"Painter Comin' Down the Chimney!"

The James Byrd and Laura Wrede Byrd house in Jasper (Hamilton County) FL. Its most recent use is as a storage barn for the present owner's hay.

It was an unseasonably cold night in Madison County, Florida. The cold snap—probably bringing to north Florida the rarity of temperatures in the teens—had already lasted several days.

The children of the family arrived home from school to instructions to replenish the wood box and prepare the chamber pots; no one would want to go outside again before daylight; the only way to survive the cold night would be with a good indoor pile of the seasoned logs already split and stacked in the back yard.

When bedtime came, quilts would be warmed before the fire and then spread across the children and tucked tight against their bodies. For once, the children would not mind that there were not enough beds. The warmth of closely packed bodies would be welcome on this night.

As the sun set, temperatures began to plummet. It was the 1890s; there was no sheetrock or insulation inside the house. The same boards that clad the exterior of the cabin were the inside view as well. In cold weather those boards shrank, leaving gaps between them where cold air burrowed its unimpeded way into the house. Old newspapers pasted to the inside boards denied entrance to the worst of the cold air, but the walls were not the only entry point.

The sharecropper’s meager cabin was built on a foundation of stacked rock columns. Wind whistled beneath the house, too, and cold flew in between the floorboards. Only thin homemade rugs stood between the occupants and that chilling breeze from beneath.

As night fell, the mother built up the fire and lit the kerosene lamps. After a modest meal, most likely of fried salt pork, beans and cornbread, the children gathered around the fireplace. Lacking the warm winter coats children of colder climates might own, they relied on jumping about and staying near the fire to keep warm. Huddling near the fireplace was not altogether satisfying. One side of the body quickly became uncomfortably hot while at the same time the other side continued to ache with cold. Only by constantly twirling back and forth were the children able to keep themselves at least somewhat warm.

Suddenly, a shrill scream split the clear, cold air of the pine and palmetto scrub forest. It was a scream to chill the blood. At that moment, those hearing it would have sworn on their ragged Bible that a woman was being torturously murdered right there on their own property.

“Painter!” my great-grandmother exclaimed.

The children’s eyes grew wide. They had been taught to fear the Florida panther, but so far the tawny cat had mostly been an abstract concept. Maybe they had seen a dead one or two in their brief lifetimes, but certainly they had never experienced the terror of having one threatening to spring through their own front door.

With quickening heartbeats the mother assessed the situation. No doubt the cat was desperately hungry. With the extended cold weather, its usual prey was hidden away in burrows and other warm places. The cat, in his frantic hunger, was doing the only thing he could do; he was stalking the humans whose scent lingered out by the woodpile. With shaking hands, the woman secured the doors and windows as best she could. There were no door locks, only a short horizontal length of board to turn across the slats that made up the door. For a moment she may have considered barricading the door with furniture, but for whatever reason—possibly so as not to alarm the children—she decided against that.

The subdued children clustered even closer to the fireplace, not sure what it was they feared but understanding the look on their mother’s face. Again and again, the panther screamed, coming closer to the house with each utterance. Suddenly: silence. As the family listened, a scrambling sound followed by a distinct thump on the tin roof confirmed the mother’s worst fears.

“He’s on the roof!” several children cried out at the same time.

“Build up the fire!” the mother ordered.

Pairs of small, trembling hands snatched up firewood, tossing in as much as they dared without making the fire too hot and dangerous for the chimney. Again they listened. The only sound was that of padded feet carefully walking across the tin roof. The family remained motionless, hardly even breathing.

Without warning, the unthinkable happened: the panther tumbled down the chimney and into the flames. Children scattered and screamed, but the mother, in a moment of unimaginable speed and clarity of thought, flung open the door. The burning cat raced outside. The door was slammed behind him. Inside, the mother grabbed her children and held them close. Suddenly, the sparseness of the humble shelter and the penetrating cold that filled it no longer mattered. The most important thing was that the panther was gone; once again, the family was safe from harm, with enough wood to see them through the dark hours until daylight arrived to banish their terror.

Go to http://www.defenders.org/wildlife_and_habitat/wildlife/panther.php to hear the sound of a panther.

