Apologies

Hi there Burrow faithful, Victoria here. I would like to extend an apology for the delay in Ashleigh's post today. It would appear that Ashleigh's impending high school reunion has rendered her without the ability to tell time, and thus she scheduled today's Thursdays in the Garden to run at 6 PM instead of 6 AM. Regularly scheduled posting will resume tomorrow (trust me- I double checked!).

Thursdays in the Garden -- Triple Digits in October

It's a sad, sorry state of affairs in the garden these days. I'm not taking it personally, though it's been a struggle.

The first winter we were here there was a hundred years frost . That is exactly what you think it is - you only see temperatures this low every hundred years or so. And it stayed cold for 5 days. Everything died. I was in New York, moving G'ma out of her house, and TBG was no-way-no-how going out in the dark and the cold to throw sheets over the precious flora. And then take them off before the sun got too high in the sky. Every night. For 5 nights. No, Ma'am. He was bitter enough that it had snowed on him when he took out the recycling cart. This was, after all, "the f'ing desert for crying out loud."

This summer's monsoon was a total disappointment. There just wasn't enough rain during the time when the plants are most stressed and most in need. As if that weren't enough, we had 5 or 6 days in a row where the temperatures were over 105 and it didn't rain. True, that's nothing by Phoenix's standards, according to C&B. But here, in the middle desert, it's quite unusual. Combine the sustained heat with the lack of natural moisture - both in the ground for the roots and in the air (humidity) for the leaves and blossoms - and even the most desert hardy of our plants are suffering.

Yes, I wrote are not were. I don't blame you for being surprised. I am sure you thought that by mid-October our temperatures would have tempered and the greenery would be greening. Wrong. Somebody never got the memo (or, this being Tucson, and politics and governance being what it is, probably the memo never got sent). It bumped up against 100 earlier this week, and the solar heater working alone is enough to warm the pool to a comfortable-enough-for-laps 74. We humans are loving it. The plants? Not so much. Just look:

Of course, there are some that are doing very well, like this lantana.

And some that are really really trying to make a comeback.

Yes, the bark is green.

It's a palo verde - as opposed to the palo blanco

which has.... YES! ... white bark.

But all in all, it's been a tough Fall in the ground for the newbies. I really have to get to work on the irrigation system. I'm just not diligent enough, and the flora are feeling it.

See how the fronds are curling into themselves and bending. This agave is water deprived.... and I am to blame.

All except the oleander, of course. It just sits there, perking up when I water it, but never growing and never dying. Who knows.

Prompt Tuesday..... on Wednesday

The blogosphere is an interactive space. That's what I was trying to get at with yesterday's post. Comment on the ideas of a newspaper columnist, and you have to get your letter through the editor before others can share in your brilliance. Commenting on the inanities in the blogosphere requires only the confidence to type in your thoughts. This unmediated medium, as I've written before, demands the participation of the reader to fully maximize its potential.

I could write my thoughts in a diary, but I don't. Keeping a record of myself for myself always seemed self-indulgent. Talking to you through the Burrow is more connected, and more rewarding, than Dear Me, could ever be.

In doing so, I'm trying to take on my piece of the process in other places in the 'sphere. I've been commenting and reading the other blogs posted by Blogher in my sidebar (except for the cat people..... sorry, but even I have my limits.....) and following my favorites. And that's how I found PROMPTuesday. If you don't want to click through and read about her (of course) adorable children before you get to the point I'm trying to make, just read this: Compose approximately 150 words in 10 minutes using the following prompt. Post it or link it to your blog.

Victoria, my business manager/daughter/Little Cuter's pseudonymous alter-ego, submitted a post to Five Star Friday last month, and it was selected as one of the 23 best entries of the week. After basking in the glory, I began to realize that I had not sumitted a paper for review in 35 or so years. Not bad, I thought, getting an "A" on my first try! I lived on that for a while, but the itch kept growing.

Then I stumbled upon this. And I decided to try it. It's probably a bit over the top, but it's supposed to be "top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kicks in."

