I'm Still Here

Just a little note to let you know that I am still alive. Not that there is any reason I wouldn't be...that I am aware of, anyway. But I have been very busy with moving one of my daughters, keeping one to four of my grandkids, depending on the day, and getting the shutters designed and made on the front of my little house, plus buying fabric and unwrapping things from my dad's house. And visiting with my sister, Nancy, and her hubbie, Pete. This is the fate of a woman who came from a large family and then wanted her own large family. They grow up but they don't go away, and to further complicate things, they multiply. Thank God. I love it.

Updates: The weather is getting cooler, so my "old roses" which bloom once are actually getting ready for a fall bloom, and I can't wait to see them. Most of them are newly planted, but my noisette, Champney's Pink Cluster, has bloomed all summer. Alas, I can't get close enough to her to enjoy the sweet odor because she crept up through the middle of a very tall Lady Banks. She's happy, though.

The roadside rustled rose is doing alright. I am still watching and waiting. There still appear to be two different types of leaves on her. She's just a little shy while in recovery. Next year I hope to see her show off a bit.

Gotta go throw dinner together. Bill's probably coming down the street as we speak.

See you soon.

deber

Remembering September 11, 2001

In five days, it will have been eight years since my mother died. She was quite an extraordinary woman, and I miss her.

But the reason I remember her today is because 9/11 always reminds me of the day I was getting ready to go to Florida and stay with her for that last time. Sisters Ellen and Nancy were already down there, and sis Jeanie was on her way to my house. The plan was that she would leave her car here. I'd drive us down to Florida (because I always have to be the driver. I insist.). But as fate would have it, we didn't leave that day.

Because I was packing, I didn't turn on the television. Normally, I am obsessed with checking in with the morning news, but I was only concerned with Mama. Until that is, I got a phone call from a friend telling me to turn on the TV. An accident had happened and the World Trade Center had just been hit by a plane. I immediately tuned in and observed the horrors unfold, alone at first, but together in spirit with the rest of you. And you know what happened. As things unfolded,  we all came to the realization that that first plane was the beginning of an attack against the people of the United States and not an accident at all.

I don't remember the sequence of everything; it was incredibly traumatic even to those of us far from the attacks. My children were dismissed from school early that morning, and the grown ones who lived in town came to my house so we could all comfort and strengthen one another. Jeanie arrived, having heard about it when she was almost to my house. I met her in the driveway, and we held each other and cried for all those people.

To people like my husband who were at work with no access to television or radio during those awful first hours, the reality didn't set in until they reached home and saw the events played out again and again on television. But it did happen, and eventually it became very real to everyone here in the United States of America.

There are those who for whatever twisted political reasons, attempt to put the blame for this unprevolked act of war onto the shoulders of the people of the United States. I've seen the shows and read the accusations, and have concluded that in order to believe such things, one has to really want to believe. Such theories can only survive in a mind wide open to suggestion or one already poluted with anti-American sentiment. It requires both faith and fantasy to believe in something so foundationless.

Don't think I'm just skipping down the Yellow Brick Road of Life, oblivious to lions lurking in the shadows. Like all countries, the United States is not a perfect nation. Surely we have made many mistakes. But we have also done many good things. Many good things. On September 11, we the citizens and lovers of the United States must remember those good things.

Americans have paid for the freedom of many with the blood of our people. Yes, it was for us (US); you, me, and our children. But it was also for strangers in faraway places whose lives were saved and their countries made free. 

Some are now insisting that it is time to move on. Let it go, they say. Time heals all wounds and its been time enough. But deep wounds leave scars to remind us of what happened. Every now and then we need to take our fingers and retrace the path of those scars so we can remind ourselves what we've been through, and be strengthened knowing how brave and united we became in a time of trouble.

God bless America. Pray for our nation, my friend.

Rose Rustlin' Update!

Pictured above, my mystery rose (she may be a wild Carolina Rose) which I grew from a cutting years ago. She got shuffled into a shady corner until last fall. She had her first bloom this spring.

You should see my mossy red-leaved foundling today (I blogged about her last week), happily planted outside the garden gate just in case she grows to be a big mamma-jama rose. Let me tell ya', she is one lucky girl. I was concerned about the weather being too hot for transplanting, since it is usually hotter than the dickins (whatever that is) here in NC this time of year. But this week has been marvelously cool. A fall week already. If I didn't know better, I'd think God had brought this weather just for her benefit. But she's only a rose...

So yesterday I went down to check on her (I'm thinking of her more as a pet than a plant...maybe a sick substitute for losing poor Charlie a couple of weeks ago...). She is growing already, her beautiful red leaves opening up as she stretches upwards toward the sun.

"Yep, doctor," said the rose rustler in his thick Southern accent to the...to the plant doctor. "Looks like she's gonna make it!"

I'm feelin' right happy about that.

How to Transplant a Rose

Above, Rose de Recht, planted "bare root" this spring, this one has been blooming continuously. The medium sized flowers have a wonderful fragrance. Though there is some virus in some of the leaves, she is still a beauty, and my favorite of the new "old" roses I planted this year.

How to transplant a rose bush:

It's best to do this in the fall or spring, but can be done other times, if you have no other choice. (If it's really hot, I might give it some relief from afternoon shade with a proped up piece of plywood or an old towel. Make sure it won't blow over onto the rose bush in a high wind. If it's really cold, what in the heck are you doing gardening now? You can put a heavy load of mulch around it which will generate some heat and help it survive the chill.)