This story was told to me by my father Henry Collis Flowers (1910-1992) who heard it from his mother Edna Merritt Flowers. Edna was one of the children present in the room when the panther came down the chimney that night. The mother in the story was my great-grandmother Bashaby Wynn Merritt (later Padgett). As far as I know, the story is true. I have added the conversation and details based on general knowledge of the time period combined with accounts from other family members of house descriptions and household routines and my best estimation of what people might say in such circumstances.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used without prior written permission and appropriate attribution including a link to this blog.

Strawberries Picked in Childhood Will Always Be Remembered as the Sweetest

William Henry Flowers and Edna Merritt Flowers (Madison County, FL C. 1940)

One of my earliest memories is of walking with my father Henry Collis Flowers through his strawberry patch in Ashburn, Georgia. Never again will strawberries taste as sweet as those warm-in-the-sun berries as we picked them and popped them the very next second into our mouths.

My father always grew vegetable gardens. My childhood snacking was not about scrounging in a pantry for cookies or candy. If I got hungry while playing I knew I could pick a perfectly ripe tomato and eat it right then and there without bothering to wash either the tomato or the hand that plucked it. Later, by the time I was seven or eight I had developed the habit of eating a raw sweet onion out of hand as an apple is eaten. (Fortunately, I gave up this habit before being old enough to date, or I might still be single.)

I think the garden my father grew might now be called a mini-farm. It consisted of several acres and required hiring a man with a mule to plow it for us each spring. We ate what grew there: from spring onions to late fall collards, sweetened by the first frost.

Along with the garden produce for harvesting, there were grapevines requiring attention as well. My mother Winnie Rouse Flowers put up dozens of jars of bright purple concord grape jelly each year. Somehow it all turned out just right; as soon as we opened the last jar of jelly to spread on hot biscuits, the grapes would suddenly be ready to harvest again.

My father also bought one hog to raise and butcher each year, and my grandmother kept chickens that provided both eggs and meat for the family table. I didn’t think much about all this activity in those days. It was just the way people did things in the 1940s, but now I know how rare it was to be brought up in nearly rural circumstances. There, at the beginning of my life, I had the little homestead adventure I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to copy on a micro-scale.

Daddy’s favorite crop was sweet potatoes. To store them, he buried the wooden sides of an old farm truck halfway into the ground. Then each year as he harvested his sweet potatoes, he put them in the part that was underground and covered them with hay or straw on top. It was the south Georgia version of a root cellar. We ate the sweet potatoes both baked and fried.

To make your own fried sweet potatoes, cut a medium sweet-sized potato into wide slices (not strips like French fries) about a quarter inch thick. Fry in hot oil. Drain on paper towels and salt each batch as it comes out of the hot oil.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used without prior written permission and designated attribution.

Giving Thanks for the Garden

There’s something about the activity of gardening that puts life into perspective. No matter what the spiritual persuasion of the gardener might be, my guess is that few can garden without occasionally pausing to rest against a hoe or shovel and simply contemplate the good life. The act of gardening offers much to be thankful for: fresh vegetables, beautiful flowers, delightful scents, pleasant exercise.

But sometimes gardeners remember to be thankful in the garden without feeling any thankfulness for the garden. Yet, sometimes when I think of all the good my garden has done for me, I wonder why more troubled people are not taking up the hobby.

Many gardeners can tell tales of grief, poor health, anxiety or insecurities overcome through toil and sweat in the garden. One of my favorite stories along these lines was often told by the late Penny McHenry, founder of the American Hydrangea Society (http://www.americanhydrangeasociety.com/). (The beautiful hydrangea macrophylla Penny Mac is named for her.)

When Penny lost her daughter, the grief that followed nearly swamped every part of her life, leaving her depressed and without any interest in daily living. A friend, hoping to cheer her up, sent Penny a gift of potted hydrangeas. Somehow, out of the depths of her sorrow, the beauty of the first mopheads she ever really noticed got through to the grieving mother. Penny planted that hydrangea in her garden and from that small beginning was birthed a passion that would ultimately make her one of the most famous gardeners in Atlanta. Each year her hydrangea-filled garden was the highlight of the Hydrangea Society tour. Now there is even a festival named in Penny’s honor. (http://www.pennymchydrangeafestival.com/).