Anyway, the goal is "to make writing fun again" and I enjoyed doing it. Why don't you try it, too?? What do you have to lose??
*********
PROMPT: Please tell a story about this cave :





They sat enraptured, enthralled, engrossed, engaged, dancing in their minds with the shadows. Leaping, lurking, lounging, laughing the images moved in a steady stream. Seeing themselves or others or no one at all doing something or nothing or everything and they watched. Imagined and projected and ruminated and looked but never thought. Never examined. Never gazed within.


Didn't wonder about the source of the light. Or what it might mean. There was no meaning. There were only shadows, misty murky ephemera wandering in and out of their consciousness.

Without wanting or needing or deciding that participation might be possible, they looked forward, at the prancing dancing silhouettes on the wall of the cave around them. And they sat.

Knowing that they were alive. Unaware that they were merely sitting, while living was just a few feet away. If they would only turn around.
******

(With thanks to Plato and Socrates for the idea.... and to the Big Cuter for explaining it to me so well. It's nice when those dollars for an undergraduate education come back to wrap their arms around you and give you a great big hug.)

Comments

From a FaceBook message thread: I .... worry that since I'm too shy to write public comments back that it creates a very one sided friendship -- I know you and your thoughts so much more .... but here I am, hunkering down in the cold north with nothing but bulbs to plant and unsure how to or if I should respond to the thought provoking things you say.

From a phone call: "You should have guest posts when you're out of town." "Why don't you write one?" "I'm not ready to share."

*******

The immediacy of the blogosphere is intimidating, it's true. Put it out and there it stays, to be read by anyone and everyone whether you know them or not. Probably not. No, most definitely not. 77 people read the Burrow last week - do you know 76 others who've been here? (Of course, if you tell them how wonderful it is, then maybe you will, but for now, I'm dealing in reality.)

I've been commenting on other blogs for the last few weeks. Actually, Ashleigh Burroughs has been commenting, and I've been watching her do it. The assumption of another persona has been the only way I could muster the courage to write to you every day. A well-respected-friend told me that, in her classroom, it would be said that I have "a voice". I bask in the compliment, but it's Ashleigh who deserves the kudos.

Sure, sure, they are my fingers on the keyboard but are they my thoughts or Ashleigh's? I wasn't brave enough to blog; she was. Is. Continues to be, as I wonder why I rest comfortably behind her facade.

These musings are the stuff of my daily conversations and emails and ruminations. They are my truths, and I stand behind them all. Yet I have a hard time - ok, an impossible time - typing them under my own name.

So I understand your reluctance to post comments or write a guest blog. Here's a suggestion that's worked for me in bowling. Perhaps it will work for you in writing. If you bowl poorly, just change your name. No need to be Kathy or Jenny when Cookie or Peaches is just waiting to show you the way.

Take it from Ashleigh.... it works for us.

An Addendum

It was brought to my attention that the previous post left some (ok, 1) reader with the need for a final photo. If you've read the post already, scroll down and see what you missed the first time through.

$200 Jeans

Who knew?

Apparently, everyone but Amster and I did.

But now we are initiated, and I wonder if we will ever go back.

Here's how it started: 18 months ago, TBG was recruited to be on a mock jury for one of Amster's trials. He spent a marvelous full day listening to arguments and then participating in deliberations with a real cross-section of Tucson's population. At the end, he was rewarded with many thanks and a crisp, new $50 bill.

He came home to my Harriet Housewife incarnation : chairs were on tables, rugs were rolled up, ottomans were resting on couches as the floor was being mopped to within an inch of its life. The kitchen counters were sparkling, the stainless steel appliances had nary a hand print nor a streak, the fallen french fries had been removed from the oven's floor, the bed linens were fresh and the bathrooms were gleaming. I had been busy, and I looked it. Bedraggled and sweaty, my manicure destroyed, I leaned on the mop handle and said "Hi". Without skipping a beat, my favorite husband reached into his wallet, took out the fifty, and handed it to me with a flourish. "You earned this more than I did, today."



