Itching to Get Out in the Yard

My husband treats me like a fragile flower.
It's not that he thinks I can't do things, but he thinks that I shouldn't have to.
I'll  hoist a trash bag out of the can and head toward the back alley. "Paulita, I'll get that!" he calls.
If I'm scooting past him in the kitchen with a basket of laundry toward the basement, he'll say, "I'll take care of that."
Outdoor work, dishes, laundry, my husband quickly jumps in to take care of it.
But a lot of times, his hard-working ethic and attitude make me feel like I'm lazy.
So last week, I decided to tackle an outdoor job.
Our front yard is a waterfall of ivy down to a stone enclosed flowerbed.

Here's a shot of the vines flowing down the hill behind this blooming gladiola.

The surrounding trees often decide to plant their seeds in the ivy, so small trees begin to grow up. I wanted to cut down the trees and assorted weeds to clean up the ivy.
Wearing shorts and a tshirt, plus a pair of garden gloves, I  picked my way over the ivy pulling up weeds and sawing down tiny trees. I filled up a trash can that we use for yard waste before I threw in my trowel.
No one in my family noticed my gardening efforts, but I felt proud that I helped in my own way.
Then a couple days later, a bug bite began to itch, and when I examined the bites on my left arm, I realized that poison ivy had sprouted from my gardening efforts.
Now I'm busy applying alcohol to my rash, but it seems to keep popping up in new places. The first of the blisters have appeared on my right arm now and a couple on my leg.
What really bugs me, in addition to the itching, is that it doesn't all show up at once. It takes its time making an appearance.
This morning at the Y, an old man asked, "What happened to your arm?'
"Oh, it's just poison ivy," I said dismissively.
"Stay away from me!" he said.
"Poison ivy is only spread through the plant oils," I told him.
"It looks kind of juicy," he said. He actually said that. "Juicy."
For the record, it's not; it just looks gross.
Having learned my lesson, I won't be doing any more yard work. These poison ivy blisters might leave some permanent scars on my arms. Usually, when I get poison ivy, I end up at the doctor to get steroids. My body treats poison ivy like a wildfire, allowing it to spread fast and in all directions. I'm must be especially sensitive to it.
I'll still carry out the trash and the recycling, but I did ask my husband if he wouldn't mind doing the laundry, just to make sure that I didn't get any more of the poison ivy oil on my skin.
Maybe I am a fragile flower after all.

Gardens

The other morning we had fog. When I stepped out onto the porch to get the newspaper, I felt like I was in Jurassic Park. The air was all thick and prehistoric. Plus everything is so green from our front porch.
The hollyhocks are growing tall with hand-sized green leaves stretching over the edge of the porch. A couple of lavender bushes peek over the front of the porch. The ivy rolls down the front hill toward the rock walled garden that edges the sidewalk. And when I looked down at the garden, I was pleased that even though most of the irises have finished blooming, I could still see color. Columbine in purple and yellow dripping down. A green shoot stretched toward the sky with tiny white bell flowers dripping down from it.

And then I saw a color that I didn't expect to see it. It was another garden surprise, like the one last year where I had planted gladiolus bulbs the autumn before then forgot about them. So when the gladiolus bloomed, they thrilled me. They sprang up in such a variety of colors.

I ventured down to the garden, knowing it was too early for the gladiolus to make their appearance, and there I saw a delicately cupped poppy in the most gorgeous pinky-peach color, and other green bulbs on the stem were ready to burst into color too. I was thrilled.

Look at the purple inside. The picture doesn't do it justice, so you'll have to take my word. And I had just been wondering why I didn't have any poppies in my garden. They add so much color. I guess I planted these last year. Good thing my memory is going, so the garden can keep surprising me.

Rainbow of Petals

Last week I wrote about my garden surprise -- the gladiolus that sprang up from nowhere. Okay, I had planted the bulbs, but I forgot, so I was surprised by them. I was alerted by the peachy, rosy color of the first gladiolus that bloomed.
Nothing else in my garden is that color.
But I didn't want you to think that gladiolus only come in that color. We planted bulbs randomly and these are the colors we have seen so far.

White, of course. Pure, but slightly predictable in a flower.


