There was no way I could catch up all my gardening friends as I frantically
noticed Spring sign in full earnest. Buds were shyly emerging from dark
twigs and stems, some of them blushed with pinks and pirkles and plum colors
and highlighted by soft yellow orange (the Spirea's), others were already
eagerly thrusting outwards, the Sorbaria throwing ferny triangles on the
ends of every shoot in the NSSG.

The Cornelian cherry has been teasing and taunting me now for weeks. First
hints of parted round lips of the many hundreds of round budlets on the
ends, crooks, crotches and places all over the now almost eleven year old.
The bark is peeling now, to reveal yet another treasure to add to the
visual. At her feet, the Cynthiana tulips wide leaves that I tucked in from
14 years diggings of my now almost past gardens in my first home in
Nashville. I
adore these tulips. The yellow petals like upside down skirts blush plum
rose on the outer sides. No sign of bud yet, but I trust the bulb fairy
explicitly to do his job, I suspect he has the help from his wife mate on
the patterns on each petal on all these bulbs that are tended. And I keep
him busy, ever adding more to the beds and pots for him to approve or
banish. I never know what will strike his fancy.

This year he's apparently disliked the blousy daffs. My beloved and highly
fragrant Cheerfulness and Yellow Cheerfulness. And no sign of my cherished
Sir Winston Churchill......I will get more to appease his little self, and
beg his tolerance for this great narcissus. Sir Winston smells so wondrous
and enticing and the folds are so beautiful you almost want to nip it as you
inhale it, tasting the flavor of the rich, oily and perfumey smell of it on
your tongue and nose. It's divine. I grieve at the possibility of the loss
of it, but know that Dutch Gardens carries them alternate years.

My mind now is in total chaos, flitting about like some heavily drugged fat
bumblie, I take the digital with me to capture images on too bright of a
day. The kind of day that my eyes appreciate, but I will have a hard time
grabbing the intensity of some of the little things I will come across.

The decisions to start on the east never fail. It's that side of my nook.
But from there I am like a puppet, being pulled back and forth in giddy
abandon, squatting, kneeling and sitting to get the best up in your face
picture I can. The dogs are confused by my actions, Sugar has drawn a blank
as to what I am doing, silly dawg. She should know mama does this often and
with great relish and affection.

My mind not on the dawgs, I slip over towards the display of incredible
bells and skirts of my Hellebores. My little garden granny gnome quietly
standing vigil with her love of the wee frogs, she is almost overwhelmed by
the blousy magnitude of a deliriously happy Lenten Rose. Lots and lots of
skirts hanging by thick threads waiting for frantic and giggly faerie ladies
to pull them on in the twilight and dance for hours and then put them back,
with only the underskirts disturbed. I lift a face and gaze with awe and
love. Take a picture and almost wish that their beauty had scent too, but
something's just don't have to be. Mom's Nature knows what she does.

As I am sitting in the driveway, I glance over towards the almost
skeletonized whiskey barrel sitting forlornly against the thick trunk of my
black cherry tree. The round bands stand tribute and evidence that the
great barrel I half filled with dirt really did reside there for eleven
years and before that, more like a total of 20 years, maybe even more, now
that I think about it as it originally started out as the back seat for a
Harley Davidson 1945 police issue trike.

The picture in my mind and Polaroid is my youngest son obviously a tyke
"driving" the trike with Squire proudly sitting in the back seat. When the
trike was sold to someone else who found the last two parts and was worthy,
we kept the barrel and I turned it into a place to stage houseplants until
we moved to Eastern Tennessee in 1992. I continued to use it to stage heavy
pots of whatever needed a lift the three years plus and finally gave it the
rest of planting it against the black cherry tree and filling it up to the
barrel staves where Squire had cut the oak to allow someone to sit
comfortably, and in doing so, the circular saw blade jumped out of his hand
with the guard not coming down and cutting his inner leg three inches deep.
There are memories tied up with those remains.

I sit on the warm ground on black cherry leaves and notice just outside the
edge of the barrel little familiar folds with tiny clusters of an emerging
bud shoot. Oh my goodness. The Virginia bluebells are already coming up?? I
roll over and get up and pick my way past the small entrance into this
little garden that I use every inch of and carefully kneel down and examine
the emerging shoots of the perennial. Inside the barrel, the other clumps
of bluebells are just coming up. I'll never understand their liking more to
the floor of the black cherry garden to the soils I put into the barrel, but
over on the right of the barrel where the round rings stand silently, I see
the familiar textured stain glass like leaves of cyclamen. How I wish I had
a whole bag of these wonderful beauties. I adore their leaves, and always
miss the teeny fairy flowers of pink when they emerge sometime in the fall
months.

As I sit on the ground, listening to the dawgs in their growling, grappling
games they play with each other constantly, I hear the wild and raucous
calls of every male flying mini-dragon in the ridge and woods and holler.
Calling out in loud abandon to come mate with me, come make eggs and downy
baby fledglings with me this summer. I'll make you such a beautiful nest,
one you'll be proud to sit in." It makes me smile, as I investigate even
further the appearances of the many inhabitants of the black cherry tree.

Lots of green tongues up high, sticking out towards the sky and limbs above.
Pottingshed's hyacinth "taters" (I lovingly call them that because their
bulbs so much look like little white taters). Green tulip shoots with white
edgings that are the Mardi Gras tulips. I love the leaves whether they bloom
this year or not. The many spikes of them rise taunting me. I dare to hope
they wow me again this year.

I am blown away by the many Spring sign. The ferny leaves of the Arborvitae
fern which isn't a fern at all but a moss.........and near and behind it,
the variegated Pieris, with stiff shoots of splayed out leaves with reddish
pirkle ear of corn looking "Woodstock" hyacinths already setting budlets.
They are so tight they DO look like some odd colored, fat ears of corn
tucked inside each goofy looking leaf cluster.

A clump of Columbine of unknown origins has unfolded her leaves and is
sprawling over the edge of the raised bed. The reminders that I need to
edge this bed with stacking retainer blocks become more evident as I look at
my make shift sides to shore up the raised rich humusy soils. Hugging
tightly against the tree's large trunk, an odd fern that I picked up at a
little nursery is gasping for me to pour some soils around the back section
of rhizomes. And just past it to the south side of the tree and bed,
Epimedium leaves are starting to push past the older leaves. I love so the
heart shaped tough leaves of them so. The flowers when they come are so
fairy like. I hear applause every time I discover them dangling ever so
daintily when they do emerge.

Against the northern side of the spent whiskey barrel, under the bottom edge
of the end band, primrose leaves show themselves green thru the brown
leaves. Near the 'Woodstock's' are the seedlings of Hellebore that I lifted
out of the clay soil just outside the bed two years ago and now they're
blooming a dusky rose color. One baby has three buds and one mature blossom
on it and I praise it to the skies. Behind and against the northern side of
the large tree trunk, I had tucked in a double white this late winter I'd
happened upon, and one that promised to maybe be as dark purple as to appear
black. Having moved the tags before I knew where I put each one, it will be
a gentle surprise when they set buds.

Against the edge of the bed, lined with bricko blocks resides those
Hellebore, and tucked everywhere, bulbs of all varieties are rising thru the
thick mat of leaves. Identities will be withheld until they set buds. Thru
those leaves, I see unfurling leaves of 'Toad lilies' and the Loripedilum I
tucked at the southern corner is setting nicely since I staked it with a
shorty rebar and bright pink piece of cloth. At her feet, it's not
determined whether the shoots in the soil escaping are daylilies or
Spiderworts. I'll know later. I was too excited to look further.

