Bury me in the backyard

I always tease my husband that when I die I want to be buried in the backyard. And not only because I eventually want a peaceful return on the vast amounts of time and energy I've spent designing, planting, weeding and watering my little slice of heaven. The practical side of me sees it that way, but the dreamer in me has always gotten so much more out of the experience of gardening.

Gardening offers me a connection with nature that no other experience could. Nurturing my plants like small children, listening to the rustle and calls of the wildlife that has deigned to share space with me, losing myself amid the grandeur of sun-dappled leaves--then finding myself again when the wind whips around, and the clouds open up, covering me in cold, fat raindrops. I'm not merely a bystander to nature's majesty, after all. I'm participating in a meaningful relationship.

One day last week, as I wrestled with a particularly tenacious weed which staked a claim by my shed door, I heard a sad little cry on the other side of the garden path. Looking up, I spotted a small, battered, tortoise-shell cat crouched in the pachysandra, watching me warily. Something about the feline made me pause. I sat back, and made soothing noises to coax the tortie over, and tentatively she made her way to me.

She was in such bad shape that I caught my breath at the sight of her: no collar or tags, reed thin, missing a tail, matted fur, and green ooze in the corners of her eyes. Most disturbing of all were the omnipresent flies circling around her. As I slowly reached out to her, she so readily accepted me, basking in the gentle petting I offered, that I smiled in spite of my dismay.

I made chatty little noises, and asked how she got in such rough shape. Of course she had no answer, but her large green eyes looked back at me with such gratitude, that it brought tears to my own. I went in search of food for her. I scouted out some chicken from the previous night's dinner, and brought it out to her. She sniffed a bit, but quickly turned away.

Puzzled, I went back in the house, and filled a small plastic bowl with cold water, hoping that by the time I returned, she'd have eaten the chicken. Yet, when I made my way back out to where she sat patiently waiting for me, the food remained untouched. When I offered her the water, she checked it out, but barely lapped it. Confusing behavior for a cat who clearly looked to be starving and dehydrated. Then she snuggled up to me again, rubbing her frail form against me. I realized that the only thing she wanted from me was attention. So we sat in the dwindling sun, sharing pets and nuzzles.

My mind was spinning. What could I do to help her? I knew that I must do something, because the fragile little creature was truly on her last legs. I mapped out a strategy for canvassing the neighborhood in search of her owners, then wondered if I could locate and dust out my old cat carrier, and get her to my vet. She was in serious need of fluids and antibiotics. As I ran my fingers along her fur, I discussed my plans, which she seemed amenable enough to. I suspected that as long as I kept petting, she'd keep nuzzling. As the sun went down, I left her with promises of further action, and retired to the house for the night, careful not to let my frisky dogs out the back door to bother the poor old girl.

When I returned to the yard the next morning, she wasn't around. I searched the grounds for her, and called out, but she didn't come. With a sigh, I skimmed the first fallen leaves of autumn off my pond's surface, then began weeding around the back screened porch. Something caught the corner of my eye, and I looked over, seeing the little cat resting against the house, amid the last foliage of the day lilies. But she wasn't resting. She was gone.

It struck me then, with a poignancy that made me smile even while the tears brimmed my eyes: she'd come to me to die. The gentle old girl, who'd seemed to have so few choices near the end of her life, had chosen the terms of her death. And she'd decided that I was to help her on her way. As I dug her grave below a graceful maple tree, and eased her into the ground, I recalled all the times I'd joked about being buried in my backyard. I looked around, and nodded, listening to the trickle of the waterfall into the nearby pond.

That little cat had chosen well.

Prudent pruning

As the summer winds down--indeed, the last weekend of this glorious season is upon us--I glance around my property, and ask myself the question I seem to ask at this time each year: to prune or not to prune? I mentally sift through all the horticultural information jammed into my head, trying to recall exactly which plants need pruning, and at what time of year. Before I frantically reach for my myriad notebooks on the subject, I take a deep breath, and recall the "golden rule" of pruning: Plants flowering before May bloom on "old wood" (buds formed the previous fall); those that bloom after May form buds on "new wood" (this season's growth).

Recalling this, my panic disappears. I've made a note of the early bloomers in my yard: azalea, forsythia, spiraea, dogwood, and viburnum. All these I clip back after they flower. I also have a lovely Magnolia "Stellata," which gets little bursts of white flowers as soon as spring hits. It often blooms before the last frost, so every three-out-of-five years its delicate petals turn brown. Always such a bummer. But on the up side, this lovely early bloomer grows in such a well-mannered way that I think I've only pruned it twice in the past 18 years! Both times I trimmed after it bloomed.

After May, the heavy-hitters in my yard bloom out: the broad leaf and needle evergreens, the roses in June, butterfly bush, and rose of Sharon much later, in mid-summer. All these I can prune in fall, or anytime before new growth starts the following spring.

Always tricky for me: lilacs. I realize most people don't have much difficulty with this plant, but my ignorance of the lilac's propensities has resulted in meager blooming in the past, so I hasten to add this fact: prune lilac plants right after the last flowers have faded. This plant sets next season's flowers almost immediately, and delaying a trim even a week could result in chopping off the next year's buds. When giving a more substantial pruning, take out the entire cane of the lilac you aim to trim (but never more than a third of the plant in total). This is called 'thinning," and it helps strengthen the plant in the long run by encouraging the development of strong new canes.

As for perennials, my butterfly weed, coral bells, Chrysanthemums and perennial grasses get cut back in spring, and nearly everything else gets clipped in fall, including: peony, bearded iris, bee balm (crucial because foliage readily succumbs to powdery mildew), blanket flower, catmint, columbine, crocosmia and day lily.