When my father died in 1992, it was working in my garden that gave me comfort. When health issues nearly sidelined me, it was my garden that keep me going. Some days my physical pain was so great that all I could do was lie in bed and look out the window. It was hard to focus on the garden and not on the weeds I could not deal with, but the garden did give me some small degree of satisfaction in my hours of pain and worry. Hours and hours of my time went into gazing into my garden and hoping for a better day, and eventually, that better day did come.

Recently, I read a book called Puppy Chow Is Better Than Prozac® (http://www.puppychowisbetterthanprozac.com/ ). The author, Bruce Goldstein found that his debilitating bipolar disorder was greatly improved by acquiring a dog for which he had to be responsible. Some days the dog was the only thing that got him out of the house.

Perhaps for some of us who dig in the dirt with great passion, there is a similar experience in gardening. It's hard to put off getting up and out when the business of the garden calls to us. It's equally hard to feel down and out when the flowers are flourishing. Don’t you agree that seeds and plants and digging in the dirt is some of the best medicine in the world?

Copyright 2009 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used without prior permission and appropriate attribution, including the web address of this blog.

The Creaky Old Gardener's Tip of the Week: Easy-to-make Compost

My husband Randal and I have gardened organically for decades. Of course, one of the keystones of organic gardening is the making of compost. Unfortunately, for those of us with a few years on us or a few disabilities creeping in--or both--making compost can become too much to deal with if approached in the traditional manner.

My solution is to compost in place using kitchen scraps. I maintain a large Rubbermaid container (the kind big enough to hold a five-pound bag of flour) on my kitchen counter near the sink. I place all the coffee grounds, eggshells and vegetable trimmings that need to be discarded in this container. After about three days the container is nearly full. I then take it to the garden and put it in the spot I want to enrich.

I have bad shoulders that prohibit me from flipping great mounds of compost, but with a hand trowel I am able to easily dig a small hole in a flower bed. Into this hole, I place the kitchen materials and cover these scraps with dirt. By working slowly down the length of the flower bed, I can cover the whole thing in about a year. By the time I am ready to plant, the materials will have rotted into wonderfully dark and friable compost and will have enriched the ground in that spot. To make this go even faster, I sometimes cover the compost with a scoop or two or bagged composted cow manure. (This sells at Wal-Mart for about $1.34 a bag.)

If the weather is bad or the ground is too frozen for digging, the scraps can be placed in a plastic bag and frozen until the opportunity to "plant" them arrives.

Almost any raw kitchen scraps can be used but no cooked foods, grease or meat should be included. Also, I do not recommend using onion trimmings as these produce a bad smell.

If the container starts to pick up odors, after emptying it, fill it with hot water and a 1/4 cup of cider vinegar. Let it soak for a half hour or so before washing and the odor will disappear.

To make emptying the container easier, I put a used coffee filter on the bottom of the container and start the next batch on top of that.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used without prior written permission and proper attribution, including a link to this site.

The gardener's recipe of the week: Southern style fried apple pies

1 cup dried apples
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1 can (10-count) plain biscuits

Place apples in saucepan. Cover (just barely) with water. Add sugar and cinnamon. Cook until apples are very soft and moist. Mash. Roll out biscuits to 1/8 inch thickness for each biscuit. Place 1/10 of apple mixture on each biscuit round. Fold biscuit edge over fruit. Use a fork to press the edges together firmly so the pies will not come apart while cooking.

Heat oil (1/2 inch depth) in a skillet over medium heat. Place two to three pies at one time into the hot oil. Fry on one side until golden brown--this happens almost immediately. Turn the pie and cook on the other side. Remove from the pan; cool on a plate with several folded paper towels on it to absorb grease. Allow to cool completely before eating. (Apple mixture holds the heat for a long time and will burn the mouth if eaten before the pie has cooled.)