Across the driveway, the St. John's wort bush is fuzzy with teeny emerging
leaves, so textured and so cute.......No signs yet of either my Jackmanii
clematis that I unwound from the rusted porch supports and rotten twisted
grapevine last year to thread thru the new trellises and rebar I looped over
and across for them to attach to instead. I'm contemplating on planting the
Porcelain vine baby underneath the St. John's and against the trellis to
train it to meet the Jack halfway. There is also a double white clematis
that gives me two flowers that I hope will bulk out this year. No sign of
her either in the wall gardens of the NSSG. But lots of yellow corydalis
clumps, with their whacky columbine like leaves. Too many wild
strawberries, the little fairy in charge of the wild ground covers has been
busy. And I thought I'd pulled them all up...............

I stand against the wall and see the other impressive clump of Hellebore in
the raised bed that runs the length of the nook mini deck. These are white
and some are blush pink with white. I might have planted two together. And
underneath their skirts is a dark plum colored one I just tucked in to keep
them company.

Karol's flame Azalea has little buds but no promises of flowers and then we
don't know if it's a real flame Azalea or not until it flowers. I don't
care. This one has survived me and that's all I care about. I realize I
haven't looked at the Encore azalea underneath the black cherry tree and
walk back, and it's alive!! No signs of hosta's yet, but I see fleshy tips
of Bleeding hearts. Being pulled back to the NSSG I am overwhelmed at
everything.

The Sorbaria has stems everywhere. I relented and had planted the yellow
twig and red twig dogwood, 'Artic Fire' in between the Sorbaria stems where
I'd lifted the Mexican jasmine that Mary Emma had given me a few years
because it needed more sunlight than it was getting underneath everything.
As I stood there, admiring the combinations of plants, I noticed a
suspicious bud at the up tipping stems of my baby dogwood tree next to the
Cornelian Cherry and my heart skipped a beat. I counted. Four. WOO
HOO!!!!!! Now I can't wait until they open to see what color it's going to
be. Mary Emma gave me the tree as a mere seedling of a few inches and it's
taken eleven years to set buds.

Everywhere I look I am drawn. I go back down the driveway because I see
bright golden glaring up at me. So I walk quickly back and see that in the
raised bed of the Lady Jane magnolia, which is thick with silvery catkins on
every twig and stem, there has returned the pot of golden large crocus. and
next to them, the pulmonaria that I can't remember the name. But it's leaves
silvery and bright in the dark soils and leaves. On the southern side of
the bed underneath the shrubby tree, is a HUGE clump of Blackberry
corydalis, and that lifts my heart as well. As I stand there transfixed, my
eyes catch the glimpse of something dark green and familiar. Good lord!
It's VINCA MAJOR!!!!!!!ACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK how on earth did it get
this far??? And this lush:???? As I quickly bend down to pull carefully, I
see it's trying to root underneath the fallen leaves and I tear up five
strands that are too healthy for me and toss them into the concrete drive
where I watch to make sure they don't grab the pavement and crawl away.
geeze!!

That there was some kinda huge fairy fling and party last night is obvious.
The party favors are scattered and strewn about randomly. Bright yellow's
and icy purples. Deep cherry red pink with blue and black centered species
tulips are popping up in various assorted pots everywhere. Tri-colored
crocus sieberi are popping their faces out in the "Damon" pot. And leaves
of assorted perennials are shoving the soils aside to establish territory
already.

I've lost it now. Each outside pot has emerging plants and leaves in them.
The bed that I keep calling the 'dead maple' bed has a small dwarf white
buddleia that has silvery blue leaves everywhere along it's stems. I haven't
the heart to cut her back. Behind her a Navajo sunset red salvia has
settled her toes into the soils, and the purple black leaves of the old
magenta fall phlox are pushing this soil to the sides as well.

Sedums are everywhere, some like miniature green bouquets of roses at the
bases of the dried and almost pale kakis colored stems. I haven't cut them
off yet as some new babies cling to the bottoms of these stems like spoiled
children cling to their mama's as she tries to put them down. I must have
tossed crocus in some places, I see splashes of deep colors of C. vernus
Twilight and a few golden C. flavus Yellow Mammoth standing out forlornly in
the Frakartii aster bed.

The iris reticulata have succumbed to the heat in the dead maple bed, but I
see signs of a forgotten aster rising between the sedums. Across in the
first Eastern fairy bed, everything is erupting and emerging. I can see
buds on the Korean spirea, buds on the Spice Clethra. Buds on the button
Spirea. Anemone leaves pushing thru the leaves and gutter debris that son
drops down when he cleans them out before a rainfall.

Wads of spiky leaves of Bruce daylily, fleshy house leek sedums are already
paw shaped and mounding. Ferny mounds of Oriental poppies dotting where I
plunged them when I dug them carefully at Mary Emma's years ago and now they
have rewarded me with quietly bulking up. No seedlings yet, as this is what
they were, they will all be red with black blue crosses at the bases. I
crave orange ones and the dark Patty's Plum............

Frakartii asters got all their spent stems pulled out the other day in a
frenzy of pre-Spring fever and now for my efforts I see thin tongues of
leaves from the next generation to come. Now I know how they spread and
return. At the base of each towering stem a small rootlet grows the next
year's towering stalk that is loaded with soft lavender, daisy like flowers
with yellow eyes that entice and drive the assorted fliers wild with blossom
lust. As I pulled out each brittle and scratchy stalk, I pounded the
clinging soil against the backside of the bricko blocks I used to edge the
bed and part of the front of the eastern most front of the fairy gardens and
noticed a slender green shootlet and peering closely, I discovered the
secret and was ecstatic that this was indeed how they returned. I reminded
myself to lift a few younglings later to share with my gardening friend, who
I've nicknamed "Ethyl", as I'm a most encouraging gardening
'Lucy'.......gbseg If I can, I'll start a few in little 4 inch pots to
sent to my other friend out in Oregon to send her to share so she'll have
something else of my fairy gardens in Fairy Holler.

Everywhere it's sprout, leaf, flower, shoot. Tangle, mound, and then a
crazy wad of wild onions that laugh at me. I can't tell the wild onions
from the alliums............it's a ponder. This time, when I plant
ornamental alliums, I'm putting little plastic tabs next to where I plunge
them to show where they're at. Leaves that tell me spiderwort. Pointy iris
triangles. Clumps of leaves that promise the Kuggle Sonne rudbeckia has
emerged early again because of the raised soils. Some tips of frayed lilies
peeping shyly thru the debris and soils to sniff at the warm air and wonder
if it's safe before Mom's Nature's last laugh nips their tender leaves.

The air is warm and smelling like good musky bread. The soils have warmed
and everything is over anxious to burst forward. The air is also filled
with the trilling of delirious, lust enraged peepers. Their creeeeeeeking's
replaced by earnest trilling on scales of sound that are audible over a cell
phone. I should know, I called son to just hold the phone out of the window
yesterday and despite it was full daylight and middle of the day, they were
singing like peepers possessed. "come mate with me bebe, I want to make
lil' TADPOLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ".

I am giddy now, and can't slow down. Deep blush, fleshy pink leaves with
gold edged of the tree peony out front are unfurled. Her sister more demure
on the east has just started sending out tentative, tight leaves frayed at
the edges. Capturing my peripheral vision, drunken yellow butterflies, the
orange Sulphurs careen past the edges of my eyes already in search for
SOMETHING blooming! I see he lights on some of those screaming purple
crocus at the back of the long eastern fairy gardens. You almost hear
gasping sucking sounds of pleasure as he or she finds nourishment at such an
early time.