This was the first money I'd earned since the Big Cuter was born 26 years ago. It deserved to be spent wisely. I placed it carefully in the top drawer of my vanity table and began to cogitate.

Laughing with Amster over weights at the gym the next morning, we tested and rejected many uses before we hit upon exactly the right place to spend my windfall - we'd invest in jeans. Our work-outs were going well, our bodies were responding appropriately, and if we waited til our birthdays we could even justify the expenditure as self-gifting (a concept near and dear to my heart). We had a plan.

But by the time winter was ending and our birthdays were arriving, the temperatures here in the desert Southwest precluded the wearing of anything heavier than corduroy shorts. There was no reason to buy the jeans and have them sit in the closet until the weather cooperated with our new purchases, so we waited. And we procrastinated. And we got busy. And life interfered, and with it our shapes changed again. So we hit the weight room with renewed energy this summer and (she) began cross-training and (I) concentrated on aerobics and then the perfect time arrived: my reunion.

I'd decided on the outfit for the event itself, but I'm going to be in New York City for 6 days, and fancy jeans will be the perfect thing to pack. So, off to Loop we went.

We were the only patrons, at first. One salesman, two women and two dressing rooms. Seemed like it would be a quick and easy experience. Not.

I had a vague recollection of the Little Cuter telling me I'd be there for a while, trying on all the brands until I found the perfect pair. "Have fun with it, Mom!" I tried, but it was scary.

Who knew there would be an interview before we were allowed to begin trying them on? Low rise.... mid-rise... boot cut... boyfriend jeans ..... dark wash.... flap-pockets.... whiskering (?!?).... distressed.... stitching.... embroidery..... Amster and I were caught in a fashion tsunami.

Wranglers. Levis. Gap. These were the designers I knew. Simple, single names that didn't confuse me. Did we like 8 for the People, or something like that? I shrugged at Amster, she shrugged at me and then she rescued us by announcing "We don't speak 'cool'". Ted got the hint. He handed us each a stack, and sent us into the dressing rooms to try on and show him every pair, whether we liked them or not.

In and out we trotted, turning, discussing, rejecting, approving, suggesting, questioning and trotting, once again, back into the dressing room for more. And more. And then some more. It never ended. I'd bring out three rejected pairs and be presented with 5 more options. I rolled up my sleeves and I sweated. This was hard work.

I've always let life tear up my jeans, and I don't understand the need to purchase something that is pre-ripped. Like my wrinkles, I've earned every one of the holes in the knees and the seats and I love them all. All the "distressed" options were thus removed from consideration.

Embroidery and obvious stitching were also non-starters. I'm a short person and I was going for a long look; there would be no distractions on these pants. One solid straight line from hips to heels, elongating mightily on the way. Ashleigh Burroughs is tall and willowy with legs that don't stop; the body which will be attending the reunion shares with her literary counterpart only the fact of having legs. I'm taking all the height-help I can get.

Did I want to struggle to latch and unlatch the obviously very cool but impossible to grasp - literally and figuratively- clasp? Did I like the hardware? How did the back pocket look? Were they comfortable? Suddenly, the entire purpose of blue jeans was being called into question -- aren't they supposed to be comfortable by definition ???

But the store was getting crowded and Heather and her boy-toy wanted to check out, so I put off my existential musings. Figuring that Heather had obviously shopped there before, since she was nodding sagely as Ted was pinning and selecting and dismissing and suggesting, her opinion was sought and received and agreed with mine and I bought the damn pants. By that point, I think I'd have agreed with anything just to have it be over with. My brain was awash in a sea of denim.

I'd always worn jeans to blend into the crowd. They go everywhere, here in Tucson and on Madison Avenue. As long as my other garments were sufficient, I never worried if I had blue jeans on the bottom. And my criteria for choosing them were simple - inexpensive and comfy and not ugly. Having spent the better part of an hour being schooled on the finer points of wearing my default clothing, however, I realize that time has definitely passed me by.