The garden in my head is perfect

Fixer-upper available: Old abandoned homeplace needs loving family

Over by the fence, roses bloom as if having just today discovered their ability to dazzle. In the butterfly garden, ethereal creatures flutter, sip and turn, choreographing the perfect show outside my window. The bird feeders boast visits from rare and exotic birds and colorful local species. Weeds refuse to grow. There are no temperamental plants, only glorious successes. It rains just enough. Days are sunny just as often as they need to be. Summer is never too hot or humid and fall lasts forever. Every single plant blooms at the same time and the blooms go on and on--no deadheading ever needed.

Ah, yes, the garden in my head is exquisite.

However . . . the actual garden in my yard is a different matter entirely.

There are always too many weeds and only rare are the glorious successes. The butterflies and birds are welcome and appreciated, but unlikely to be anything rare or exotic.

Things never turn out quite as planned. The “easy” plants that novices and children can grow by carelessly spitting the seeds outdoors at random do nothing for me but curl up and die; the “difficult” ones for which the gardening gurus admonish constant care, get planted by me and forgotten and then they multiply and take over, necessitating the contemplation of hiring a bulldozer to solve the problem. The plant that grew upward to tickle the gutters will only squat against the ground and sulk when moved to a more spacious location. The short, well-behaved bush that shrinks timidly in the back of the garden roars upward like Jack’s beanstalk when moved to the front of the rows. And I have never, and I do mean never, ever grown a decent bell pepper in my entire life.

No wonder November is the best gardening month of all. There’s no other garden to compete with, not even the ones in our heads. Everybody’s garden is brown and ragged. Nobody’s plants look good. Even the green-thumb neighbors on the block have given it up and gone indoors to plot strategy for next spring.

It’s cold—well at least by Georgia standards, meaning the high temperature will be in 50s by afternoon. I think I’ll throw on a sweater and go out to sit on the patio and enjoy the sight of no more weeding, deadheading or watering to be done. For once, my garden really is as good as anybody’s and the to-do list has dwindled.

Meanwhile, the spring 2009 garden slumbers in my brain, ready to be summoned to all its magnificence at the merest hint of a spring day. And, yesterday the first garden catalog arrived; already my thoughts race with possibilities to come.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used elsewhere without prior permission and attribution.

Happy Tuesday: The Georgia Farmers and Consumers Market Bulletin arrives today

Autumn beauty at Sprewell Bluffs State Park in Georgia

Tuesday is my favorite day to stick my hand into the mailbox because this is the day my Georgia Farmers and Consumers Market Bulletin arrives. As soon as I pull it out of the box, I rush inside to brew a cup of tea and read and think and plan. Whatever else I was doing just has to wait.

For more than four decades, this humble--and best of all, free-- advertising tabloid has been my unfailing source of cheap plants and even cheaper reading entertainment. In it gardeners place free classified ads for flower, vegetable and herb seeds or actual trees, shrubs and bulbs, but the purchase of gardening goodies is only half the fun. Think of the Market Bulletin, as fans call it, as the first social networking site for gardeners—the pre-Internet version founded in 1917.

Tiny classified ads are packed with personal interest stories if you read between the lines: the elderly person no longer able to cope with invasive ivy or bamboo or wild roses offers to give them away to anyone willing to dig; the nostalgic gardener looking for a beloved plant from childhood begs readers to share; the octogenarian who believes someone else out there also remembers the perfect tea cookies his grandmother fed him urgently seeks the recipe for his own grandchildren; or, the retirees selling seedlings and trees gleefully confess when called that the tree income pays their property taxes each year.

The typical Market Bulletin price for seeds is $1 per tablespoon plus a stamped, self-addressed envelope. In 1991, the first day lilies I ever bought cost me only $10 for 13 plants. (The baker’s dozen is a familiar offer in the Market Bulletin. These friendly gardeners love giving extra value.) We drove a few miles to get the day lilies, but the seller not only dug them up for us, she gave us a quick lesson on how to succeed with them—and succeed we did. Out of those 13 plants my daughter and I have grown hundreds and I have given more bulbs away than I can count.