I am beside myself. I can't stop, I'm like some wound up stoned fairy child
(middle aged one, but never the less........I don't need drugs because the
mere air gets me giddy and high, the visions of flowers everywhere start my
blood seething and bubbling and I get true spring madness full on. The only
thing to dampen my spirits would be a frost or snow, and even then, I know
I'll grieve for the nipped leaves, but most everything will be fine.

My Forsythia great grand-daughter of the original butchered ones on the road
below me are lit up with screaming yellow lanterns. I thought the show
would be sparce, but they surprised me with a party of delicate papery
lanterns.

The western bed is cloaked and crowded with a crazy quilt of crocus.
Yellow's, white's, snow ones glistening blue-white, purple, striped, and up
to their necks with hen-bit that jealously throw their soft fuzzy purplish
flowers out to harmonize. The weed I can never put my finger on that has
teeny white flowers is everywhere. I don't mind. It rips out easily.
Chickweed has carpeted the fig bed, along with those lanky hen-bit's.

Electric rose colored leaves that are so minute on thread thin stems on my
tiny Spirea's. My crispa's, the Shiobana, the Lime green. I see blue green
leaves at the base of the Amsonia's. My mind almost explodes as I search
more and more. Containers reveal who survived the winter, surprises and
jokes........the Dame's Rockets decided to show me who was who, and threw
daughters into some of my pots. I will allow them to stay, but whack them
back severely to make them shorter. And lordy, lordy, I am overwhelmed.
Vinca as far and everywhere I look, peeking up at me in the bare area's I
thought I'd half ridden it from. Silvery and green splotched leaves of
yellow archangel laminastrum.

Pokey tan stems of everything that needs snapping and cutting. The asters
that I just plunked outside the western ended bed out of desperation when
Mary Emma asked me to just dig them up soil and all and take them. I never
cut them back because I want them to reseed for me like they had for her.

There's so much my little brain starts to simmer and I realize all this time
I've been flitting about snapping pictures and admiring and gushing and
oooohing and ahhhhing, I've not had one drink of tea or anything. My soul
full but my stomach anxious, I reluctlantly head to the side deck beside the
kitchen, and stop dead in my tracks as I see bright electric green ferny
leaves boiling over a large three gallon black nursery pot. FEVERFEW. WOW.
I walk over as if drugged and crush some leaves to smell the astringent
aeroma of them. sigh.................................

Everywhere along the edges of the ever narrowing deck, pots of emerging iris
tongues of lord knows what color iris that the farmer's wife, Virginia Davis
gifted me for digging up all her precious babies along side of her massive
yard near the overgrown grassy pasture last year. I usually don't do
bearded irises, but looking at her blousy darlings, I just couldn't help
myself. In an iris fit, I gathered up the pots and took them out front to
tip them out and carefully sit them at any south facing enclosed area I
could and see if they'd just pull themselves in and bloom for me next year.

The windowbox that I tied onto the railing has wakening ice plants and
Angelique sedums. The fiberglass square pot that looks barren I see has
thin thread leaves of someone. Maybe a species tulip or Brodiaea. A pot on
the picnic bench that serves as another landing for other pots, has clumps
of Stokesia. which reminds me to check to see if the Centaurea is
up.......yeppers! And I see Yarrow leaves all frosted and ferny laughing up
at me from the insides of the broken pot I put the original clump into.

Glancing at them I see the unmistakable triangles edged with purple of
monarda's. Phlox that Mary Emma gave me originally 11 years ago is
impatiently shoving the spent stems of last years plants still sticking up
thru the garden grid I used to support them. The single Kerria has crept
thru the loose rich soils and emerged in places that blow my mind, including
not only underneath the back landscape timber that raises the sides of the
beds, (that soils slip thru) but has popped up thru a crack in the sidewalk.

Viburnum's with dark leaves. Lenneii magnolia has such large buds the
catkins are already ripped and threaten to bloom way too early. I'm
hopelessly lost and distracted again. I see Autumn jazz Viburnum is back.
Wine and Roses weigelia has slight dark leaves. The smaller Lady Jane next
to the Lenneii is like a sassy teenager, stretching next to the elder and
larger flowered one and has those cute silver downed pointy buds.

I remember I tucked in tens and tens of anemone rhizomes and run to where I
remember them. Ferny leaves everywhere. ahhhhhhhhhh. The proof in the
pudding is if they bloom this year, but RETURN next year! I'm nervously
anxious to see if the Japanese iris I top dressed like the man who has the
nursery in middle lower Tennessee is right. I worry that the rich soils and
top dressing will discourage their flowering.

I sit down in the swing and notice that I still haven't had anything to
drink. chastising myself, I whistle for the dawgs who poke their heads
around the corner from the front dog run sidewalk as if to say, "YES???????"
and I laugh and tell them "lets go inside." Anxious to just be with me
now, they stop and drink from the waters in the fountain of the BBQ pit
garden/fountain and dripping, follow behind me, Sméagol sliming me like I
knew he would try to.

Inside I discover I still have some tea and I remember to turn on the
florescent light underneath the aquarium on the south livingroom wall for
the cacti and succulents and euphorbia's to stretch towards until I can move
them outside for real. Tea in hand, I pad down the darkened hallway because
I've been outside in the bright blue sky lit ridge, back up and grab a
watering can and fill it and then go back down the hall to the den.
Everyone is parched and leaning towards the south window that dominates the
whole wall. At my feet, I glance down and almost drop the can. A blood
lily flower is opening and she's late. By now I would have missed the
February emergence of them, but last year they bloomed not once but twice,
so I have no idea what's going on. I give everyone a deep drink, listening
to the sounds of overflow onto the vinyl floor, and smell the dusty, parched
soils gasping for moisture.

Stop and clean out the dried leaves and stems of the great bushy split-leaf
philodendrum, and happy to have done some peliminary clean up early, I go
back and get the can refilled. Good thing I got the two gallon one. The
phil takes the whole two gallons. That reminds me to water the Clivia's. I
hope Pen doesn't come up here from Australia to kick my butt if they don't
set buds this year either..............sigh. There are yellow leaves on the
largest one, but nothing yet. oh well..................maybe next year?
That's what's neat about gardeners.......ever the optimist. Next year. Next
season, next fall. The possibility of success finally........

With that, I stepped outside the side pantry room, walked thru the hallway
into and thru the livingroom and out the front door. Out the sidewalk and
up the driveway and stood looking at the wisteria trellis where the fat,
fuzz ball, Piquito, was lying on top of the dead foliage. As I spotted him
and started to smile, something bright yellow shouted out at me, and it's as
if this was why I'd gone back outside for. Underneath the Kerria stems, and
the tangle of spent Sweet Autumn Clematis and old wisteria vines and
assorted chaos, right at the edge of the trellis, I had planted some bulbs,
who knows how long. A healthy stand of tiny, perfect yellow narcissus. Each
flower just as big as my thumbnail or smaller, but perfect. and lots of
them. I felt myself sigh and decided that there was lots more to check out
on another day. I have time. And you'll be here.