I remember taking a 4 year old Little Cuter into our favorite sandwich shop on Webster in Chicago (it's a fancy shoe store now, but that's another story...) and being snickered at by two middle school girls sitting at the first table. "Can you believe she is wearing blue jeans???" "She's so old." I turned and smiled sweetly and told them that I'd been wearing blue jeans since before they were born and that my generation had virtually invented the genre and they were wearing my fashion statement and ....... at that point, if she'd been a few years older, the Little Cuter would have dragged my ranting self away from them. As it was, the tirade sputtered and we ate our tuna.

Now, though, I begin to wonder if jeans have passed me by. People of all sizes, shapes, ages and colors were in and out of the store as we fine tuned our purchases. None of them were surprised at the prices nor at the depth and breadth of the selection. A woman "just back from eating myself across Europe" bought a pair of "fat pants" until she could lose her vacation weight. $200 fat pants? What ever happened to sweatpants and the gym? Somehow I don't believe in her determination to slim down. Or maybe she has a range of sizes of expensive jeans?

Expensive jeans. It even looks oxymoronic. What happened to me?? Where is the grounded, sane woman who knows value and refuses to be swayed by the tides of fashion? I'm lost, I fear, lost and drowning in .....

Oh, enough already. All that is true, but I just picked them up and tried them on I have to say that they look pretty good.

Yes, G'ma would be appalled, but THAT's the view you get. Because, as Ted reminded us, "It's all about the butt."

The Most Important Question

How dressed up are you getting for the reunion itself?

I bet you went to a lot of other places in your mind before you got to clothes for the party, didn't you?

Well, I didn't. In fact, I'm just back from checking to see whether my Yearbook will fit into the purse I've tentatively decided upon. It does.

What with President Obama being awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace when Arizona State University didn't think he deserved an honorary degree last spring, I wonder that anything could surprise you. So I hope that you won't think me trivial when I say that this is, in fact, an important question.

It is also a question that everyone is reluctant to ask. I, however, have no boundaries between my brain and my mouth, so I've been asking everyone. "How dressed up are you getting?" is how I phrase it, and the responses have been uniform - everyone laughs. Giggles on the phone and LOL on Facebook messages and behind every smile I am also detecting (projecting???) a sigh of relief. Finally, we'll decide on the answer.

Because there really isn't an answer. Lunch at a fancy Upper East Side restaurant, then an after party up the street where the dress code is casual but neat. Now, I can definitely do "neat". Casual is an interesting term.

TBG and I once received a gorgeous printed invitation to a dinner that requested "dressy casual attire." This sounded like jumbo shrimp and military intelligence - oxymoronic and confusing. Turns out they didn't want a certain contingent to show up in t-shirts, so they couldn't just say "casual", and they weren't requiring suits and ties, so they didn't say "dressy." Clues would've been helpful.

I have my standard black silk skirt (or black wool pants) and a white silk blouse. My fashion-consultant-playgroup-mom friend told me decades ago that this would take me everywhere, and she was absolutely right. Proof of this is the fact that every woman to whom I posed this question included, in her list of possible outfits, a pair of black pants and a nice blouse. The brains-behind-it-all-organizer-classmate even sent an email saying that that's what she'd be wearing.

But this is 2009, not 1967 and I don't think I really want to blend in that much. I'm comfortable in my own skin, and I dress like it. I had no idea that it was possible to spend $200 on a pair of blue jeans until a niece let me in on the secret. Most of my wardrobe is hand-me-downs from my boys. Discarded polo shirts and flannel shirts and gym shorts and sweat shirts fill my closet. One of my favorite parts of the Hileman Holiday Celebration Tour is the pile of rejected-by-them-and-adopted-by-me clothes at the edge of my chair after we've finished opening presents. Oversized is just fine, thank you. I'm comfy. I try to stay away from sloppy; relaxed would be an appropriate adjective.