Sometimes Market Bulletin advertisers even give things away, such as the four-o’clock seeds I got one year. It is not uncommon at all to see offers of free plants. These are typically the invasive types such as wild roses or English ivy, but it could be anything. One year I sent off a stamped self-addressed envelope and got free touch-me-not seeds, which brings up another point: Sometimes plants that are no longer being sold in garden stores are still going strong in the Market Bulletin.

One of the delights of dealing with the Market Bulletin advertisers is that they are mostly generous and helpful and somewhat old-fashioned individuals. Most are selling seeds and plants because they love gardening and want to help others. They’ll give detailed advice if a buyer asks. Many of the advertisers are elderly. (I know because I have talked to dozens of them and, if they are over 80, they will consistently tell their age; I guess they’ve earned bragging rights.) Sometimes advertisers offer free plants because their property has become overrun and they are grateful to have some of the bounty hauled away, but others use the classifieds as a way to socialize. As phone numbers are included with all listings, elderly readers will call an advertiser to talk gardening even when they are not interested in buying anything. Perhaps some advertisers would find this irksome, but to me it’s just fun. The advertisers are always delightful and wonderfully knowledgeable. If they don’t have the plant a gardener wants, they’ll offer help in tracking down who might.

There’s even a section for subscribers who want to find certain plants or old-fashioned goods. I’ve never advertised there, but given the helpfulness of the readership, I’m sure it works. I did at one time have a letter published in the “Helping One Another” section of the Market Bulletin. There I requested old-fashioned recipes and I got many, many letters and good recipes from that. Another time I made a request for simple living tips for my Creative Downscaling newsletter and got 64 phone calls from people wanting to help.

But, hands down, the best value in the Market Bulletin is the free fertilizer. Be it horse, chicken or cow manure that quickens the gardener’s pulse in anticipation of future fertile fields, the good 'ol Market Bulletin has it. Of course, what they don’t tell you is that free weeds come with it, too, but then no product is perfect, is it?

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. Text and photograph may be used only with prior permission and with attribution.

The last rose of November

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)

Against the wooden fence in my back yard a rose that forgot to bloom all summer is now enthusiastically showing off on this, the 14th day of November. Its spunk in the face of cool nights and overcast days has to be admired. I could understand this last fling if the blooms had started earlier, but they only began in October. Maybe it is the botanical equivalent of those nonconformist people who simply march to a different drummer.

Or, maybe the rose is like the gardener, always intending to get itself together and flourish and bloom and accomplish something memorable, but always caught instead in the hurly-burly business of life. While other rosebushes proudly bloomed on time, this one concentrated on providing shade for birds; its roots anchored the soil of a slanting hillside, keeping erosion away—all worthwhile pursuits, but not substitutes for blossoms. Like the rose, maybe I, too, did worthwhile things, but then one day I, too, awoke and discovered it was the October of my life and time to get on with it.

Birthdays at first come with glacial slowness; then suddenly, in late middle age, they begin to tumble by one after another. By age 60 they verge on avalanche, sliding past faster and faster. Each one reminds the gardener to act on intended dreams and purpose. The seasons do not last forever either for the rose or the gardener.

The first 20 years of life are mostly about learning and growing. The 20 years following those are about establishing ourselves (career, family, mortgage—the days when store clerks called me “Miss”). The years between 20 and 40 are about taking care of important things (saving for college, making money for retirement, seeing the children launched—the days when promotion to “Ma’am” seems a desired confirmation of deserved status). But then, suddenly there is that November of life, the 60th birthday—to all waitresses and store clerks I am now a doddering “Sweetie” for whom even the buttons on the checkout’s debit machine must be pushed.

No time to waste. November in the garden, or in life, is not the time to give up. Keep believing in possibilities, I want to say to the rose each morning when I go out to check that it has made it through another night and to cheer when it has; just hang in there, baby, I think each day as more buds, still waiting to be unfurled, race against the inevitable frost. Some things really are that much sweeter from having been delayed so long.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used with prior permission and appropriate attribution.

Politics in the garden

All the votes have not yet been counted in the semi-annual garden election, but it appears that the Brown Party, headed by the brutal Jack (“Take-No-Prisoners”) Frost, is trouncing the Green Party. Day by day, more sections of the garden switch parties.

