Tag: God’s Green Earth

What’s Blooming

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Our night blooming cerus attracted a visitor. Is this a cerus? I think so. It is now anyway. Sometimes we have more than 30 larger-than-your-hand-sized blooms on that cactus. Have you met our new pet bee? We are taking up bee-keeping. Not bees-keeping. Just the one. Doing our part to prevent Colony Collapse Disorder and therefore world destruction.

My great-grandmother in Alabama had a gorgeous backyard with a fishing pond. Along one side was a vegetation-covered corridor and I loved to walk around the pond to get to the fantasy world under those arched green shadows. Depending on which way you walked around the pond, you either passed her beehive before the tunnel or afterward. The bees terrified me, especially in those swarming massive numbers, so I made myself inconspicuous as possible when in their general area.

Do I need to state explicitly that we aren’t getting a hive? Well, there you have it, and our vari cacti don’t all bloom at night. My prickly pear blooms in the daytime and I have three sorts.

I have orange flowers (lots of them):


I have yellow flowers (just this one, but the promise of more):


And I have orange and yellow flowers (not sure this one is prickly pear):

I’m thinking of doing some tuna harvesting and making stuff.

On edit: I didn’t pay much attention to sizing, but the photos are much prettier when really big, so click on them to see up close.

All Well and Good

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Speaking of jejune, I totally forgot the truest jejuney thing ever! I couldn’t stop picking at the imperfection. Turns out it wasn’t a birthmark, nor was it even a pimple. Nay, it flaked off rather easily reminding me of the importance of exfoliating. The routine sloughing off of dead cells is an important part of the revitalization process.

Shrugging off or heading off this invented drama helps me appreciate the hilarity of the kids who allow me to be a member of their learning community. It ain’t always easy and they frequently frustrate the bejesus out of me, but rare is the interaction that leaves me void of synaptic stimulation. Yesterday four kids and I planted tomatoes. Badly, I might add. The kids made a connection between the tomato plant and the mesquite tree. Both flower then fruit/seed. The seeds die, are eaten, or are harvested to grow another plant. They are studying cycles, so when they recognize a cycle – fireworks.

That is all well and good, but expected. The students accompany me into the garden or the bird sanctuary expressly to learn something. The fantastic part is their language. At one point a kid asked, “Can I put the worm poop in my hole?” “Not yet,” I said. “Okay. Is it time to tickle my bottom?” Right? Because everyone knows that you loosen entangled roots before planting and save the compost to sprinkle on top.

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My friend, the Caddo Artist, has a nascent blog focusing mostly on how she’s trying to quit smoking. You can do it! Today she offered up her experience volunteering for her youngest’s field trip to the zoo while jonesing. In part, she writes, “Isiah ate a rollypolly. He threw up in a trash can, and it gagged the other boys.”

Jejune Reflections

The usual opening for this blog lately: I feel acutely. I may be an empath.

The 6 YO girl wound up her swing to enjoy the thrill of spinning, spinning. As the ropes turned back on themselves, a lock of her hair got caught up and twisted until her hair was pulled out at the roots leaving a nickle-sized bald spot. Her little feet didn’t reach the ground and Mom-a-Tron was inside washing dishes. I keep thinking about how powerless she must have felt as each precious strand was plucked from her scalp. The following day while she attended school and I tended to the chickens, I saw that silken lock. As I untangled the hair, I couldn’t help but think how it had been a part of her and being maaaad at that stupid, ridiculous swing! Children should not be allowed to swing. Later that day, the parent teacher conference about my adorable, wonderful, perfect in every way 6 YO girl left me on Cloud 9.


Coming off the low/high roller coaster, I expressed to my carpooling buddy that I felt like I’d been sobbing, but I think it must be the emotion combined with allergies. Because, oh, yes…

These bloomed:
Feathery Cassia – sweet yum

Then this:
Citris – Lazy blogger Alex describes the scent as arousing

Followed by:
Texas Laurel – grapey

Finally these:
Palo Verde (state tree of Arizona, though Mesquites are more numerous)

Did I mention all this bloomed IN MY YARD? Oh, and the wind is like a zillion miles per hour so the pollens are EVERYWHERE. It tickles your nose, leaves your head fuzzy, and makes your breathing irregular. I described the feeling to my friend Connie, who relayed it to a client. “Oh, yes,” the lady said. “I know exactly what you mean. Crired.” Crired = Tired + Cried. That’s exactly how it feels.

Yes, once the emotion goes away and the allergies hit, the mind goes foggy. The tank is empty. Only jejune reflections remain.

(Yes, I wrote this whole entry in service of the word “jejune”.)

Solar Power Rocks!