Living in the desert Southwest gives me certain sartorial privileges, and wearing cowboy boots is one of those perks. I'm not a poseur; I wear them around town the way a New Yorker would wear Chucks. They're comfy and they make a statement. I have a few pair from which to choose (it makes TBG happy to buy them for me, and who am I to refuse????) so I've moved on to the shirt decision.

Definitely tucking it in since I have the perfect belt. Black, dark green, taupe..... I have a collection of great silk blouses that are good looking and classic. They all tuck in. But what about the Nat Nast shirt as a jacket-type-thing with that fabulous J Peterman sleeveless light wool shell (which I bought at the only J Peterman store I'd ever seen, and where is J Peterman these days?)? It got great reviews at the rehearsal dinner last month. Or what about the crocheted sweater and the tea length skirt with ballet flats? I have a trendy short shirtwaist I bought at American Apparel, but I don't want to dress "too young" this time. This, even though the two 20-somethings in the store stopped and complimented me as I was trying it on and dismissed my "Isn't it too young for me?" with "No waaaay" in harmony. Still, nothing that gives me even a second's hesitation is going on the short list.

The weather will be a huge factor, since I'll be leaving 85 and sunny. Lovely Linda and her Little Sister didn't have that in LA today while we were on the phone discussing, among other things, wearing black wool pants to the Reunion.

But as I said, there's no right answer. As long as a group of us agree, then we're fine.

When did it get this easy to be the one setting the rules? Was it always this easy and I just didn't know? Did I improve or is it just old age?

Whatever....... I'm liking it a lot.

*******

Come back on Monday for the tale of the $200 blue jeans.

Thursdays in the Garden - Sending the Memo

After shopping at both Tohono Chul and Greg Starr's nursery, I spent a few days planting. I remembered to keep things watered, and I covered the exposed area with a nice pine bark mulch. The weather's cooled off enough that I don't worry (too much) about serpents slithering as I'm kneeling in the mid-day sun. There was so much to do, and life was pressing, so much of the planting took place as the sun was setting.

There's a peacefulness that comes over the garden as the sun sits low in the sky. I could feel the earth relaxing as I carved out new homes for my treasures. There were lots of snake holes, especially around the space I'd reserved for the Rhyolite bush, but I decided that I wasn't going to worry about that. I'd consider them participants in the project as they aerated the soil through which the Crossosoma bigelovii could shoot its roots.



The two yuccas - schottii and torreyi - are guarding the walkway to the little garden gate.



They are a nice complement to the hesperaloes I planted last year along the same berm.

I'm broadening my palette in the sunset cactus garden, too. This Broad Spined Barrel (Ferocactus latispunus) sits nicely amongst the Golden Barrels, but the variegated spines say "look at me!!! look at me!!!" in a fairly demanding tone of voice. (Listen...... if I can talk to the plants, then they can talk to me. Don't think I'm making this up - our container plants in Mill Valley perked right up to Gilbert and Sullivan)

I added some White Trailing Lantana (Lantana montevidensis) to the front courtyard, but there were still some bare spots. Another trip to Tohono Chul and I had three Lantana camara to fill in the gaps. There's a nice amalgam of white and yellow in the blooms, and the foliage is a lighter shade of green than their white and purple cousins. I think I bought it for the name as much as anything else, though -- Lantana Patriot Sunbeam. It sounds like an infant daughter on a survivalist commune.

I protected the Texas persimmon and the white lantana with chicken wire. This requires the use of a tin-snip and thick but supple gloves. Once you get into the groove of cutting it's not that hard, but towards the end, as the rolled up wire is digging into my forearm and my fingers are beginning to cramp, I wonder if it's all worth it.

The answer is, of course, yes. The unprotected rhyolite bush's before and after pictures tell the sad story of planting without protection.

Didn't they get the memo?

The lantana is supposed to be more palatable than this poor little rhyolite.

I'll wrap it tomorrow, after a trip to Home Depot for supplies.

The tender shoots that are emerging after the fauna gorging it endured are a testament to the strength of native plants. They're used to this happening to them, and they perservere through the adversity. I'm sure there's a deeper meaning to be found in this, but I'm just wondering where to send the memo to my resident fauna --- leave my flora ALONE!!!

