented young photographer managed to get a few photos that I'm happy to have for a back-cover blurb. 

More details soon! 

Susan