In Memory of My Dearest Friend

I lost my best friend and gardening companion on Thanksgiving. She worked side by side with me over eight years as I created my many gardens, worked on continuous projects, and lived life one happy day after another. No aspect of my life was left untouched by her unwavering love and devotion.

Shaca Latte

Shaca Latte arrived as a small ball of brown hair and swollen eyes, an unexpected gift from my wife. I didn’t think I was ready for a new puppy after losing my very special and adored friend, Stranger, to cancer. But on that first day Shaca walked happily with me in the backyard tripping over the tall grass blades. She stole my heart and never left my side. Until this week.

We all hope for friends and love and having someone who thinks we’re the most important person in the world. I’m one of the lucky ones to have found that. Shaca was bound to me and I to her by an understanding that we wanted each other, loved each other, and needed each other. She redefined the definition of loyalty and friendship for me.

Our mornings always started the same way. At around 4 a.m. she would leap onto the bed with stealth and finesse. For those many years she never woke me. Hours later I’d find her curled at my feet. It was only on a few occasions when I happened to be awake at that early hour that I was enthralled by how she managed to jump with a grace that allowed her to land in a space that my legs didn’t occupy. She would calmly lie down and rest her head on my feet, gently so as not to wake me.

She would stay on the bed and watch as I tended to dressing and preparing for the day. She could tell by which pair of pants I put on what the day’s activities would be. With one leg into my work jeans, her tail would start beating against the mattress with vigor. As soon as I headed toward the bedroom door she would jump down and then walk closely at my side down the hallway with an energy I could never summon in the morning. 

On the bed, waiting

She waited as patiently as she could as I prepared my cup of tea and started the water boiling. Her tail would start up again when I slipped on my shoes. She’d trip over herself  making her way to the front door. She knew to sit and wait for my command, but there was always anticipation on her part. I’d open the door, pause to make sure the coast was clear with no unsuspecting squirrels hanging around, then give her the hand signal that she was allowed to go. She would bound through the door, sailing through the air as she leapt over the steps. I would slowly walk to the edge of the driveway to pick up the newspaper providing her ample time to sniff the area and update herself on all the olfactory activities from the night before. I’d head back to the house and she would follow. We did this every morning for eight years, until yesterday. That was one of the most difficult mornings of my life when I had to do it alone.

In my chair

A chocolate lab, she loved the outdoors and water and being with me. She would lie patiently as I read the paper, most often lying in my lap as I sat in my recliner. She never seemed to grasp that she was a 70-pound dog and not the 10-pound puppy who first curled into my lap. I didn’t mind. It made her happy to curl into an amazingly small ball between my legs. It made me happy too.

The mornings would continue as I headed into the home office to check email, work, and maybe blog and she would squeeze under the desk to curl up on my feet. After a short time, though never soon enough for her, I would put on my work boots, and a jacket if there was a chill, and we would head out to begin our day outside. This was where she was happiest. 

She’d help me water the garden, taking the time to lap up water as it streamed from the hose. She’d patrol the area around the plants, always sniffing the ground. If I continued to water, she continued to sneak drinks from the hose. On hot days she’d run through the water like a kid, soaking herself. She would merrily shake the water free from her coat and do it again.

Shaca watching over the garden

On days that I’d grab a shovel she’d bound happily by my side. After I’d turn over a section of ground she’d waste no time lying on top of the loose soil. Never more than a few feet from where I worked, she would move with me as I dug further, picking a new spot on new soil near my boots. On special days I’d let her dig along with me. I might have to caution her to slow down because in her enthusiasm she’d lose sight of the gardening goal, but I usually just let her dig. She never wantonly dug up our plants; on just a couple occasions, she disturbed a few lavender plants as she eagerly hunted a gopher that had tunneled beneath them. She always had respect for our garden.

Running back to me

We’d walk around the property on clear days and in snow. She knew the area was hers to protect and enjoy. She would bound ahead, always with endless energy and enthusiasm, and return to my side for reassurance before bounding away again. When I’d stop she would stop. When I paused to inspect the trees or grass or sky, she would pause and observe the same location.