Obviously, one thing you never want to do is cut off all the foliage, which I've done here:

I'm ridding myself of this plant for good. This weekend I'll take a chainsaw to its roots!

Everyday gems

I've never been a "jewelry person." Unlike my sister-in-law, who always knows exactly what gem to wear with what outfit, I tend to forget to accessorize, and habitually pair my diamond studs and engagement ring/wedding band ensemble with whatever I'm wearing, regardless of the occasion. Feeling frumpy, I recently decided to "glam up," delving into my meager stash of semi-precious bling, and retrieved two tennis bracelets--one in diamonds, and the other in rubies. Ahh, how they sparkled! Pretty!

But there's a reason I have so few of these baubles. After about 60 seconds, I forgot I was wearing the bracelets as I began mixing the grout for my latest project--tiling the screened porch! In fact, it wasn't until I was on hands and knees, spreading the sloppy, sandy-cement mixture that I remembered the rubies and diamonds encircling my wrist--as they draped gorgeously into the nooks and crannies between the tiles, and became encrusted in rapidly drying grout.

With little time to fuss over the gems, I quickly rinsed off under the hose, and continued grouting because, honestly, if you don't do grout the right way, the joints never hold the tiles properly in place. As I rubbed the haze off the last of the gleaming tiles two hours later, I reflected on the sad lack of glamour in my personal style (I won't even begin to describe the outfit I was wearing with these fabulous bracelets). And I felt a fleeting wave of hopelessness, recalling that when my husband married me, I'd actually been a beauty editor at a major woman's magazine. No joke. Yet when he recently asked me what I wanted for my upcoming birthday, I'd not thought of him spoiling me with an extravagant gem or a his-and-her spa experience. I'd replied, "a new garbage disposal." I realized that man of mine really does have his work cut out for him.

But, ever the optimist, he came up with a novel, romantic idea: to have a candlelit dinner on our new porch that evening! How lovely it was, sitting on our newly set tiles, our favorite wine in place, and overlooking our pond. The bracelets I'd never bothered to take off paired perfectly with the sundress I dug out of the back of my closet. There was hope for me yet!



I'm still wearing those bracelets. And how they sparkle in the sunshine on this cloudless September morning...as I push the lawn mower around the back yard!

Bringing nature inside

I'm such a nature fan that I know it wouldn't surprise anyone who knows me--even marginally--to discover that my interior design incorporates outdoor elements whenever possible. When we purchased our 100-year-old home nearly twenty years ago, I was determined to hit up the historical society in town, and scour the Internet for wallpaper patterns and paint colors popular at the turn of the last century. Hmmm...still haven't gotten around to doing that. A betting person (or anyone at all!) could figure that it's probably never gonna happen.

All my intentions for an "authentic" house went out the window when I looked out the window. What I saw was a bank of day lilies glimmering in the morning sun, and I realized I'd start life in my new home out in my new garden. I knew nothing about plants at the time, but I was armed with a lifetime of love for the great outdoors, so I fearlessly followed my heart around the yard, learning the rudiments of gardening by observing the plants already in place.

Each September morning of that first year, I'd walk my five-year-old daughter to the school bus, set up the playpen on the back patio for my infant son, and while away the day singing him songs and planting to my heart's content. The simplicity and naive optimism of those days still makes me smile. While I wouldn't trade that time with my son for anything in the world, I probably burned through a couple hundred bucks in dead plants. I planted sun-loving flowers in partial shade, and ripped out established plants (foolishly thinking them weeds) with abandon. By the end of my second gardening season, I realized I probably needed to learn a thing or two about horticulture. Thus began my education into the nature of the plant world. And the things I learned so enthralled me that it was natural that I'd bring my plant-passion indoors in every possible form.

What better for an historic home than the timeless majesty of botanical prints? In no time at all, I was covering the wainscoting with the floral illustrations. Next, I turned to the walls, coating them in sage green, earthy terracotta, and soft peachy-pinks in shades ranging from clotted cream to the sky at sunset. My husband had a brainstorm for our mudroom which borders the back patio: add lots of windows and a set of French doors, to flood the room with light. He built shelving at window bases to allow plenty of room for my beloved potted plants.

We apply the same rules to our summer place in the Adirondacks, though the effect is quite different. Up there, it's all about woods, water and rocks; and our interior reflects the ruggedness. Having recently torn down a wall to open up space and bring much-needed light into the house, we framed the revamped area in rough-hewn hemlock columns (on he right), much like the trees just outside the windows. The new columns also complement the original knotty-pine, hand-made doors, so prevalent in the Adirondack style.

Plans for the future include incorporating birch bark into the scheme. Birch trees are not only abundant in the finger lakes of New York, but their malleable bark is quite versatile, covering everything from Native American canoes two centuries ago to modern-day furniture. I'd love to cover an entire wall in the papery white bark, much like I recall at my friends' house, down the street. They had homemade birch-bark wallpaper, of sorts. When we'd hike up nearby Buck Mountain, part of the trek included keeping a sharp eye out for fallen birch trees. Once spotted, we'd disengage the bark with surgeon-like precision, bring home the bark and lay it out in the sun to dry. After a day or two, we'd jot down the date we found the bark, adventures encountered, and names of all the participants. Then the bark was pressed between two books for days, or weeks (each piece varied in the amount of time it took to completely dry out and flatten). Before long, we could tack the new piece of bark to the wall. There was something magical about returning each summer, and recounting past adventures together, reading about our lives on their wall.

Makes me want to drive up there right this moment, and knock on their door. I know that if they're home, they'll put some water in the kettle for tea, and we'll settle in front of the faded writing on that wall of natural parchment, content to relive all those glories of our shared past.