No election is without its scandals, of course. Some accuse Frost of dirty politics. Votes were coerced, they say. Rumor has it that his brutal intimidation is done at night while the gardener sleeps, oblivious to the carnage beneath her windows. Others add that Frost is barbaric, sparing none, returning again and again to seek the few holdouts.

Annuals were the first to be overwhelmed by the rolling tide of Brown. Still, throughout the garden, pockets of resistance are seen. Shasta daisy clumps, still in Green Party garb, huddle to conspire and plan for April’s rematch. Above them a sheltering butterfly bush is still undecided—part green, part brown.

All is not yet lost, however. There are still a few hanging chads to consider. In the lawn, onions bravely caucus to laugh in the face of Frost. Against the driveway edges, strips of Bermuda grass still defiantly wave the green stems of their Party. Next to the house, azaleas settle beside the warmth of the bricks: waiting, waiting, waiting. Beside the wooden fence a lone red floribunda rose is the last staunch holdout.

And then . . . suddenly the word goes out: He’s coming. He’s coming tomorrow night. And it will once again be a landslide. Flower heads bow to the inevitable. This election cycle is all over.

But, beneath the soil, hope hibernates. Just wait, whisper the crocus and daffodils and hyacinths beneath their overcoats of good earth. Just wait. Just wait.

It ain’t over til April when, once again, the fat lady gardens.

Text and photograph Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May not be used with prior permission and attribution upon publication.

Gardens of stone

Homer Kilgo (left) a World War I veteran.



"In Flanders Fields the poppies blow between the crosses row on row . . . "

When I was a little girl in Ashburn, Georgia in the 1950s, it was the custom on Veteran’s Day for the American Legion to sell blood-red crepe paper poppies. People bought them to wear in lapels as a symbol of remembrance of the war dead.

No doubt the idea of the paper poppies came from what is probably the most quoted war-related poem of all time: Flanders Fields. In my growing-up years, no child escaped grade school without memorizing it. I had not thought of the poem in decades until this Veteran’s Day. When I reread it, it came as a shock to me to read its final lines in which the author urges the living to take up the same cause as those who have fallen. I had not remembered the poem as being so adamantly pro-war, but it sounds that way to me now.

Around the world “gardens of stone” tell one part of the story of war. Each gravestone represents, not just a death, but an end to possibilities: no begetting of offspring who might one day cure cancer or make other discoveries that would change the world for the better. Those who have fought for freedom for their homelands deserve to be remembered and honored, not just for their sacrifice of their lives, but also for the sacrifice civilization has made of all the might-have-beens in a life cut short.

Yet, all wars are not honorable; ego, lust for power or money, religious intolerance and ethnic prejudice have populated more gardens of stone than any disease might have. For every just and necessary war, there have no doubt been hundreds fought merely for power and gold.

I’m thinking of such horrific events as Alexander’s conquest of the known world or Hitler’s insane attempt at the same goal. There is no honor due to savage soldiers who, at the command of an egotistical madman, massacred because they could. Yet, even in those cases, it’s not always possible to condemn the individual soldier, the one who fought because he had no choice—the decent man caught in an indecent situation where to refuse to fight would be suicide and the death of his own family.

One of the oddest experiences I’ve ever had occurred at a friend’s house where we gathered with her German guests. We spoke no German and they spoke little English. However, we managed to communicate and, in the course of an evening made an astonishing discovery: of the three men present in the room—two Americans and one German—all three had a father at the site of the same World War II battle at the same time. Those three soldiers lived to tell the story and to escape the gardens of stone, thus making possible the gathering that took place that night some 50 years later.

Perhaps the real lesson from the gardens of stone and Flanders Fields is that while we rightly honor those who gave their lives for freedom, remembrance is not enough. It is the responsibility of the descendents of both the deceased and the survivors to teach subsequent generations to let old wounds heal and to forge the kinds of connections that will ultimately turn foes into friends.

Text and photograph copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May be used only with prior permission and attribution.

Autumn view from Brasstown Bald

Aren't hobbies supposed to be fun?