She had a weakness for squirrels. I don’t think she hated them, but rather wanted them to know they had no place in her yard. When one was spotted she would jump continuously into the tree until the squirrel would leave. She could jump. High. Taking a running start and using the trunk as a ramp, she would soar to unbelievable heights. I don’t remember her ever catching a squirrel by herself though on at least one occasion the squirrel she scared from a tree was snatched by one of our other dogs; I rescued it soon after. Once she spied a squirrel nothing else could distract her from her task.

Jumping for squirrels

She wasn’t afraid of machinery or power tools. Whether I was cutting lumber with a spiral saw or trimming trees with a chainsaw, she would lie watching me, waiting for the next part of the activity. When I’d mow the lawn she would find a nice location to observe my labor, always as close as she could. That simple chore would cause her to change spots a dozen times as she moved to be closer and be a more integral part of my effort.

When I’d unload soil or rock or mulch from the truck, she’d supervise my work. She never failed to be covered by the same dust as me. I have no doubt she would have shared my shovel if she could.

At the end of the afternoon, after we were both worn out, we’d walk slowly back to the house. She rarely ran to the house with the same energy with which she left it. Being outside with me was where she wanted to be. I tried to find as many excuses as I could to enable that.

Evenings were a calmer period. She would patiently and quietly beg with her beautiful brown eyes during dinner; she knew she always got scraps, but waited beside me with anticipation for the delicious bits. I taught her to catch the morsels and she was a marvel to behold as she snagged the airborne treats with speed and agility, but always with grace.

We’d watch TV or read a book or magazine, again with her curled into my lap. If she overheated she would roll over my feet and melt onto the floor with a clunk. Before long she’d be in my lap again. 

When it was time for bed we’d head back down the hall. For an unknown reason she was afraid of the area just outside the bedroom door and would pause anxiously before making a dash into the room. It was the same at both houses we’ve lived in. When I walked with her it helped relieve the anxiety and she’d settle in on her pad at the side of the bed. A few hours later she’d be at my feet on top and we’d start our day again.

Shaca had an endearing love for everyone around me. She accepted my new wife with utmost devotion and affection. On the days I was in town or away on a trip, she would curl at my wife’s feet under her desk. She would anxiously await my return. She would accompany my wife through the house and in whatever tasks they shared, but as soon as I reappeared everyone else disappeared. She would be glued at my side as she waited for the next activity we could share. Always at my side.

She’s gone now and there’s a hole in my heart. An unexpected and serious medical issue made her departure happen too fast. We had a scare a year ago when a thyroid tumor threatened our partnership. But we overcame that dilemma and she sailed past the vet’s prognosis like she sailed over the steps in the morning.

It will be difficult to continue gardening without her. I will, but it will be hard. I see her in everything I see in the yard and gardens. That’s why I can continue because I know part of her is in the soil and plants and trees. Wherever she is she’ll be able to lie down and watch me. That’s what she liked to do so much. I don’t want to take that away from her, especially now.

My life is better because of her time in it. She taught me to be a better person. She taught me to enjoy my garden and the outdoors in a way I never had before. She made every day special because to her every day with me was special. We shared life.

I miss her. I always will. We still have other dogs and will have more in the future. But there is only one Shaca Latte. The experience of deep and total love, from her to me and me to her, can never be forgotten.

Thank you, Shaca. May you chase squirrels forever as you protect your garden and watch over me.

Shaca Latte, 2002-2010
Rest in Peace

I lost my best friend and gardening companion on Thanksgiving. She worked side by side with me over eight years as I created my many gardens, worked on continuous projects, and lived life one happy day after another. No aspect of my life was left untouched by her unwavering love and devotion.

Shaca Latte

Shaca Latte arrived as a small ball of brown hair and swollen eyes, an unexpected gift from my wife. I didn’t think I was ready for a new puppy after losing my very special and adored friend, Stranger, to cancer. But on that first day Shaca walked happily with me in the backyard tripping over the tall grass blades. She stole my heart and never left my side. Until this week.

We all hope for friends and love and having someone who thinks we’re the most important person in the world. I’m one of the lucky ones to have found that. Shaca was bound to me and I to her by an understanding that we wanted each other, loved each other, and needed each other. She redefined the definition of loyalty and friendship for me.