Thanks for sharing these overjoyous moments with me. I look forward to
bringing you into my Fairy Holler and Eastern Tennessee at another time.

madgardener, up on the ridge, back in Fairy Holler, overlooking English
Mountain in Eastern Tennessee, zone 7, Sunset zone 36

WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

--
gloria - only the iguanas know for sure

"madgardener" wrote in message
...
There was no way I could catch up all my gardening friends as I
frantically
noticed Spring sign in full earnest. Buds were shyly emerging from dark
twigs and stems, some of them blushed with pinks and pirkles and plum
colors
and highlighted by soft yellow orange (the Spirea's), others were already
eagerly thrusting outwards, the Sorbaria throwing ferny triangles on the
ends of every shoot in the NSSG.

The Cornelian cherry has been teasing and taunting me now for weeks.
First
hints of parted round lips of the many hundreds of round budlets on the
ends, crooks, crotches and places all over the now almost eleven year old.
The bark is peeling now, to reveal yet another treasure to add to the
visual. At her feet, the Cynthiana tulips wide leaves that I tucked in
from 14 years diggings of my now almost past gardens in my first home in
Nashville. I
adore these tulips. The yellow petals like upside down skirts blush plum
rose on the outer sides. No sign of bud yet, but I trust the bulb fairy
explicitly to do his job, I suspect he has the help from his wife mate on
the patterns on each petal on all these bulbs that are tended. And I keep
him busy, ever adding more to the beds and pots for him to approve or
banish. I never know what will strike his fancy.

This year he's apparently disliked the blousy daffs. My beloved and highly
fragrant Cheerfulness and Yellow Cheerfulness. And no sign of my cherished
Sir Winston Churchill......I will get more to appease his little self, and
beg his tolerance for this great narcissus. Sir Winston smells so
wondrous
and enticing and the folds are so beautiful you almost want to nip it as
you
inhale it, tasting the flavor of the rich, oily and perfumey smell of it
on
your tongue and nose. It's divine. I grieve at the possibility of the
loss
of it, but know that Dutch Gardens carries them alternate years.

My mind now is in total chaos, flitting about like some heavily drugged
fat
bumblie, I take the digital with me to capture images on too bright of a
day. The kind of day that my eyes appreciate, but I will have a hard time
grabbing the intensity of some of the little things I will come across.

The decisions to start on the east never fail. It's that side of my nook.
But from there I am like a puppet, being pulled back and forth in giddy
abandon, squatting, kneeling and sitting to get the best up in your face
picture I can. The dogs are confused by my actions, Sugar has drawn a
blank
as to what I am doing, silly dawg. She should know mama does this often
and
with great relish and affection.

My mind not on the dawgs, I slip over towards the display of incredible
bells and skirts of my Hellebores. My little garden granny gnome quietly
standing vigil with her love of the wee frogs, she is almost overwhelmed
by the blousy magnitude of a deliriously happy Lenten Rose. Lots and lots
of
skirts hanging by thick threads waiting for frantic and giggly faerie
ladies
to pull them on in the twilight and dance for hours and then put them
back,
with only the underskirts disturbed. I lift a face and gaze with awe and
love. Take a picture and almost wish that their beauty had scent too, but
something's just don't have to be. Mom's Nature knows what she does.

As I am sitting in the driveway, I glance over towards the almost
skeletonized whiskey barrel sitting forlornly against the thick trunk of
my
black cherry tree. The round bands stand tribute and evidence that the
great barrel I half filled with dirt really did reside there for eleven
years and before that, more like a total of 20 years, maybe even more, now
that I think about it as it originally started out as the back seat for a
Harley Davidson 1945 police issue trike.

The picture in my mind and Polaroid is my youngest son obviously a tyke
"driving" the trike with Squire proudly sitting in the back seat. When
the trike was sold to someone else who found the last two parts and was
worthy, we kept the barrel and I turned it into a place to stage
houseplants until we moved to Eastern Tennessee in 1992. I continued to
use it to stage heavy pots of whatever needed a lift the three years plus
and finally gave it the rest of planting it against the black cherry tree
and filling it up to the barrel staves where Squire had cut the oak to
allow someone to sit comfortably, and in doing so, the circular saw blade
jumped out of his hand with the guard not coming down and cutting his
inner leg three inches deep. There are memories tied up with those
remains.

I sit on the warm ground on black cherry leaves and notice just outside
the
edge of the barrel little familiar folds with tiny clusters of an emerging
bud shoot. Oh my goodness. The Virginia bluebells are already coming up??
I
roll over and get up and pick my way past the small entrance into this
little garden that I use every inch of and carefully kneel down and
examine
the emerging shoots of the perennial. Inside the barrel, the other clumps
of bluebells are just coming up. I'll never understand their liking more
to
the floor of the black cherry garden to the soils I put into the barrel,
but
over on the right of the barrel where the round rings stand silently, I
see
the familiar textured stain glass like leaves of cyclamen. How I wish I
had
a whole bag of these wonderful beauties. I adore their leaves, and
always
miss the teeny fairy flowers of pink when they emerge sometime in the fall
months.

As I sit on the ground, listening to the dawgs in their growling,
grappling
games they play with each other constantly, I hear the wild and raucous
calls of every male flying mini-dragon in the ridge and woods and holler.
Calling out in loud abandon to come mate with me, come make eggs and downy
baby fledglings with me this summer. I'll make you such a beautiful nest,
one you'll be proud to sit in." It makes me smile, as I investigate even
further the appearances of the many inhabitants of the black cherry tree.

Lots of green tongues up high, sticking out towards the sky and limbs
above. Pottingshed's hyacinth "taters" (I lovingly call them that because
their bulbs so much look like little white taters). Green tulip shoots
with white edgings that are the Mardi Gras tulips. I love the leaves
whether they bloom this year or not. The many spikes of them rise
taunting me. I dare to hope they wow me again this year.

I am blown away by the many Spring sign. The ferny leaves of the
Arborvitae fern which isn't a fern at all but a moss.........and near and
behind it, the variegated Pieris, with stiff shoots of splayed out leaves
with reddish pirkle ear of corn looking "Woodstock" hyacinths already
setting budlets. They are so tight they DO look like some odd colored, fat
ears of corn tucked inside each goofy looking leaf cluster.

A clump of Columbine of unknown origins has unfolded her leaves and is
sprawling over the edge of the raised bed. The reminders that I need to
edge this bed with stacking retainer blocks become more evident as I look
at my make shift sides to shore up the raised rich humusy soils. Hugging
tightly against the tree's large trunk, an odd fern that I picked up at a
little nursery is gasping for me to pour some soils around the back
section of rhizomes. And just past it to the south side of the tree and
bed, Epimedium leaves are starting to push past the older leaves. I love
so the heart shaped tough leaves of them so. The flowers when they come
are so fairy like. I hear applause every time I discover them dangling
ever so daintily when they do emerge.

Against the northern side of the spent whiskey barrel, under the bottom
edge of the end band, primrose leaves show themselves green thru the brown
leaves. Near the 'Woodstock's' are the seedlings of Hellebore that I
lifted out of the clay soil just outside the bed two years ago and now
they're blooming a dusky rose color. One baby has three buds and one
mature blossom on it and I praise it to the skies. Behind and against the
northern side of the large tree trunk, I had tucked in a double white this
late winter I'd happened upon, and one that promised to maybe be as dark
purple as to appear black. Having moved the tags before I knew where I
put each one, it will be a gentle surprise when they set buds.

