Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

-Mary Oliver-



When I recently read this stanza from the poem - Sometimes, by the late Mary Oliver, I had an “aha” moment. YES! YES! I shouted to myself…that is what I do! That is how I use social media. I see, I snap, I share. Look at that pond full of water lilies! Everyone needs to see this I think. Not everyone can, so I take several photos from different angles. I zoom in. I zoom out. Later when I get home, I review the images and carefully choose the photos I believe tell the story of what I saw. This is why I stopped my car, or wandered off the trail or paddled into shallow water.

By paying attention to my environment, I have often discovered the most astonishingly beautiful flora and fauna that might otherwise have gone unnoticed. My natural state as I wander through this world is one of awe. The play of light in the late afternoon and early evening attract my attention like a mini skirt at a construction site. I just have to stop what I am doing and immerse myself in the amber glow of what is commonly referred to as the golden hour. Photographers and film makers have long known this to be the ideal time for shooting. It enhances everything it touches.

During the long light-filled days of summer in Canada, it has always been my favourite time to poke around in my garden. The calm. The quiet. The serenity. The hour prior to dusk - a signal that whispers, slow down now. Your earlier pace of  doing this, and rushing there are done. There is no need for hurry or have-to’s. This is my time, or your time. I’m not alone in my basking in Zen here at Kyeema North. The deer saunter onto the lawn from the forest, casually grazing, owning it like they once did and think they still do. A beaver slides effortlessly through the glassy, still water toward his feeding spot amidst the lily pads. Bees, laden with pollen bumble from blossom to blossom now, a heaviness in their flight, barely able to lift their striped fat bottoms and carry themselves home. Even the Osprey, belly full from an earlier hunt and feast, seems to swoop and glide through the cooler evening air with less of an agenda.

I am not separate from any of this. The deer, the beaver, the bees, and the Osprey have included me in their inner circle. There is no threat. No fear. None of us are startled or alarmed. Sometimes I talk to them - whomever comes close. The Hummingbirds seem more curious than George himself. First the hum, then the pause, mere inches from my face, then the swoosh as she departs. Was I invading her territory? I wonder. Or, was she just stopping to show off - the amber light giving her added radiance?

Perhaps these many golden hours I have witnessed and absorbed all these years were a foreshadowing. This is what lies ahead - the slowing, the calm, the perfect light, the appreciation of it all. It was always there. At 20, 30, 40, 50, 60.

The glimpses, like breadcrumbs, leading me to the here and now. For years, that amber light dangled like the proverbial carrot with promises of more peaceful evenings than I could ever imagine. And now that I am here and embracing this magic night after night, I never want it to end. This spell-binding loop I find myself in, like I have the prettiest horse on the carousel.

Who wouldn’t want to share this? Keeping it all to myself seems selfish. So Mary, wherever you are now, if it is anything like golden hour…I’m in.

After one practise walk to school when I was four, I was on my own. It wasn’t even a hand held walk with my mother or father. They enlisted the 7 year old across the street to show me the ropes. Her name was Dale and her mother had a hair salon off the kitchen of their house. I was in awe of her and her mother (Josie), who once cut my hair into that Pixie style that was so popular in the early 60’s. I hated it. My once long locks swept into the rubbish, removing any obvious sign that I was a girl into the trash can. I was devastated. “I look like a boy!”. I pouted for days while my mother relished the break she was getting from the challenge of having to comb the tangles out of my former style. (Straight and long with an odd bump underneath at the nape of my neck) I had not heeded the warnings. “If you don’t learn to comb those knots out of your hair, I am going to get Josie to cut it all off!”

A few times after that first day of Kindergarten, I remember trying to catch up with Dale who always seemed half a block ahead of me, but she soon grew weary of my idle 4 year old chit chat whenever I did manage to run fast enough and after the first week of school, she must have started leaving earlier or later because I never saw her much after that. It was only about a three block walk in a bit of a zig zag and one fairly busy major street to cross, but I would have enjoyed some company.

This is one of my earlier memories of realizing I was going to have to figure out my life without much input from adults. The term “Helicopter Parent” had not been invented in the 60’s, much less practised. Homework was not a family affair. Play dates were not arranged. Sunscreen was not applied. My first swimming lesson consisted of my father hurling me into a backyard pool. Sink or swim baby. In fourth grade, I got a tennis racquet; a gift for passing from third to fourth grade but it didn’t come with any lessons, so I used to walk to the closest public courts (across railroad tracks that I was told to stay away from “or else”) and hit the 3 balls I owned to an invisible partner across the net, walk around, retrieve them and repeat from the opposite side. I didn’t know anyone with a racquet. Despite my lack of an opponent, I loved hitting those (then white) balls.

One day during one of my solo matches, a young teenage boy approached me and told me there was a sign-up sheet for lessons posted near the courts, so I scribbled my name on the list and started going twice a week for some basic training, without even telling my parents. I’m pretty sure they were free as part of a community program. I had no guidance whatsoever as to what to wear. My footwear would have been a pair of white Keds that started out clean and white the day school let out and would be filthy grey by summer’s end. In fact, we used to step on our own feet so they didn’t look so new. (it was a thing). No hat, no water bottle, no sunscreen, no clue. That was the last time I had any tennis lessons until I was in my mid 30’s.
 
