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. 

Weary Beauty

Old and banged up. 

Rusted and worn. 

Still sharing a weary kind of beauty, 

appreciated by some, cast off by others. 

The original function of these watering cans is long in the 

past. No longer do they tote an early morning drink for 

the roses. Never again will one be used to rinse mud 

from toddler toes or to bathe a wiggling pup. 

Leaky seams, missing spout heads, 

and split handles prevent that. 

But position one just so in a springtime planter, 

and you have something unique.

So much to ponder there, friends.

The kindness of flowers in a time of grief is another ponder-worthy topic. 

The gentle joy a vase of blooms lends to a house of sorrow far outweighs the cost. 

I'm beyond thankful for this version of generosity. 

My January newsletter is up on Substack. 

Click the link to take a peek. 

Every Fleeting Moment

 

The next few weeks are lining up with genuine autumn events

and a few end-of-summer happenings. 

It's a busy season, but I wanted to share 

some fall photos and updates.

We have piles of logs for campfires, fuel for flame-gazing 

ponderings and pulling stories from deep coat pockets--

the kind rarely shared and told in hushed tones. 

It's almost board game time. I recognize the hands in this photo, 

the shapes of people I love who can no longer navigate an evening 

of dice, cards, or laughter. It's a lesson--savor every fleeting moment.

The Heavenly Blue morning glory vine has become a magnificent 

monster. She's wrapped herself around an entire 

section of fence and roamed to the top of the greenhouse. 

When the blues reach their peak at the end of October, 

they'll put on a show to remember all the bleak 

winter days to come. 

The delicate backyard beauty of a spider's art, laced with 

autumn dew--another snapshot of everyday wonder. 

The sun is setting earlier and earlier on the fall season 

of 2025. I'm ready to begin letting this year go. 

Is it the same for you? 

Life Specs

 The older I get, the sharper the focus on my life specs. 

Life specs? You have them, too. 
It's the way you see the world.
The way you see life.

The way you see YOUR life. 

How do you choose to view the twists and turns of life here--as 

random splashes of blessing mixed with strokes of bad luck? 

Perhaps you believe with me that there is a greater plan. 

Right now, life has become a rougher ride than I enjoy, 

and my specs have been bounced around. 

But I'm holding fast to the good news that God's grand plan 

is always going forward without a hitch. 

Will you hold on with me? 

Find out more here and here. 

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. 

 

Glimmers of Hope

By the time winter in Kentucky gasps its last breath, 

the world has gone all gray, brown, and tan. 

On a frosty February morning, no one is spared 

a full dose of gloom.

Our dogwood tree seems to have abandoned every hope.

Yet frost sparkles shine glimmers of hope

 into the murky morning, and an

 adventurous meadowlark reminds me

 that, against all odds, spring is on the way. 

Warm breezes will soon tickle their way through wide-open windows.

Every shade of green will pierce and push away dried-leaf blankets.

The sun will reach into new corners of my kitchen and make me 

consider spring cleaning.

And what seemed to be dead will come to life again.

Clive wasn't talking about the doubtful state of dogwood trees in February 

when he wrote to Mary Shelburne in 1963: 

"There are better things ahead than any we leave behind." 
 

But I think it still works.

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? 

A New Beauty

All dried up 

and beautiful in a new way.

The hard work of nodding in spring breezes complete,

sun-dried daffodils decorate a rusty toolbox. 

Parchment paper lily of the valley in blue glass 

bottles recall wedding bells and ivory veils.

Last year's weathered hydrangeas reveal an 

inner framework strong enough to make it through 

a long winter.

I signed a contract back in 2019 with Familius Publishers for a 

project about dogs and reading. The product has made a few twists and 

turns over the course of three years. Recently, I was notified that 

the final copy went to print. 

Teach Your Dog to Read will release this November! 

 

Spring Changes Everything

 Spring sunshine arrived just in time. 

I'm sure you can identify. 

It's turning ordinary things 

into magical objects of beauty. 

 Our midcentury Orlyt greenhouse is 

getting a long-deserved renovation. 

More room for beauty, fewer piles of nonsense.

Repurposing old objects for a new life is 

exactly the sort of puzzle I savor to solve. 

Lean In

More snow photos. 

You might be thinking, 

UGH. 