While some unenlightened souls categorize gardening as a hobby, I have to wonder about a “hobby” that mostly consists of digging holes to take out what grows freely to replace it with temperamental green divas who are willing to commit suicide by purposely drawing up their roots and folding their leaves against nourishment rather than grow where a gardener wishes them to be.


Where do gardeners get the strength--or stubbornness--to keep on fighting these battles that they can win only sporadically? Perhaps it is no different than the plight of the golfer. Putting a small white ball into a sunken cup is not “natural” either.


Like golfing--another hobby that is supposed to be fun--gardening can be an obsession, a torture, even a cause for sleepless nights and money ill spent. Because, for the hardcore fanatics, gardening is no hobby. It is a disease that offers pain, suffering, worry and agony, punctuated by occasionally glorious bursts of beauty, joy, pleasure and satisfaction.


Compliment any gardener on his or her roses or begonias and the compliment is tossed aside with observations as to weather, bugs, drought. And, as every gardener knows, “You should have seen it last week.”


The only way any plant achieves perfection is when observers are kept out. Just let me invite a friend to see anything that has fostered the deadly sin of pride in my little ol' gardening heart, and that plant will, just for the perverse fun of it, blacken and shrivel the night before the visit. At least golfing doesn't offer that kind of cruel joke (although I have been told that there are golf balls with a natural affinity for water hazards).

Mushrooms in the garden

What is that little green thing?

People who don’t know much have sometimes told me I have a green thumb (and what a dumb expression that is). Sometime friends even come to me for gardening advice, which I used to think they actually wanted.

Now, however, I understand they are actually soliciting some hocus-pocus variation of “eye of newt and toe of toad”. What they really hanker for is permission to claim the care of such and such plant, which they have already killed, is so exotic that they are absolved of all responsibility in their failure.

Others ask for identification of a mysterious plant which they describe with much inaccuracy and flailing of arms. When I can, I name the plant correctly for them (virtually impossible without seeing it). When I can’t, I bite my tongue to keep from inventing some likely story that might please them even more. I’m convinced most of the more colorful names (John Lauter’s walking stick, lovelies bleeding, red hot poker or grandpa’s long-handled drawers—no wait, I made that last one up) come from just such incidents; a green thumb gardener, no doubt embarrassed by lack of knowledge, just made something up on the spot.

The thing that pleases me is how most visitors will gladly take home cuttings of nasty invasive plants I am trying to purge from my own garden. I know, that sounds like an evil trick to play on one’s friends. Really? Do you have any I idea where I got these bad boys in the first place?

Everything in the garden does not have to be beautiful

Murder in the garden

Perry Mason was a brilliant TV lawyer who always managed, not only to solve the case, but also via some kind of magic or mind control, to obtain a confession from the perpetrator. (Take that, you CSI types who have only your time-consuming little science tricks to rely upon; Perry Mason talked the confession out of those bad guys. Let’s see you do that.

Which brings me to my own confession: I’ve been murdering away in the garden all year: rosebush-munching Japanese beetles; fire ants; crabgrass; and sweet gum sprouts. The motive? My own selfish interests, of course. Somewhere along the garden path I got the notion that my garden should be my garden. No room in it for those who aren’t pretty or useful or tasty or willing to leave my stuff just the way I want it.

People who dig and plant in glass gardens (a terrarium?) shouldn’t throw stones, perhaps. Meaning, who am I to accuse and condemn another murderer on the premises? But I must.

Here are the sordid details of the crime: out of the corner of my eye I saw the platform feeder of birdseed swinging madly. My first thought was that a squirrel had fallen out of it. Rushing to the window to investigate, I saw a gray cat running away with a bird—one of my birds, if you please—in his mouth.

This is a puzzle, a mystery for Perry Mason. We live in a dog neighborhood; where would a cat come from? Is he/she a legacy of reverse trick or treating, the kind where the so-called animal lover drives to a likely neighborhood and dumps out a trusting pet? Maybe. Odd that this new guy arrived so soon after Halloween.