You know that question you hear asked sometimes - “If you could have been anything in life, what would you have been?” I always give the same answer. A professional tennis player. This leads me to the point I want to make here today. The importance of a solid foundation cannot be underestimated. Strong root growth with healthy soil and room to spread out creates the best blooms, the biggest tomatoes, the tallest trees and the majority of the most successful adults in nearly every field. This is not always a hard and fast rule, but it sure doesn’t hurt.

Case in point. The photo at the top of this story of three sunflowers in three pots. Papa pot. Mama pot and Baby pot. The seeds for these sunflowers came from the same seed packet. The soil was from the same bag. The large pot has produced the strongest, tallest, healthiest result because the roots had room to grow and more nutrients feeding them. Of the three, it had the foundation for growth and excellence, while the smaller pots will never reach the same heights of glory as their buddy on the far left. Their seed needed to be planted in a bigger pot.

Just as I needed help as an 8 year old to become a better tennis player. I didn’t get the foundation I needed or the nurturing required to go somewhere with my old wooden Slazenger. Like the smaller sunflowers, I worked with what I got. It wasn’t until many years later that I picked up a racquet again and started to feed myself with lessons and club memberships and hours and hours of practice hitting balls against the local high school wall and drills with my tennis playing ex-husband that I finally felt I could compete at a club level. (There is even a Ladies Doubles Club League trophy/plaque out there collecting dust with my name on it mounted on a clubhouse wall - the best I ever got) By then, any dream I might have had of serious competition was shattered. Contrary to the current advice from everyone who has ever written a self help book, there are some things in life that become out of reach with age.  

As grateful as I am to have learned to play tennis later in life, and the amazing women I have met and befriended because of it,  I will always wonder…

“What if?”.

Refusing to die, many of the plants in my garden that have been ravaged by deer, are producing secondary shoots and leaves and new smaller buds. The large heads of sunflowers that were breakfast for this hungry buck who hangs around here have licked their wounds and have managed to find a way to carry on. Their second attempt to reproduce a flower and consequently their seed is weaker but a valiant attempt to continue living is taking place right now.

My love of sunflowers started long before the war in Ukraine. In 2019, I filled two old boats with Russian Giants and a few smaller varieties. It was an experiment that succeeded in some ways and failed in others. The boats were like massive plant pots as I saw it and I could net them and stop the deer from eating them (or so I thought). With Mick's help we erected framing and deer netting around and over these boatloads of sunflowers until the Russian Giants were trying to poke through the top of our elaborate cocoon, so at that stage, we removed the netting and let nature take its course.

We did lose about 40% of the crop, but the density of my planting was more than the deer could eat or reach in most cases. I lost another 10-15 % to a big wind storm that blew through just as they were reaching their peak bloom. I had staked most of them but the wind was such that even the stakes failed on some. In addition to the deer and wind, they were thirsty. During heat waves, I had to water them twice daily and if they didn't get hydrated, they complained - their droopy leaves gasping for a drink. Still, I coddled and nurtured them and the bees adored them and every day I would awake to find yet another big floppy yellow head opening up to greet me. It was a true labour of love.

I knew by the end of that summer, it would be the last time I would plant sunflowers in the boats. The following summer, I tried my luck with tomatoes and basil, and again, the results were hit and miss. The paltry yield of tomatoes was hardly worth the effort and as much as I love the wildlife here at Kyeema North, it is not my intention to feed deer and chipmunks perfectly good tomatoes.

The idea with the boats was twofold. I would be able to keep groundhogs out and I would not have to bend to the ground to tend my crops, much like raised beds with a nautical twist.  As valid as these ideas are, it has not worked out as well as I had hoped. The space is limited for starters. They look OK sitting in the yard - after all, we are on a lake and the theme is appropriate, but with frames and netting around them, they have become a bit of an eyesore. This year I decided I would plant nothing but deer resistant flowers and herbs thinking I could do away with the ugly netting. Nope. Turns out the deer, if hungry enough will eat the flower buds off Zinnias (a flower they usually turn their nose up at), and so the morning I caught that buck heading toward one boat after having munched on the other, I knew it was time to get the netting out again and try to rescue the remaining intact Zinnias and Castor Beans. The Castor Beans were to be the tall splashy feature in the middle of each vessel, like a sailing mast surrounded by colourful blooms and a few herbs.

The boats flank the driveway as you approach the house, so symmetry is important and I try to match the plantings in each boat to create a grand floral entrance, like one would adorn the front door of their stately mansion with tastefully designed urns. The sunflowers in 2019 almost worked as I had hoped, but the Tomato/Basil combo in 2020 looked more like someone had abandoned ships in my front drive and weeds had invaded, and this year, (we missed 2021) I now have one full ship wearing fishnets  and one  wooden dory full of chewed off Zinnias and a Castor been stock with all the leaves missing - the only thing that matches is the netting. It looks like there was a mutiny.