The Good Mechanic

There is really nothing to watch on the boob-tube (or, Daddoooo used to call it, the idiot box) these days. Channel surfing is frustrating and depressing. We really do have 57 channels and nothin's on.

So, when I landed on Mythbusters TBG couldn't really protest. Once again, my inner nerd had triumphed. Turns out that the Big Cuter was watching the same episode, so there was also the bonding piece. And it was fun.

There were two myths tested, one silly and one profound. I loved them both. Kari and Grant and Tory tried to see if they could "knock your socks off" in a series of more and more absurd experiments culminating in 500 pounds of explosives blowing mannequin legs to smithereens. In fact, you cannot get blown out of your socks and live to tell the tale. "OMG there's a foot in it" was only one of Kari's finds after the test.

Adam and Jamie, on the other hand, aimed to devise an experiment that would prove that two bullets, one dropped and one shot but both released from the same height, would reach their target at the same. They wanted to do the releases at once rather than testing the firing first and then the drop. There was some faux drama ("...and we had to build it fast".... what was the urgency?.... was there a sudden need to know the answer? was the family coming home from Disneyworld to an unfinished experiment?) but mostly we watched them build stuff.

There had to be a release mechanism for the drop and a platform for the shooting. Pre-tests were conducted, brows were furrowed, but all along you knew that they'd come up with something totally cool and unexpected. And, of course, they did.

When Mythbusters' ultimate solution involved a clip, some rope, and a lot of imagination I could just about see Daddooooo on Jamie's shoulder, nodding, his lower lip pursed and his eyebrows raised in surprise, ready to bestow his ultimate compliment : "This guy is a good mechanic."

The Cuters knew that bringing me their broken toys, with sorrowful but hopeful eyes, would mean that their treasures would be packaged and shipped to Long Island. There, as long as it wasn't plastic, Daddooooo and his workshop would make it right. It might not be quite as beautiful as it once was - repairs often involved neon orange duct tape or red nail polish - but it would be "in good working order."


When Adam hopped on his unicycle for the trip to the other end of the experiment, I went to Daddooooo on my old 1-speed non-Schwinn bike, pedaling towards the high school, following the string of the kite that "had to be somewhere..... just gimme a minute....."

Too bad they never met - these guys would really have liked my Dad.

Daddooooo would have been 93 today. Happy Birthday, Herb !

Something to keep you company while I'm out of town

I'm off on an adventure with Amster in Flagstaff. I'll tell you all about it when I return, but til then, I thought you might like to read some of the other fabulous stuff that's out there in the blogosphere. I've added my commentary, in case you only have time for a snippet and you trust me to guide you along your path, grasshopper.

One more cute kid and a dog story. Short and sweet and perfect.
http://www.dooce.com/2008/05/01/teamwork

Exactly how I feel about gardening. Beautiful photos:
http://mizmell.blogspot.com/2009/09/my-immortal-grandmother.html

This is real writing. I try my best and I aim to please, but Laurie White is an artist. This one is a bit longer than the other two, and requires your brain to be engaged. Go for it; you'll be glad you did:
http://indieink.org/2009/09/24/stones/

Hope you liked them. Leave a comment and let me (and them) know what you thought. That is, after all, one of the pleasant distinctions between blogging and newspaper-column-writing : with blogging, you can be a part of it, too.

Today

Today, October 12, is Columbus Day. Not Amerigo Vespucci Day. Not Leif Ericson Day. Columbus Day.

It really is Columbus Day. Chris and his fleet landed at a place he named San Salvador on October 12, 1492. Of course, that was according to the Julian Calendar. In 1582, a papal bull (and what an image that conjures in the brain) restructured the concept of the leap year and named the new calendar after the Pope himself. Suddenly, La Nina and La Pinta and La Santa Maria had landed 9 days later, on October 21st, Gregorian time. Adding 3 days every 4 centuries doesn't seem like a big difference, but try telling that to Columbus. Someone must have agreed with me on this, since we celebrate his arrival on the Julian date. I love it when things that shouldn't change don't change.