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For a second, I was at Winfest. Then I realized things weren’t green and squishy. Also, we live in Tucson and not Winslow. You’d think that because both towns are in Arizona no big diff, but you’d be wrong. My thoughts took me to Winslow, Arkansas where Arkansawyers get down to bluegrass and rock and country and stuff. The Hubster adored his Fighting Squirrels (closed in 2005). I’m more lukewarm remembering bootleggers and black eyes, but I can’t deny the environmental beauty of Northwestern Arkansas.

Nay. I’m talking about Tucson’s Solar Rock Festival, which in its comparative infancy has its own dedication to environmental beauty.
You see that graphic up there? Check out that percentage. Yup, 100% solar powered rock concert. Having biked to a 100% solar powered rock concert, why on earth would I feel compelled to turn out my lights for an hour when I returned home? Terrifying! People create babies in the dark.

I didn’t take photos at Solar Rock because of the back breaking work involved with volunteering for these slave drivers. I was there for set up, during which I ate a bagel and snagged a repurposed “T”. I returned later to work the kids’ booth, where ankle biters (and Boris) created original works of art on organic cotton grocery bags. The creations by some of the young people rocked my world even without solar powered amplifiers. The art on my children’s faces packed powerful punches as well. The 9 YO boy requested a scorpion lizard and the 6 YO girl’s kitty face was furry cuteness.

Luckily someone else took photos. 1) Presenting the Hubster, 2) Scorpion Lizard King and Queen Kitten Cat, 3) Boris’s blood-red paw against a Turkish rug, 4) Solar panels on wheels.

And there you have it – a completely exhausting day. If my lights were out at 8 p.m., it’s because we earned an early bed time.

These are the days, my friends…

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I should start at the top of the morning. The 9 YO boy debuted his mad skillz as a photojournalist. He’s got reporting in his blood from Gramp-A-Long and a fair amount of language ability from both Gigi and Grammanina. Also, as he reported to KOLD, his mom is always at school and I guess his boredom with that or my insistence that he entertain himself inspired him. The story was written one morning after a Borton Community Garden meeting and during the time I take the girl’s class into the garden. Use the link since my scanned copy, well you can see the problem with it.


Then the Friday routine hit with the BELL coffee cart (donations welcome), frequent readers help (the 6 YO made a book mark and earned two books to reward her, er, frequent reading), work for pay, then help the newly single mechanic watch himself and his kid on television (Did you hear that girls? I have a single male friend who can fix stuff AND be daddy about school). Around lunch, I came home to find gently used shorts for the boy and these freshly picked goodies.


These oranges are HUGEMONGOUS! That’s one of the largest bowls we have and you can see the oranges dwarf it. I need a new descriptor for my friends because they are beyond “awesome” and “generous” to the degree of “intergalactic” and “magnanimous” or something like that. OH! I needn’t neglect reporting the glorious package from the artiste in Oklahoma with 50 YO heirloom 4 o’clock and lemon basil seeds, pet rocks, a pep talk, a totem for the chicks, and an indication that my pal also loves credit unions.


Oh, but that’s not the end of the day. The librarian sent to the planet to make my life wonderful set up a little RR viewing on the big screen. Robyn, point out to your mother that one of her hand sewn dresses made it onto national television. If you look carefully, I’m person in the crowd 1, person in the crowd 2, person in the crowd 3 ….


Hawt Mz Molly was mas bella tan siempre (I’m trying to learn Spanish again), if a bit touchy at being the center of the universe for all of 3 minutes. Molly, I know you love math, so how about this equation? 15-3= 12 more minutes of fame to account for. What’s next?

I hope it never ends.

Incognito on Rachael Ray

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The episode of Rachael Ray featuring the hard work of Hawt Mz. Molly and crew will be aired on March 6th. If you follow the link, there are two pictures of yours truly in a flash format, so I couldn’t easily steal them. Now do you think that’s fair? Neither do I, so I learned how to poach images. BTW, I’m not saying Ultimate taught me how to do that photo stealing trick, but you know, if you need some computer work done he knows his shiznit. If they threaten me, I’ll tear the photos down asap (or as soon as possible, Brett, whichever comes first) so look quickly.


Photo 1. ‘Member my pal who teaches me how to fix my car? ‘Member the guy who taught me how to use power tools? Well, he and I totally built this farm stand. By “he and I” I mean he did the work while preventing me from circular sawing off my oppositional thumb (it’s like the rest of me). I am not clearly in this photo, but my work is. Unclearly, I am in the back ground in the jeans and whiteish shirt next to my pal Lori who didn’t sign a release and loudly cursed while proclaiming her judgeship. She did sign a release later, but she claimed it was bullshit. Judges get to talk like that.


Photo 2. I’m way more clearly in this photo. See me? Behind the kale? I cropped (oh, an unintentional, but awesome garden pun) out the rest of the photo, but you can follow the link to see the whole thing.

If this is going to be the most highly rated Rachael Ray show of all time, you need to tune in on March 6th and watch it. If for some reason, they air me not in obscurity, there is an antidote. Rubbing sand in your eyes will rid you of this vision.