Against the edge of the bed, lined with bricko blocks resides those
Hellebore, and tucked everywhere, bulbs of all varieties are rising thru
the thick mat of leaves. Identities will be withheld until they set buds.
Thru those leaves, I see unfurling leaves of 'Toad lilies' and the
Loripedilum I tucked at the southern corner is setting nicely since I
staked it with a shorty rebar and bright pink piece of cloth. At her
feet, it's not determined whether the shoots in the soil escaping are
daylilies or Spiderworts. I'll know later. I was too excited to look
further.

Across the driveway, the St. John's wort bush is fuzzy with teeny emerging
leaves, so textured and so cute.......No signs yet of either my Jackmanii
clematis that I unwound from the rusted porch supports and rotten twisted
grapevine last year to thread thru the new trellises and rebar I looped
over and across for them to attach to instead. I'm contemplating on
planting the Porcelain vine baby underneath the St. John's and against the
trellis to train it to meet the Jack halfway. There is also a double
white clematis that gives me two flowers that I hope will bulk out this
year. No sign of her either in the wall gardens of the NSSG. But lots of
yellow corydalis clumps, with their whacky columbine like leaves. Too
many wild strawberries, the little fairy in charge of the wild ground
covers has been busy. And I thought I'd pulled them all up...............

I stand against the wall and see the other impressive clump of Hellebore
in the raised bed that runs the length of the nook mini deck. These are
white and some are blush pink with white. I might have planted two
together. And underneath their skirts is a dark plum colored one I just
tucked in to keep them company.

Karol's flame Azalea has little buds but no promises of flowers and then
we don't know if it's a real flame Azalea or not until it flowers. I don't
care. This one has survived me and that's all I care about. I realize I
haven't looked at the Encore azalea underneath the black cherry tree and
walk back, and it's alive!! No signs of hosta's yet, but I see fleshy
tips of Bleeding hearts. Being pulled back to the NSSG I am overwhelmed
at everything.

The Sorbaria has stems everywhere. I relented and had planted the yellow
twig and red twig dogwood, 'Artic Fire' in between the Sorbaria stems
where I'd lifted the Mexican jasmine that Mary Emma had given me a few
years because it needed more sunlight than it was getting underneath
everything. As I stood there, admiring the combinations of plants, I
noticed a suspicious bud at the up tipping stems of my baby dogwood tree
next to the Cornelian Cherry and my heart skipped a beat. I counted.
Four. WOO HOO!!!!!! Now I can't wait until they open to see what color
it's going to be. Mary Emma gave me the tree as a mere seedling of a few
inches and it's taken eleven years to set buds.

Everywhere I look I am drawn. I go back down the driveway because I see
bright golden glaring up at me. So I walk quickly back and see that in
the raised bed of the Lady Jane magnolia, which is thick with silvery
catkins on every twig and stem, there has returned the pot of golden large
crocus. and next to them, the pulmonaria that I can't remember the name.
But it's leaves silvery and bright in the dark soils and leaves. On the
southern side of the bed underneath the shrubby tree, is a HUGE clump of
Blackberry corydalis, and that lifts my heart as well. As I stand there
transfixed, my eyes catch the glimpse of something dark green and
familiar. Good lord! It's VINCA MAJOR!!!!!!!ACKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
how on earth did it get this far??? And this lush:???? As I quickly bend
down to pull carefully, I see it's trying to root underneath the fallen
leaves and I tear up five strands that are too healthy for me and toss
them into the concrete drive where I watch to make sure they don't grab
the pavement and crawl away. geeze!!

That there was some kinda huge fairy fling and party last night is
obvious. The party favors are scattered and strewn about randomly. Bright
yellow's and icy purples. Deep cherry red pink with blue and black
centered species tulips are popping up in various assorted pots
everywhere. Tri-colored crocus sieberi are popping their faces out in the
"Damon" pot. And leaves of assorted perennials are shoving the soils
aside to establish territory already.

I've lost it now. Each outside pot has emerging plants and leaves in
them. The bed that I keep calling the 'dead maple' bed has a small dwarf
white buddleia that has silvery blue leaves everywhere along it's stems. I
haven't the heart to cut her back. Behind her a Navajo sunset red salvia
has settled her toes into the soils, and the purple black leaves of the
old magenta fall phlox are pushing this soil to the sides as well.

Sedums are everywhere, some like miniature green bouquets of roses at the
bases of the dried and almost pale kakis colored stems. I haven't cut them
off yet as some new babies cling to the bottoms of these stems like
spoiled children cling to their mama's as she tries to put them down. I
must have tossed crocus in some places, I see splashes of deep colors of
C. vernus Twilight and a few golden C. flavus Yellow Mammoth standing out
forlornly in the Frakartii aster bed.

The iris reticulata have succumbed to the heat in the dead maple bed, but
I see signs of a forgotten aster rising between the sedums. Across in the
first Eastern fairy bed, everything is erupting and emerging. I can see
buds on the Korean spirea, buds on the Spice Clethra. Buds on the button
Spirea. Anemone leaves pushing thru the leaves and gutter debris that son
drops down when he cleans them out before a rainfall.

Wads of spiky leaves of Bruce daylily, fleshy house leek sedums are
already paw shaped and mounding. Ferny mounds of Oriental poppies
dotting where I plunged them when I dug them carefully at Mary Emma's
years ago and now they have rewarded me with quietly bulking up. No
seedlings yet, as this is what they were, they will all be red with black
blue crosses at the bases. I crave orange ones and the dark Patty's
Plum............

Frakartii asters got all their spent stems pulled out the other day in a
frenzy of pre-Spring fever and now for my efforts I see thin tongues of
leaves from the next generation to come. Now I know how they spread and
return. At the base of each towering stem a small rootlet grows the next
year's towering stalk that is loaded with soft lavender, daisy like
flowers with yellow eyes that entice and drive the assorted fliers wild
with blossom lust. As I pulled out each brittle and scratchy stalk, I
pounded the clinging soil against the backside of the bricko blocks I used
to edge the bed and part of the front of the eastern most front of the
fairy gardens and noticed a slender green shootlet and peering closely, I
discovered the secret and was ecstatic that this was indeed how they
returned. I reminded myself to lift a few younglings later to share with
my gardening friend, who I've nicknamed "Ethyl", as I'm a most encouraging
gardening 'Lucy'.......gbseg If I can, I'll start a few in little 4
inch pots to sent to my other friend out in Oregon to send her to share so
she'll have something else of my fairy gardens in Fairy Holler.

Everywhere it's sprout, leaf, flower, shoot. Tangle, mound, and then a
crazy wad of wild onions that laugh at me. I can't tell the wild onions
from the alliums............it's a ponder. This time, when I plant
ornamental alliums, I'm putting little plastic tabs next to where I plunge
them to show where they're at. Leaves that tell me spiderwort. Pointy
iris triangles. Clumps of leaves that promise the Kuggle Sonne rudbeckia
has emerged early again because of the raised soils. Some tips of frayed
lilies peeping shyly thru the debris and soils to sniff at the warm air
and wonder if it's safe before Mom's Nature's last laugh nips their tender
leaves.

The air is warm and smelling like good musky bread. The soils have warmed
and everything is over anxious to burst forward. The air is also filled
with the trilling of delirious, lust enraged peepers. Their
creeeeeeeking's replaced by earnest trilling on scales of sound that are
audible over a cell phone. I should know, I called son to just hold the
phone out of the window yesterday and despite it was full daylight and
middle of the day, they were singing like peepers possessed. "come mate
with me bebe, I want to make lil' TADPOLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
".