Yes, I know. I feel it too. 

In Kentucky, we're in a season of possible snow 

and overall gray gloom, 

with random dashes of spring. 

So while we're still in winter, 

let's intentionally lean into its wonder— 

Heaps of delicate snow-crystal creations. 

Feather-like frozen fluff. 

Frost-gilded leaves of yester-season.

Because soon and very soon, spring will arrive

 and winter will be over. 

“Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,

At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,

When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,

And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.”

- C. S. Lewis

 

True Colors

 

Suddenly, fall is almost finished on our one Kentucky acre. 

This year's color change was slow to arrive, but just before they fell, 

the leaves put on a dazzling show of color. 

Just like every year, sunlight and 

temperature changes signaled chlorophyll to stop its work. 

And the greens of summer faded away while I was busy carving 

pumpkins and puzzling out costumes.

Without the influence of chlorophyll, 

what the leaves packed in during their spring-and-summer lives 

finally surfaced to create ...

... a grand spectacle of fall color pointing to the 

glorious nature of a wise and extravagant Creator. 

* photo taken on a Smoky Mountain getaway

It might be a life lesson, whispered to anyone  

with an ear to hear. 

Hello and Goodbye

Well, hello, Spring! 
I thought I saw you skulking around the edges of our Kentucky acre—

awkward with un-belonging and unsure of your welcome. 

You're not to blame. 

Winter took too long in its departure, seeming to leave then rushing back 

for some forgotten object. Some seasons don't know when it's just time to go. 

And Spring, I'm sorry you've already been bullied away by Summer 

who shoved its way in, smelling of firepits, cut grass, and sunscreen.

Maybe next year you'll arrive earlier and stay a little longer. 

 

Premium Property

Yesterday, we woke up to a winter-wonder landscape. 

My sidekick and I went out for a look around and some photos. 

We found this cozy bird bungalow still vacant, 

but what a view! 

A tiny home among snow-capped dogwood blossoms is 

premium property for sure. 

Maybe when spring sets in for good, bird tenants will come as well. 

I'm hoping for bluebirds. 

Here's a collection of favorite bird books to share with the littles in your life. 

****

These days, I'm pondering this verse: 

"Your own ears will hear him. 

Right behind you a voice will say, “This is the way you should go,” 

whether to the right or to the left."

Isaiah 30:21 NLT

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—

Bring the Sky Inside

It's November's last day, but I still have a bit of summer in my kitchen. 

When my stubborn, spoiled morning glory vines wouldn't bloom, 

I searched for answers. 

One helpful gardener noted that she cut almost-blooming 

vines to bring indoors. Contained in a vase and 

positioned in a sunny window--they bloomed.

Of course, I had to try this. 

  From my pile of Heavenly Blue vines, I trimmed a long tangle

covered with buds still tight and tiny. They fit easily in a 

glass vase and hung happily from a cup hook in the window sill. 

In no time at all, pointed swirls of bloom emerged and finally opened. 

Every morning, newly vibrant blooms greet me. 

It's been the highlight of a fairly dismal gardening season.

The Heavenly Blues are almost finished now. 

It's time for Christmas colors to take center stage.

 

Closed for Winter

We closed the gardens this weekend, ending a weird 2020 growing season.

Plants were given away to gardener friends,

"You're more than welcome--Enjoy!"

and others were simply mowed down.

"There. We don't have to worry about those anymore."

Supermarket lavender endured freakish, late-spring freezes to return 

as small bushes, while old standby garden 

staples like peonies and hydrangeas barely ducked in to say hello. 

The deer used our side garden bed as their favorite midnight

buffet, preventing a single Fried Bananas hosta bloom, 

but the hummingbirds and zinnias were constant summertime companions.

And now ... tulips.

Little bundles of hope, drop-shaped packages of potential,

half-priced harbingers of better days on the way.

The garden beds may look bare and unpopulated, but 

three varieties of hopeful tulips have only just begun their work. 

By Easter 2021, there will be some beautiful surprises!

Purple and white ornamental kale paired with sap-sticky pinecones 

will see my container gardens through the winter. 

And my four hooligans perched on the picnic table will witness 

fall's decline as winter creeps in.

These couldn't be cuter--I wonder why the deer 

didn't gobble these tasty appetizers.