A Breath of Fresh Air

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Those who know and love me understand that I am going to let them down at the holidays. It’s just not my thing – not that I haven’t tried. Not that I haven’t tried to do it up, that is, not not that I haven’t tried to let folks down. It’s inevitable that I let you down, because even though I try, I’m not that good at doing it up. Huh?

Point is, I suck at holidays regardless of my intention, but I’m a spectacular holiday voyeur. If I were to do Valentine’s Day for all ya’ll, I’d give you the gift of clean, fresh air. TreeHugger just posted a list of the plants I would consider for you. How cute is this Philodendron oxycardium (in lay terms, heartleaf philodendron)? It’s perfect for Valentine’s Day and a good air filterer to boot (whatever “to boot” means). Incidentally, you can buy a whole book, How to Grow Fresh Air: 50 House Plants that Purify Your Home or Office, on this subject. Maybe you could even pair the plant and book.*

I’m sure that I’m breaking some bloggy rule by reposting for a third year in a row an excerpt from a Valentine’s Day past post, but no one is paying attention anyway. This year, I think I might rather like some Garbage Soup.

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February 12, 2007

Please don’t go out on Valentine’s Day and drop a chunk of change on flowers that were coated in pesticides, kept in a green house, and shipped across the country. What is that supposed to say? “I love you so muchly that I’m giving you something unnaturally begotten. Also, in its making a part of the world was poisoned. Lastly, even with the aspirin dissolving in the water, it’s doomed to die leaving nothing to show for the cash. THIS is the symbol of my love for you.” Please. Save your money.**

…

I am compelled to request that you forget the expensive roses! Instead, share this recipe for Garbage Soup, from Dining with the Desert Museum* (with editorial). It would be good for your wallet, the environment, and an honest statement about the longevity of love.

INGREDIENTS:
water (the elixir of life)
vegetable waste (eggplant sounds like elegant fare for a Valentine dinner, but gack!)
coffee grounds (from the pot you shared over morning breath)
eggshells (you already walked on them so they are nicely crushed)
other similar kitchen waste (so not the shit you sling at each other like monkeys after the kids are in bed)
not grease (this is about living plants not the yummy goodness of slaughtered lambs)

DIRECTIONS: Chop waste in food processor or blender with equal parts water. Mix it up until it’s as convoluted as your fights. Bury soup around outer edges of plants along side the hatchet.

Commercial fertilizers can kill beneficial microorganisms in the soil. This recipe for plants can be used in lieu of those fertilizers. Can you feel the love?

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* Did I mention I am a sell-out, er, Amazon Associate?

** Populist, perhaps you could illuminate for us the reasons why guys buy temporary tokens of their love as you told me outright last year, “Your understanding about why men give Valentine’s gifts is obviously different from mine.” I’m willing to wager dollar to dime even in this recession that you know a damn sight more on the subject than I do. What would Grace think?

SUCK IT!

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I guess I was supposed to make a big “to-do” about my 100th post. Oh, well. YAY for you last post I posted! Anyway, onward and onward.

I couldn’t have predicted my adventish anticipation for January 20th. Inauguration is also the 100th day of school for my children and both their schools are planning celebrations. Plus, Arizona just made it to the Superbowl. Additionally, I just adore my friends. I have spectacular friends. My friends are great because they give me stuff. Good stuff. Stuff I bet you wish you had. A la la la.

Magical Martha, who can make anything happen and does, gave me lemons from her tree. Not only that, she gave me freshly squozen lemon juice and promises of a rockin’ lemonade recipe. THEN, our neighbors dropped by with more lemons. We are flush with the fruit. OMG! I want to make lemon everything! Got a good recipe?

Next up is the tale of my own greed and gluttony. A member of my book club, whose hubby heads up some biodiesel group here in town, gets fry grease from local restaurants and turns it into gas in their backyard for her car. The byproduct of this process is glycerin. Yup. Soap. They’ve packaged it as Grease Monkey soap and I think they should totally make it a commercial venture. I’m so in awe of this process because the oil was 1) used to cook food, 2) used to power a car, and 3) used to wash up, which means that it’s used, reused, and rereused with NO WASTE LEFT OVER. When her book club holiday exchange gift was Grease Monkey soap, well, I sorta threw a hissy fit. “I want some!” She’s a better person than I am (let’s face it, most people are), and made more soap – enough for our whole group.

And not related to my friends who are generous, I just want to do a quick shout out to Robyn. If you don’t know her, you should. Life would be gray and dull without her. I know this unequivocally. I watched her sew today and that was, it was, the penultimate.

Wanna know what I give my friends? NOTHING! HA! Suck it! Perhaps I should feel badly that I inspire such generosity without being generous myself – but I don’t! So, while some look at their buddies and wonder “what have they done for me lately?”, I’m going to suck a lemon, take a shower, and call Robyn to schedule a Superbowl clatch.