I am giddy now, and can't slow down. Deep blush, fleshy pink leaves with
gold edged of the tree peony out front are unfurled. Her sister more
demure on the east has just started sending out tentative, tight leaves
frayed at the edges. Capturing my peripheral vision, drunken yellow
butterflies, the orange Sulphurs careen past the edges of my eyes already
in search for SOMETHING blooming! I see he lights on some of those
screaming purple crocus at the back of the long eastern fairy gardens.
You almost hear gasping sucking sounds of pleasure as he or she finds
nourishment at such an early time.

I am beside myself. I can't stop, I'm like some wound up stoned fairy
child (middle aged one, but never the less........I don't need drugs
because the mere air gets me giddy and high, the visions of flowers
everywhere start my blood seething and bubbling and I get true spring
madness full on. The only thing to dampen my spirits would be a frost or
snow, and even then, I know I'll grieve for the nipped leaves, but most
everything will be fine.

My Forsythia great grand-daughter of the original butchered ones on the
road below me are lit up with screaming yellow lanterns. I thought the
show would be sparce, but they surprised me with a party of delicate
papery lanterns.

The western bed is cloaked and crowded with a crazy quilt of crocus.
Yellow's, white's, snow ones glistening blue-white, purple, striped, and
up to their necks with hen-bit that jealously throw their soft fuzzy
purplish flowers out to harmonize. The weed I can never put my finger on
that has teeny white flowers is everywhere. I don't mind. It rips out
easily. Chickweed has carpeted the fig bed, along with those lanky
hen-bit's.

Electric rose colored leaves that are so minute on thread thin stems on my
tiny Spirea's. My crispa's, the Shiobana, the Lime green. I see blue
green leaves at the base of the Amsonia's. My mind almost explodes as I
search more and more. Containers reveal who survived the winter,
surprises and jokes........the Dame's Rockets decided to show me who was
who, and threw daughters into some of my pots. I will allow them to stay,
but whack them back severely to make them shorter. And lordy, lordy, I am
overwhelmed. Vinca as far and everywhere I look, peeking up at me in the
bare area's I thought I'd half ridden it from. Silvery and green splotched
leaves of yellow archangel laminastrum.

Pokey tan stems of everything that needs snapping and cutting. The asters
that I just plunked outside the western ended bed out of desperation when
Mary Emma asked me to just dig them up soil and all and take them. I never
cut them back because I want them to reseed for me like they had for her.

There's so much my little brain starts to simmer and I realize all this
time I've been flitting about snapping pictures and admiring and gushing
and oooohing and ahhhhing, I've not had one drink of tea or anything. My
soul full but my stomach anxious, I reluctlantly head to the side deck
beside the kitchen, and stop dead in my tracks as I see bright electric
green ferny leaves boiling over a large three gallon black nursery pot.
FEVERFEW. WOW. I walk over as if drugged and crush some leaves to smell
the astringent aeroma of them. sigh.................................

Everywhere along the edges of the ever narrowing deck, pots of emerging
iris tongues of lord knows what color iris that the farmer's wife,
Virginia Davis gifted me for digging up all her precious babies along side
of her massive yard near the overgrown grassy pasture last year. I
usually don't do bearded irises, but looking at her blousy darlings, I
just couldn't help myself. In an iris fit, I gathered up the pots and
took them out front to tip them out and carefully sit them at any south
facing enclosed area I could and see if they'd just pull themselves in and
bloom for me next year.

The windowbox that I tied onto the railing has wakening ice plants and
Angelique sedums. The fiberglass square pot that looks barren I see has
thin thread leaves of someone. Maybe a species tulip or Brodiaea. A pot
on the picnic bench that serves as another landing for other pots, has
clumps of Stokesia. which reminds me to check to see if the Centaurea is
up.......yeppers! And I see Yarrow leaves all frosted and ferny laughing
up at me from the insides of the broken pot I put the original clump into.

Glancing at them I see the unmistakable triangles edged with purple of
monarda's. Phlox that Mary Emma gave me originally 11 years ago is
impatiently shoving the spent stems of last years plants still sticking up
thru the garden grid I used to support them. The single Kerria has crept
thru the loose rich soils and emerged in places that blow my mind,
including not only underneath the back landscape timber that raises the
sides of the beds, (that soils slip thru) but has popped up thru a crack
in the sidewalk.

Viburnum's with dark leaves. Lenneii magnolia has such large buds the
catkins are already ripped and threaten to bloom way too early. I'm
hopelessly lost and distracted again. I see Autumn jazz Viburnum is back.
Wine and Roses weigelia has slight dark leaves. The smaller Lady Jane
next to the Lenneii is like a sassy teenager, stretching next to the elder
and larger flowered one and has those cute silver downed pointy buds.

I remember I tucked in tens and tens of anemone rhizomes and run to where
I remember them. Ferny leaves everywhere. ahhhhhhhhhh. The proof in the
pudding is if they bloom this year, but RETURN next year! I'm nervously
anxious to see if the Japanese iris I top dressed like the man who has the
nursery in middle lower Tennessee is right. I worry that the rich soils
and top dressing will discourage their flowering.

I sit down in the swing and notice that I still haven't had anything to
drink. chastising myself, I whistle for the dawgs who poke their heads
around the corner from the front dog run sidewalk as if to say,
"YES???????" and I laugh and tell them "lets go inside." Anxious to just
be with me now, they stop and drink from the waters in the fountain of the
BBQ pit garden/fountain and dripping, follow behind me, Sméagol sliming me
like I knew he would try to.

Inside I discover I still have some tea and I remember to turn on the
florescent light underneath the aquarium on the south livingroom wall for
the cacti and succulents and euphorbia's to stretch towards until I can
move them outside for real. Tea in hand, I pad down the darkened hallway
because I've been outside in the bright blue sky lit ridge, back up and
grab a watering can and fill it and then go back down the hall to the den.
Everyone is parched and leaning towards the south window that dominates
the whole wall. At my feet, I glance down and almost drop the can. A
blood lily flower is opening and she's late. By now I would have missed
the February emergence of them, but last year they bloomed not once but
twice, so I have no idea what's going on. I give everyone a deep drink,
listening to the sounds of overflow onto the vinyl floor, and smell the
dusty, parched soils gasping for moisture.

Stop and clean out the dried leaves and stems of the great bushy
split-leaf philodendrum, and happy to have done some peliminary clean up
early, I go back and get the can refilled. Good thing I got the two gallon
one. The phil takes the whole two gallons. That reminds me to water the
Clivia's. I hope Pen doesn't come up here from Australia to kick my butt
if they don't set buds this year either..............sigh. There are
yellow leaves on the largest one, but nothing yet. oh
well..................maybe next year? That's what's neat about
gardeners.......ever the optimist. Next year. Next season, next fall.
The possibility of success finally........

With that, I stepped outside the side pantry room, walked thru the hallway
into and thru the livingroom and out the front door. Out the sidewalk and
up the driveway and stood looking at the wisteria trellis where the fat,
fuzz ball, Piquito, was lying on top of the dead foliage. As I spotted
him and started to smile, something bright yellow shouted out at me, and
it's as if this was why I'd gone back outside for. Underneath the Kerria
stems, and the tangle of spent Sweet Autumn Clematis and old wisteria
vines and assorted chaos, right at the edge of the trellis, I had planted
some bulbs, who knows how long. A healthy stand of tiny, perfect yellow
narcissus. Each flower just as big as my thumbnail or smaller, but
perfect. and lots of them. I felt myself sigh and decided that there was
lots more to check out on another day. I have time. And you'll be here.