And that's why I'm smiling about today being Columbus Day. Because, in actuality, Columbus Day is now celebrated on the 2nd Monday of October, regardless of the date. That's just wrong. Totally and completetly unacceptable. Abraham Lincoln was born on February 12th, George Washington was born on February 22nd. Neither of them was born on the 3rd Monday in February... or at least not every year on the 3rd Monday in February. Holiday-declarers need to get with the program. Certain things should not be messed with.

But today is October 12th. And it's Columbus Day. And all is right with the world.

I've always like Columbus Day, because it's not a birthday party. It's the celebration of an event. Being born isn't anything to congratulate the infant about. If we had pictures of Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Washington there would be reason to say "Nicely Done, Ma'am". The babies really didn't do much at all. Columbus, on the other hand, sailed across the flat world to find a faster route to India's spices. Though his math was a little shaky, and he really wasn't in India at all, he found the Bahama (which had been doing very nicely without him except for just a little bit of internecine warfare) and laid the groundwork for the casinos at Atlantis.

No one expects you to be at her house for dinner on Columbus Day. You don't have to eat special foods or dress in any particular color. You might not have to work (it's a Federal Holiday) and there's probably a raft of politicians marching down the main street of the nearest major metropolis.

You can avoid the political controversy over the whole celebration because, really, if you stop to think about it, there was no way that all of Europe was going to stay on their side of the pond forever. Globalization was bound to happen. I'm sure the indigenous population had their own word for Columbus's intrusion, but that's what it was. As a result of a search for financial advantage, the Americas were introduced to Europe. I'll leave the would they have been better off remaining un-found to those with more interest in navel gazing than I have. It's a moot point. The world is and was and always will be a series of interdependent spheres. It's only the access points which change. (Need an example? Go to Erie, Pennsylvania and see the results of progress.)


Columbus Day is a holiday without stricture, without structure, without musts, shoulds or oughts. It is a break from school when you can go apple picking or clothes shopping or jump in the leaves. You can hike or take the kids to a museum or just clean your closets, all while enjoying an official holiday.

Thanks, Chris.

The Afghan Situation

President Obama is doing a lot of thinking about Afghanistan this week. To prove it, NBC Nightly News just ran a picture of him sitting at the head of a long table, in his shirtsleeves, surrounded by Cabinet members and the Veep and lots of paper. There wasn't a laptop in sight. The President was the youngest person in the shot by a bunch of years. He's drinking a bottle of water; Hillary's a Coke girl. Not Diet Coke. Regular, full strength classic Coca-Cola. That's one of the few things I think she gets right.

I really hope they recycle at the White House. Otherwise, they're setting a very bad example for our nation.

In another conversation on Afghanistan this afternoon, Campbell Brown couldn't believe that the President was "considering separating the Taliban and al Quaeda. I mean, can you do that?" Um.... yes, Campbell. One is a repressive, hateful-to-women political force with no ambitions beyond its own borders. The other is a terrorist organization with a world-wide vision and no mainstream political ambitions. Al Quaeda isn't running candidates in elections; the Taliban were the ruling party in Afghanistan for many long terrible years. If I know that how can she not know it? Didn't she read Kite Runner?

It's one thing to think that Americans in general are woefully out of touch with the nuances of foreign policy. We're separated by an ocean, we only speak English, we're bigger and better and we know it so why bother. I get it. But she's a television journalist. She's paid to provide insight or at least to prompt her guests to provide it. Mr. McCarthy was wrong in 8th grade social studies when he told us "There are no stupid questions." That was a stupid question.

General McChrystal is talking about Afghanistan, too. Agree or disagree, that's fine. But you're in the military and that's all about chain of command. Shades of MacArthur and Truman, only Obama hired this guy himself. He said he wanted "new thinking" when he replaced General David McKiernan, and it looks like he got it.