1. When you dig the rose (check laws in your area if it's not from a place where you have permission) be sure to get as much of the root system as possible. You may prefer to divide the rose, taking only one side of the plant and roots. Also get a good amount of dirt from around the bush. You'll need it later. Being planted in familiar soil (with local bacteria, etc.) will help it to survive the transplant.
2. Trim away any large branches to about one foot above the soil line. This will allow the rose to put most of its energy into developing new roots instead of having to support large branches and leaves. Leave some leaves, if possible, and any new growth at the base.
3. Dig a large hole, easily big enough to accommodate the root system and some added soil. As you dig, you may want to put the dirt onto a garbage bag so it won't leave a mess around the plant. Bill and I, being reckless, never do that.
4. Once you've removed the soil from the hole, dump a couple of large scoops each of peat moss or root starter mix, manure (from the garden store or from the pasture, if you're lucky enough to have a farm) and rich top soil maybe with some leaf mold into the new hole along with the dirt you salvaged when you dug up the rose. If you have heavy clay soil, add a scoop or two of sand for drainage.
5. With a shovel, mix it all up well. Then remove enough so that the rose can be planted back up to the soil line it had when you dug it up. Pack the remaining soil into a mound within the hole so the roots will fit over the mound.
6. Set the roots on the mound. You are going to want the planted area to form a sort of "well", slightly lower than the surrounding earth, so that water will sit long enough to soak into the roots below. So make sure that the roots will be deep enough to where the old soil line at the base of the rose is slightly below the surrounding earth.
7. Place the soil mixture around your rose, distributing it evenly. Pack it down with your foot as you go so the soil will make contact with the roots of the rose. Don't forget to leave the well.
8. Top with a good layer of mulch, to hold in moisture and protect the roots from too much heat or cold.
9. Water your acquisition well. I water once so the water comes up to the edge of the well, and soaks in. Then I water at least two more times the same way. That way, I am sure that the water will go all the way down into the soil in the entire hole. For the first few weeks, I don't let it dry out too much. Water when the soil is dry on top, but still slightly moist an inch deep. Water in the morning to prevent black spot or other such ailments, but if you must water later in the day, try to avoid getting water on the leaves.
10. If you are really worried about root development, use a rooting hormone (such as Root Tone)  in your first or second watering. Follow the directions on the package for transplanting.

And as every fancy-pants Rose Rustler says when she's all done plantin', "Voila!...pardner.  I'm gonna just mozie along to the sank and get this here dirt out from under my fangernails." (Do be sure to get your hands and fingernails cleaned thoroughly using soap and a nail brush.)

So long for now.

Today Empty Nest, Tomorrow the World!

Daughter JoAnna (Joie) is at last on her way to New York City, and naturally I have mixed emotions. On one hand, I do so enjoy her company. She's adorable and funny and sweet. I also love her cooking, and the fact that she helps clean house, walks the dogs (including the one we inherited from her), and picks up a loaf of bread when necessary. And sometimes we hang out and watch movies together in the middle of the day, which is especially nice. Quite a luxury, in fact, wallowing on the sofa with the dogs, beneath a blanket while sharing a bowl of popcorn.

But it always happens this way. Just as I was growing accustomed to being alone all day (after freshman Sydney had been home for the whole summer last year), Joie came home during that limbo time between acquiring her masters and finding a job. Now that I am used to having her around, she's moving out again.

If I look at my front door today, instead of seeing Joie's two feet through the crack under the door as she fumbles for the key, I see that familiar and unwelcome shadow. The empty nest.

The on-again-off-again relationship of parents and children at this juncture in life can be rather perplexing. First you're young, independent and fancy free. Then kids come along. You fall in love with them, they grow up, go off and you miss them. Then they come back, then they're gone again, and eventually you enjoy independence again (although this time you aren't exactly young anymore). As I always say, that's life. If Bill and I have done our job well, Joie will adjust quickly in New York. She will see it as an adventure, and she will enjoy her stay, however long it is. I hope she does. I pray that she does.

I know she will.

So I'm here talking to you, a total stranger, as I consider what to expect now that Joie is on her way again. Well, first, no more getting caught at the computer early in the morning, ("are you playing that game again?"). And no more having to wait to do my own laundry, no delicious high calorie meals that made me put on nine pounds since she's been home, no more "where are you going, Mom?" And could I forget, no more "What's-this-mess-on-the-kitchen-table-why-don't-you-do-art-in-your-studio-downstairs?"-stuff. (For those of you who haven't gotten there yet, children often attempt to switch roles once they've been away for a while.)

And when Bill gets home tonight, we're stuck with just each other. We'll eat dinner alone together, share a glass of wine, watch tv, and finally go to bed and talk back and forth peacefully while Bill reads and I do a crossword puzzle. Alone. Together. Old married people still crazy (about each other) after all these years.

Hmmm...well, that sounds pretty doggone nice. I can get used to that once more. Meanwhile, I'm not going to be sad and miserable. This is the way it should be. Thank God for our kids, and their kids. Thank God for today. Thank God for Bill, too.

Excuse me, please. I must go to the front door and inform Mr. Empty Nest that he's going to have to find another place to stay from now on. Bill and I want to be alone.

And tomorrow, my dear stranger...I am going to make art. On the kitchen table. And I'm not going to clean it up until I want to.