Yet, with blood (and sap) on my own conscience, who am I to condemn Gray Cat? At least he killed only in order to eat, not, like me, merely for preserving the roses.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May be used only with prior permission and attribution.

Rocky, the Sunday nap expert

Sunday in the garden

Sunday in the garden

Sundays are our time to drink coffee, eat a leisurely lunch and read the newspaper, skipping the by now frantic pre-election coverage.

There may even be little guilt-free nodding off over the book I am reading, Desert Solitaire, by Edward Abbey (http://www.abbeyweb.net/). Who could object to a little surreptitious shut-eye on a slow Sunday? Randal is doing his nodding-off stretched out on the bed, blissfully guilt-free. Rocky the cat, points no paw, no doubt believing his humans have finally learned to live the good life. Napping is Rocky’s religion, fervently practiced for hours at the time.

Sundays are also a time to take stock of what is happening in the garden and to make plans for what needs to be done next. The seed catalogs are months away; maybe I’ll dig out the ragged ones from last January and start making plans.

But . . . first on my to-do list should be the pulling up of some of the grasses, now frost-glazed, that have invaded the garden and the uprooting of the definitely-dead zinnias. But, never being one to garden on the schedule of the shoulds, I wait, wanting to allow the birds their last possible chance to munch any and all seed heads. Besides, procrastination has its rewards; the zinnias I enjoyed this summer were the product of my laziness last fall; all of them were volunteers—and very welcome and beautiful ones at that.

We subscribe to The Atlanta Journal Constitution. My favorite Sunday columnist is Charles Seabrook, whose writings about nature (animals, plants and the heavens) keep us informed of everything from the arrival time of incoming bird species to the meteor showers and phases of the moon. Today’s column mentioned that volunteers are needed for the native grasses reseeding project at Sprewell State Park and Panola Mountain State Park. Aha, leaving seed heads as I do, must be a good thing. My laziness is vindicated.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May be used only with permission and attibution.

Eastern fox squirrel in our back yard

Breakfast time in the garden

Tall, western-facing windows at one end of our bedroom look toward the hill and woods of the back portion of our small half-acre yard. The nearer view, just past the windows, is of our butterfly garden, populated by plants chosen specifically to attract butterflies all summer and birds year round.

Two comfy rocking chairs beside those windows cradle our still-sleepy bodies as Randal and I sip fresh coffee in the mornings and plan our day. It’s hard to give up the much-preferred, just-after-daylight observations on the patio, but late October mornings are too cool now for outdoor comfort.

Numerous bird enticements beckon the feathered crowd we wish to view: sock feeders stocked with thistle seed for the goldfinches and house finches; tube feeders filled with black oil sunflower seeds for the chickadees and titmice; traditional feeders containing peanuts and safflower seeds for whoever is hungry; platform feeders for any and all—including the squirrels. There’s also a small terracotta saucer of black oil sunflowers seeds meant for the cardinals, unaccountably shy in this crowd. On the ground we scatter cracked corn for the mourning doves.

Of course, none of the birds understands our intended meal designations; the food is eaten greedily, and as desired, by whoever arrives earliest, meaning we sometimes see mourning doves awkwardly swinging to and fro on the platform feeders, too. I have not yet made out what it is they eat there with such relish.

After dining, the doves enjoy a morning footbath. A 14-inch terracotta saucer installed as a water dish for squirrels, has been appropriated by the doves. Looking quite pompous in their charming feathered waistcoats, they wade solemnly and purposefully through the shallow dish. The strutting birds neither drink nor bathe in the water; it’s just for washing dust from their feet, it seems. Squirrels continue to drink afterwards with enthusiasm, having no objection apparently to the foot-flavored elixir.

Nearby a lone bluebird keeps watch, occasionally routing the occasional feathered ruffian whose looks he distrusts. The bluebird house Randal built will not be used during the long cold months to come. However, Papa Bluebird is not taking any chances that squatters might invade. Mama Bluebird likes this house and we all know that if Mama ain’t happy . . . His vigilance as the cold season approaches reminds us that, yes, spring really does always come again.

Copyright 2008 by Edith Flowers Kilgo. All rights reserved. May be used only with prior permission and attribution.