To make matters worse, I added a third boat - to hell with symmetry I reckoned...asymmetry is more eclectic anyway. (Always groupings of three darling!) The third boat would not even attempt to match the other two. And, let me assure you, it doesn't. It is currently wearing the same fish nets, but boasts the additional feature we fondly refer to as Scary Mary. (a Scarecrow masthead) Truth is, I think the only things afraid of her are  the bars of  Irish Spring ("Manly, yes, but I like it too!") scattered throughout the plantings considering how filthy she looks. You get that I suppose when the only time you shower is when it rains.. I must make a note to find her a new shirt next season, her Polo logo is completely faded by the sun. In case you are wondering, I have been told the stinky Irish Spring is offensive to the deer. I quickly bought a bulk box of the foul smelling, green bars from Costco when I heard that sage advice. It does tend to break down over time once it has been rained on so if the Sweet 100 Cherry Tomatoes I gift you later this summer, taste a bit soapy - well, My Bad.

We are now starting to plan some sort of alternative garden beds for next year. It may mean we have to sell the "fleet". Anyone interested in 3 boats with holes drilled in the bottom? Besides, with the price of groceries these days, we are going to need to cultivate this empty acre next to the house to grow our own food and avoid bankruptcy.

Either that or buy a bigger boat.

#gardening #kyeemanorth

Let me begin by saying, I picked this beet out of my own veggie patch. I am 64 and this is the first beet I have ever grown. For some reason, beets just never made the cut when it came time to choose what I would grow each season.  It would not have happened this year either but for the fact that the company I ordered my seeds from threw in a free packet of seeds that just happened to be this variety called Vulture Beets. I had never heard of them. An odd name, no?

I had them, so I planted a few and lo and behold they grew and so far the deer have seemed uninterested in them. Unsure if they were ready to harvest, I could tell by the bit that was just above the surface that they might be, so I hauled this beauty out of the ground  with a little tug and was still unsure if this is as big as they get or if I was a little too early. One thing I do know for sure is that I was proud of what I had grown. I held it up to examine it, shook off the clinging dirt and shouted out to Mick..."Check out this little beauty!". It was perfect. No bug bites, check, nice colour,  check, a heady earthy aroma, check. This baby was heading to our dinner plate.

Gardening is truly one of life's great joys (IMHO). My grandparents grew their own food, my parents always had a veggie patch and I followed suit from an early age as soon as I had a window sill to call my own. I once installed shelves horizontally across a rental apartment kitchen window and grew several varieties of herbs to use in my cooking. I thought it was genius and the decorator in me liked the way it looked as well.

Hoping to pass my love of growing things along to my son, I used to take him on little educational walks through my yard and garden at a young age and teach him the names of various flowers and plants. With each successive stroll through, I would quiz him to see if he could remember them. He resisted these lessons, but I was determined he should be able to identify at least some of the flora that surrounds us. He does not remember how he used to wander into our small veggie garden in Vancouver when he was barely two years old, pick pea pods, bring them to me, demand me to "open Mommy" and then grin from ear to ear as the little row of peas inside were revealed. I wish he did remember this. But even more so, I wish that every child had an opportunity to connect with  nature in this way.

I still quiz him...just to see if he remembers. Just last weekend when he was visiting, we walked around here at Kyeema North and despite the fact that he does not seem much interested in gardening (yet), he knew the difference between a Snapdragon and a Marigold. He even asked me if there were any Forget-Me-Nots growing here as those were always a favourite of his as a child, but alas, it was too late in the season for those and I don't have any here. (note to self, add those to  next years seed order).

In a perfect world, I would want every child to embrace growing things. Sometimes, when I witness young people obsessing over meaningless pursuits or complaining they are bored or wasting countless hours scrolling on their phones, I want to shout "Go get your hands dirty! Plant something! Stick a seed in the ground! Create a living thing! Marvel at the miracle of it all!" I have never met a gardener who was bored or boring. I have never felt that gardening was a waste of time. I have never stopped learning about all things botanical. If food became scarce, I would not be fearful.

Listen up young people. You may not realize it, but knowing how to grow something is really a basic life skill and the rewards are far beyond your latest Candy Crush score. If you have a window sill, you can grow something. Just as anyone can cook if they can read, so can anyone create life from a seed in a little pot of dirt in their window. Caring for a plant gives you something outside of yourself to nurture. I recall learning how to grow things from seeds in primary school (the avocado seed experiment). Do they even teach this anymore?

As the world turns and we continue to see more supply chain issues and food prices increasing, we all need to rethink our approach to feeding ourselves. Let's get growing. Let's start with our own children and grandchildren. Teach them how to be self-sufficient. Encourage them to get their hands dirty. Give them the gift of pride in their accomplishment when they pick and eat a juicy ripe strawberry they grew themselves. Take them to a 'pick your own" farm.  Involve them in a community garden.

With any luck, they might enjoy it and come to realize that spending some time in a garden will actually help them understand how the beet does indeed go on.

#gardening #nature