Thanks for sharing these overjoyous moments with me. I look forward to
bringing you into my Fairy Holler and Eastern Tennessee at another time.

madgardener, up on the ridge, back in Fairy Holler, overlooking English
Mountain in Eastern Tennessee, zone 7, Sunset zone 36

**********
Er!, Um!, did you take a week off to write all that!, Mm?. Nemmind!
Eh!,, - you charmed this old codger tired due to sweeping up all the house
surrounds after waking up this morning to see an eight inch deep blizzard
had visited during the night with two feet high clumps in the edges and
corners. I cleared my car drive out front, and the pavements , (sidewalk
to
you, missus!) and also my next door neighbour's area who has just had a
new thigh-bone fitted and is temporarily unfit for heavy duty.).
I live on the west coast of N.W. England on the large promontory which
contains part of the beautiful Lake District.
Having been for most of my life a keen student of the American Civil war,
enthused originally by the best film ever made. In 1980 My wife, (recently
deceased), and I visited a Radio Amateur friend and his lady wife at
Decatur, now part of Atlanta, Ga.
My centre of interest ( fired by the film,) was, and is the march of General
Tecumsa Sherman from Chattanooga to Atlanta where he did not engage or
commit his army to join battle with the defenders on the hill. (I have
climbed that hill and all the field guns are still in their places, barrels
still looking down at the plains, all "present and correct", in pristine
condition and ready for inspection - if not battle.
He placed the City under seige and that was the prompt for the book and the
brilliant film
"Gone with the Wind", which ended with the words, "Frankly Madame - I don't
give a damn!" . I have visited the grave of the Lady Authoress as well as
the graves and the tall Cenotaph. I have stood on the railway lines near
where the warehouses were conflagrated, also all the various battlefields,
and paid my respects to the large carved stones which commemorate the
various regiments who fought and perished there. What a pity that the armies
advanced right down to Savannah in complete disorder before turning left to
subdue South Carolina, which finally ended the war.
I detected ill-feeling whenever that part of the conflict was discussed.
The South has never forgotten, nor have they forgiven, was my feeling.
I can't find Fairy Holler on my map. I see the mountain range is mostly in
North Carolina
with one mountain, Mt. Mitchell. I can see Knoxville, Johnson City,
Morristown, , Elizabethton, Maryville, Cleveland and Chattanooga right on
the border.

Well, it's almost midnight so thank you for your dissertation. I may be
able to finish my greenhouse preparation if the thaw begins.
Doug.
**********

thanks gloria. I will pick up brochures tomorrow. Squire is home and it's
always insane at that point. have faith.
maddie
"glenon" wrote in message
. ..
WOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

--
gloria - only the iguanas know for sure

"doug" wrote in message
...
**********
Er!, Um!, did you take a week off to write all that!, Mm?. Nemmind!
you sense that more time had been experienced, but take a week off to write
that?

No, I sat and wrote it in two days. The bulk of it was written the day it
was posted. I tend to write late at night after I have returned to the home
from taking grown son to work which is around 10 p.m. He calls at 6 a.m.
needing picking up right up the road where his boss drops him off on his way
home, saving me 300 miles travel total. Were that son would relent and go in
early and I could save even THAT! But I got myself into this pickle and it
makes me feel needed. Sometimes I find myself resenting the interruption,
but remind myself it's my own painting into a corner, that got me into this
five day a week responsibility.

To clarify and not write a novella......son's driving license is temporairly
revoked due to reasons not totally his own. We live a bit away from where
the job is (I used to work at another store like his only in Morristown, and
the double driving because they wouldn't let us work in the same store
almost killed me from stretching too thin, so I quit work and devoted myself
to schlepping him to and from work, increasing his rent by double to
compensate the gas and miles put upon the beast.)

Eh!,, - you charmed this old codger tired due to sweeping up all the house
surrounds after waking up this morning to see an eight inch deep blizzard
had visited during the night with two feet high clumps in the edges and
corners. I cleared my car drive out front, and the pavements , (sidewalk to
you, missus!) and also my next door neighbour's area who has just had a new
thigh-bone fitted and is temporarily unfit for heavy duty.).

I am honored sir, of your kind remarks about my writings. When I am thusly
inspired, I just start writing. The words barely able to keep up with my
fingers and mind. I used to HAND WRITE this stuff down, and when I learned
that my fingers could in no way keep up with my careening mind, my dad, now
departed from me sixteen years, came to my former house in Nashville where I
hail from originally and presented me with a Royal 440 manual typewriter.

Upon which I started writing my loooong letters to my best friend who then
resided in Denver with great clacking and tapping and fury when inspired to
keep her abreast of situations in my emerging faeriedom that tried to grab
toe hold in suburbia. I have a child-like quality about me that I hope I
never lose, because I love odd things. Since I am so obcessed with flowers
and the like, I started accumulating neat peel and stick, paper stickers of
assorted themes that were supposed to be used on the backs of envelopes and
such. I got the bright idea to just cover the drab surface of the old
Royall 440 with these stickers and even cut out the bright designs of
postage stamps on the outer covers and glued them, overlapping, on the
area's. To say the old dear was lit up is an understatement.

when I first moved over eastwards, and the typewriter needed proper
cleaning, I discovered a small office supply place in Morristown that not
only carried every kind of supply needed for any proper office or business,
but pencils and pens and things of great wonder that attracted me to them to
patronage them often. (I also have a weakness for a good pen). Downstairs
were little old men who were employed for their abilities and love of
tinkering and fixing mechanical things, particularly of office nature.
Though not cheap, I was told that if given proper fees, they would clean her
and lubricate the old gal to almost youthful restoration. I informed them
they could NOT remove the stickers, and one old wizened gentleman of
questionable longivity piped up as he looked at my beloved writer of words
and thoughts, "Hell honey, I wouldn't think of removing her beautiful skin.
There won't be one flower moved, I'll just grease the old gal up and clean
her fingers and sweep out dust and accumulations so that she'll write faster
than you ever thought possible!


when I got her back, he informed me that the two missing tab covers were
impossible to replace, but would I not mind that he'd found green key covers
with "z's" on them and it wouldn't distract me. I was so happy he'd
replaced the missing tabs, and told him I was thrilled with his finding
something to cover the naked ends. I had removed lesser used ends to cover
the bare ends for the longest time after a particularly mischeveous toddler
snatched the two key tabs and ate them. No amount of sorting thru the
eventual poop (the voracious toddler's mom refused to poke thru his poop to
look for my key covers, and I would have but she thought me "gross"---)
turned up the recycled covers, and I actually got the idea to at least
replace one of the keys with a lesser used one for temporairy use.



I used this typewriter all the time until Squire (my husband) coerced me
into
trying his home built computer and visiting a gardening newsgroup. At that
point in time, I was in no way interested in computers, and looked upon them
as great sucking beasts of time as Squire was known to sit for hours at a
time doing games and such. But he sat down one evening, pulled up the inbox
(this was about 8 years and a few months ago) and opened up a subscribed
newsgroup called rec.gardens and informed me he had subscribed to it and
wanted me just to sit down and read some of the writings and questions
there. That was his first mistake....................................then
he discovered he'd unleashed a monster and was having trouble getting me OFF
HIS computer when he wanted to get on it, and the only solution was to build
ME a computer of my own. the rest is history. My beloved typewriter is
resting now eight years, still covered, but I still crank out page after
page of rambles now on the computer.