The Big Cuter and I were talking about Afghanistan last night. Had his Special Ops friend returned? I've been ever grateful that my boy resisted the temptation to serve his country by putting his body at risk. I'd have been proud of him, for sure. But like his Special Ops' mother, I wouldn't have slept starting from the exact moment he enlisted. It's a land war in Asia; haven't they seen Princess Bride?

And I've been thinking about Afghanistan. There can be plans and strategies and sorties and drones and boots on the ground and better intelligence and we still won't win. It's not that I don't hold our military in high regard. It's just that it's been tried before. The Russians failed. We've been there for 8 years. And, for an historical perspective, Alexander the Great conquered just about everyplace that he knew about except Afghanistan. He stayed there for three years (Iran took him about 6 months) and finally agreed to leave when his troops told him that they were going, with or without him. Alexander the Great. The one who rode Bucephalus. Who conquered the Persian Empire. He couldn't do it. The places in which we are fighting bear more resemblance to the villages Alexander saw than they do to Kabul or Levittown. They couldn't be subdued in the 4th century BC and I don't think they can be now.

But it's nice to see that people are thinking about it. After all, Nixon and Kissinger didn't talk to anybody but each other and that got us Cambodia and Laos.

Thursdays in the Garden (a new regular feature)

Meet Jay. That's J-A-Y. He was one of the many happy shoppers at the Tohono Chul Members Only Plant Sale this afternoon.


We began lining up before 2. I'm not sure how much before 2, but I was fifth in line. Apparently, the beautiful woman in the straw hat has been first for as many years as the others in line could remember.


I was pretty impressed with 5th.







Jay is a very talented man. He created the perfect cart for shopping the narrow aisles of the plant sale. Look at the size of those C-Clamps.


There is also an excellent collection of bungee cords, just waiting to secure many wonderful specimens.



Jay was about 10th in line.









I'm trying a new approach to landscaping this year - I am actually going to plan ahead, stick to a color scheme, and think about the plant's ultimate size before I stick it in the ground. I'm digging holes exactly the right size (just as deep and twice as wide as the root ball), setting the plants down on undisturbed soil, and protecting the most vulnerable with chicken wire cages. It's hard to know what the fauna will be munching on this season, but I'm guarding the ones with the most delicate leaves and stems. After a certain point, the yard begins to look like the outer edges of San Quentin, so I have to be a bit restrained in the chicken wire department.

Anyway, back to Tohono Chul. I had a plan - 7 white lantana to break up the butterflies-love-it-but-I-think-it's-boring purple lantana in the courtyard and around the pool. Some yuccas to complement the hesperaloes in the front - but I'm resisting the hesperaloe parviflora because Judy's going to bring me some from her garden tomorrow. Two or three cacti to replace the ones that just didn't make it on my program of benign neglect. And one or two things that strike my fancy and make me smile. I was in the grocery store, and I was hungry, but I had a mental list.

The gates swung open at 3pm sharp, and I was ready. I headed for the lantana first. Took 4 white ones and 3 white and yellow ones and then I began to browse. There were so many choices and I had spaces in mind with no particular plant picked out. That can be dangerous. And expensive. But browsing was educational and friendly and surprising - who knew that I could grow a Texas Persimmon tree in my front yard? That oleander can glare at me all it wants. My Diospyros texana will be 15'x15' and blocking the view of our living room from passers-by while oleander decides whether or not to flower.

I dragged my not-as-cool-as-Jay's wagon up one lane and down another and around and around and around until this is what I had

This is what Jay had when I left. I'm sure he had more shopping to do; look at all those bungee cords he's yet to use.

Everything fit perfectly in the trunk. We drove home singing about the admirable qualities of a modern major general, much to the amusement of the kid in the 4x4 next to me at the light. Oh, well.

More on the planting next Thursday.

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I have a feeling that some of Jay's friends and family may be reading a blog for the very first time. Welcome! If you like this post, you can click on the "gardening" label in the postscript below and read similar posts. Or click through the archives. Or check out some of the bloghers linked on the sidebar. And be sure to leave a comment; how else will I know that you've been here?