The palest pink tipped with brighter pinks at the edges, and, wait? What's that? Yellow in the center? Who does your decorating, gladiolus, because that looks phenomenal.


This one looked intensely purple before opening and then once opened, released its purple to the wind and was satisfied to be lavender tinged.


The red is so dark and rich. It made me want to plan a December wedding with girls in green taffeta dresses and armloads of red velvety gladiolus.


And then I found these. Yellow, no shrinking yellow, but a hello-I'm-here yellow with reddish orange in the center. And the blooms opened all along the stem at the same time, flashly, like a can-can girl at the Moulin Rouge.
Oh, gladiolus, you flirts. You promised color and drama, and you delivered.

Garden Surprises

Last week, I talked about how I'm trying to get more color in my front garden. I made that vow last summer when the tiger lilies faded and I was left only greens and browns.
So the zinnias have given me some much needed color.
I was sitting on the front porch when I looked down the hill and amongst the greenery and the red, orange, purple zinnias, I saw an unusual color: a peek of peachy rose.
"What is that?" I sat upright in my wicker chair.
"What?" Earl asked looking up from his book.
"That peach colored flower?" I asked. I was already climbing down the concrete stairs with my bare feet.
"Those are the gladiolus," Earl said.
Oh. I'd forgotten that we planted a row of gladiolus bulbs in early spring, intent on adding color. And now, here they were.

I know it shouldn't be a surprise, since I planted them. But I'd forgotten and now, here they are, a garden surprise.
Lovely.

Garden Secrets

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, has does your garden grow?
I've been thinking about my garden lately, but this rhyme reminds me of my friend Pat who auditioned for a fairytale theme park when she was a little girl and got the part of Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Her mother, who I can picture in low heels, a shirtwaist dress and a string of pearls, smirked a bit at the part she received.
Anyway, last year at this time, my flower garden at front was devoid of color, except for green and sometimes brown. Once the spring Irises and the June tiger lilies have faded, I had no color. I vowed that this year, July would have color.
I have a few spots of color, like my balloon flower

or my echinacia.

But they are sparse so far, not spreading in my garden. So this year, I planned ahead.I ordered some zinnias from the PTA plant sale, and my husband planted them along the front.
Zinnias are kind of flirtatious. They start to show a bud and they tease you that they will arrive soon.

And then you wait and wait for them to actually open.
Oh, but when they do.
They appear in shades of yellow, orange and red, and even purple.

They come in pink:

And even pinker:

They start out opening flat like a daisy then add layers and layers of petals until they are thick and lush.

Here's a photo from the back garden that shows a zinnia mingling with a pink hollyhock and some blooming purple hostas.
The hollyhocks come every other year and the soil around this house doesn't appear to nourish the hollyhocks that I've transplanted from my parents' house in Kentucky to Michigan to Ohio. The hostas are these hilarious little low growing shade plants that suddenly send a shoot straight up in the air, like a flag pole with purple hanging blooms.
But wait until I tell you about the surprise in my garden. I planted something that I forgot.
I'll tell you next time I'm feeling contrary.

Strawberries and Patience

The problem with strawberries is that they take an extra year to grow. That means we plant them and let them grow a whole year before we get any berries off of them.
Each time the strawberry decides it should flower and produce a berry, we have to snap off the flower. It seems cruel to both the plant, which is trying to produce fruit, and to me, who would love to eat strawberries. The reasons for not letting it flower are vague to me, but something about establishing the plant. Planning for the future, blah, blah, blah...
But that was last year. This year, with monsoon rains throughout the spring, the strawberry plants flowered and produced tiny green berries that grew into lush red berries.
We've had strawberries for a few weeks now. Grace picks a handful for a smoothie in the morning. I stop and gather a bowl to have after my run. We've sliced them and put them atop the lettuce that grew in another garden bed. We probably need to fix some strawberry daquiris too.
If you haven't ever eaten a strawberry straight from the plant, full of warmth from the sun, you should.
I think this picture will serve as a testimony to their tastiness straight from the plant. Unlike adults who might ask if the strawberries have been rinsed, Caroline had no problem picking berry after berry and wolfing them down. She even ate the green topper when Grace didn't pull it off fast enough.
What are you growing this year?