I live on the west coast of N.W. England on the large promontory which
contains part of the beautiful Lake District.

that sounds absolutely wonderful!! Here we have a man made lake that came
about when they built an electric generating dam on the French Broad River
back in the late 40's inspired by President Roosevelt and his Army Corp of
Engineers. For whatever reason they named it Douglas Lake. That's what's
lying at the base of English Mountain here in Dandridge.

Having been for most of my life a keen student of the American Civil war,
enthused originally by the best film ever made. In 1980 My wife, (recently
deceased), and I visited a Radio Amateur friend and his lady wife at
Decatur, now part of Atlanta, Ga.

My condolences on the passing of your sweet wife, dear. I'm sure her loss
is a painful one, but you have years of memories to wrap your aching heart
in and most likely children and grandchildren that speak of her in volumes.
At least you have your greenhouse and gardens to give comfort. And you can
read the rediculous escapades and happenings of the ol' madgardener and
other wonderful residents of the garden newsgroup. (I also visit rec.gardens
as well).

Regarding the remark about Decatur.......LOL don't let the Decatur
crackers hear you say that! If you liked that movie, you owe it to yourself
to go check out the movie, Glory. It's a pretty accurate depition of the
black soldiers who fought too. Everytime I happen across it, I will sit and
watch it the rest of the way through and wind up crying again. It's very
well done. Has some awesome actors in it as well. It smells of how things
really were back then and is on my "purchase for the movie library" list.

My centre of interest ( fired by the film,) was, and is the march of General
Tecumsa Sherman from Chattanooga to Atlanta where he did not engage or
commit his army to join battle with the defenders on the hill. (I have
climbed that hill and all the field guns are still in their places, barrels
still looking down at the plains, all "present and correct", in pristine
condition and ready for inspection - if not battle.

well yeah, I'd not expect those old salts and sons and daughters of their
grandpappy's to keep them any other way! LOL I grew up in Nashville near
Franklin, another large battleground area. Near the Harpeth River area.

These people over here in Eastern Tennessee weren't too happy about losing
their field hands and fought tooth and nail during that tumultous time. I
sometimes got a hard time in MODERN day because I am from "Middle
Tennessee". But I don't let it bother me none. More likely they hear the
effects of living with a "Yankee" husband for almost 28 years (he's from
Michigan, but oddly enough, his dad was born and raised in Morristown,
Tennessee and only went up to the Midwest because of lack of jobs back in
those early days)
~~
He placed the City under seige and that was the prompt for the book and the
brilliant film "Gone with the Wind", which ended with the words, "Frankly
Madame - I don't give a damn!" . I have visited the grave of the Lady
Authoress as well as the graves and the tall Cenotaph. I have stood on the
railway lines near where the warehouses were conflagrated, also all the
various battlefields, and paid my respects to the large carved stones which
commemorate the various regiments who fought and perished there. What a pity
that the armies advanced right down to Savannah in complete disorder before
turning left to subdue South Carolina, which finally ended the war.

I'd also suggest you try and get someone to get you the series that our PBS
carried about the Civil War. It will blow your mind. Awesomely done.

I detected ill-feeling whenever that part of the conflict was discussed.

yes, some people hold grudges for generations. And this war DID divide
brother against brother and father against son.............my own husband
used to wear a beautiful Rebel hat that fit perfectly on him and looked
equally good, and a former landlady's mama smelled that he "were a Yankee"
and told him to take that damn hat off, he weren't fit'n to wear it as she
suspected he were a Yankee" He did out of respect for the granny, but later
my dad did a little research and discovered that my husband's name of Catron
showed up as one of the Governor's of Tennessee.............so she was
smelling just a little off that day...............but I had grown up here my
whole life and had never experienced this kind of prejudice until that time.
Just the fact that his father was a Tennessee hill boy didn't seem to matter
to some. So we moved back to Colorado until we returned three years later
and have stayed ever since.

The move from Nashville to Eastern Tennessee occured in 1992 and I've been
hoping that Squire doesn't want to move any more as I've put DEEP roots down
into this glacial rocky clay soil.......................................

The South has never forgotten, nor have they forgiven, was my feeling.
~~
you're feelings are dead right. Grudges are kept alive by fanning the flames
of unforgiveness. I feel that all of us could be a little more forgiving. I
hate that sort of uneducated and ignorant attitude. (same way I feel
towards the attitudes of some black folk who seem to think that I am at
fault because their great granny was a slave. I never owned a slave, my
people never owned slaves, in fact, my people were Scotch-Irish and
Cherokee, so my people were most likely indentured servants and running from
sneaky, rich white folk who were intent on snatching up the lands (the
Cherokee side of me) the drop of German blood is only on my biological
father's side and I won't go down that alley____)

~~
I can't find Fairy Holler on my map. I see the mountain range is mostly in
North Carolina with one mountain, Mt. Mitchell. I can see Knoxville, Johnson
City, Morristown, , Elizabethton, Maryville, Cleveland and Chattanooga right
on the border.


ummmmmm, actually the mountain ranges starts here. I have the Appalachians
all around me (the hills and hollers of the Appalachians and foothills of
the Smokies), with the great Smoky Mountain directly in front of me with
English Mountain rising southwards about seven miles or so away. I live
literally on a ridge that makes up some of the land along the French Broad
River.

If you see Morristown, then that's northeast of me. I am in Dandridge,
which lies just off a main interstate that goes into North Carolina.
Gatlinburg is just 24 miles away to the south of me. Butting up against
Gatlinburg and part of it is the Cherokee National Forest. Knoxville is
where I run when I just have to have the madness of a large city. I love
it, but wonder now if I'd live there. It's not nearly as large and
sprawling as Nashville is now, but I lived in the suburbs of Denver and THAT
was enormous! (and 23 years ago, and it's even MORE sprawling and huge!!)

I have dug up Indian artifacts while excavating a boulder at the base of my
"butt rock" on the first terrace of my property, pounding rocks and honing
stones. We've figured out that ancient times long ago probably long before
even humans were around, this whole area was covered in water with the flows
going specific ways. We've found how the rocks were worn by water and that's
the north end of the steep ridge that plunges into and is a part of my
holler.

Every rock I dig up is worn glacial smooth once I get past the screaming red
clay. When I stand at the bottom of my land and look UP at the house and
upper gardens, I feel tiny. And even though it's not a full acre, (7/9ths)
it feels huge because of how the land lays....


Well, it's almost midnight so thank you for your dissertation. I may be able
to finish my greenhouse preparation if the thaw begins.

Doug.

**********



I appreciate your reponses. And hope you enjoy future writings. I tend to
ramble on at odd times, and I seem to have spring fever badly. and the cold
front tomorrow is going to make today's temperatures of 78o F seem almost
frigid! (the high is said to be colder than the low's of last night, which
our low was 67o F this morning at 5 a.m., the temps shouldn't reach the mid
fifties if that)



madgardener, up on the ridge, back in Fairy Holler, overlooking English
Mountain in Eastern Tennessee where spring has decided wheather I like it or
not, here it comes! (lets hope no snow!!)

In message , madgardener
writes
Thanks for sharing these overjoyous moments with me. I look forward to
bringing you into my Fairy Holler and Eastern Tennessee at another
time.

Where are you, Maddie - my morning coffee's not the same without your
musings. Or did I miss them during the weeks Turnpike ate all my news
threads?
--
Klara, Gatwick basin