Our mornings always started the same way. At around 4 a.m. she would leap onto the bed with stealth and finesse. For those many years she never woke me. Hours later I’d find her curled at my feet. It was only on a few occasions when I happened to be awake at that early hour that I was enthralled by how she managed to jump with a grace that allowed her to land in a space that my legs didn’t occupy. She would calmly lie down and rest her head on my feet, gently so as not to wake me.

She would stay on the bed and watch as I tended to dressing and preparing for the day. She could tell by which pair of pants I put on what the day’s activities would be. With one leg into my work jeans, her tail would start beating against the mattress with vigor. As soon as I headed toward the bedroom door she would jump down and then walk closely at my side down the hallway with an energy I could never summon in the morning. 

On the bed, waiting

She waited as patiently as she could as I prepared my cup of tea and started the water boiling. Her tail would start up again when I slipped on my shoes. She’d trip over herself  making her way to the front door. She knew to sit and wait for my command, but there was always anticipation on her part. I’d open the door, pause to make sure the coast was clear with no unsuspecting squirrels hanging around, then give her the hand signal that she was allowed to go. She would bound through the door, sailing through the air as she leapt over the steps. I would slowly walk to the edge of the driveway to pick up the newspaper providing her ample time to sniff the area and update herself on all the olfactory activities from the night before. I’d head back to the house and she would follow. We did this every morning for eight years, until yesterday. That was one of the most difficult mornings of my life when I had to do it alone.

In my chair

A chocolate lab, she loved the outdoors and water and being with me. She would lie patiently as I read the paper, most often lying in my lap as I sat in my recliner. She never seemed to grasp that she was a 70-pound dog and not the 10-pound puppy who first curled into my lap. I didn’t mind. It made her happy to curl into an amazingly small ball between my legs. It made me happy too.

The mornings would continue as I headed into the home office to check email, work, and maybe blog and she would squeeze under the desk to curl up on my feet. After a short time, though never soon enough for her, I would put on my work boots, and a jacket if there was a chill, and we would head out to begin our day outside. This was where she was happiest. 

She’d help me water the garden, taking the time to lap up water as it streamed from the hose. She’d patrol the area around the plants, always sniffing the ground. If I continued to water, she continued to sneak drinks from the hose. On hot days she’d run through the water like a kid, soaking herself. She would merrily shake the water free from her coat and do it again.

Shaca watching over the garden

On days that I’d grab a shovel she’d bound happily by my side. After I’d turn over a section of ground she’d waste no time lying on top of the loose soil. Never more than a few feet from where I worked, she would move with me as I dug further, picking a new spot on new soil near my boots. On special days I’d let her dig along with me. I might have to caution her to slow down because in her enthusiasm she’d lose sight of the gardening goal, but I usually just let her dig. She never wantonly dug up our plants; on just a couple occasions, she disturbed a few lavender plants as she eagerly hunted a gopher that had tunneled beneath them. She always had respect for our garden.

Running back to me

We’d walk around the property on clear days and in snow. She knew the area was hers to protect and enjoy. She would bound ahead, always with endless energy and enthusiasm, and return to my side for reassurance before bounding away again. When I’d stop she would stop. When I paused to inspect the trees or grass or sky, she would pause and observe the same location.

She had a weakness for squirrels. I don’t think she hated them, but rather wanted them to know they had no place in her yard. When one was spotted she would jump continuously into the tree until the squirrel would leave. She could jump. High. Taking a running start and using the trunk as a ramp, she would soar to unbelievable heights. I don’t remember her ever catching a squirrel by herself though on at least one occasion the squirrel she scared from a tree was snatched by one of our other dogs; I rescued it soon after. Once she spied a squirrel nothing else could distract her from her task.

Jumping for squirrels

She wasn’t afraid of machinery or power tools. Whether I was cutting lumber with a spiral saw or trimming trees with a chainsaw, she would lie watching me, waiting for the next part of the activity. When I’d mow the lawn she would find a nice location to observe my labor, always as close as she could. That simple chore would cause her to change spots a dozen times as she moved to be closer and be a more integral part of my effort.

When I’d unload soil or rock or mulch from the truck, she’d supervise my work. She never failed to be covered by the same dust as me. I have no doubt she would have shared my shovel if she could.

At the end of the afternoon, after we were both worn out, we’d walk slowly back to the house. She rarely ran to the house with the same energy with which she left it. Being outside with me was where she wanted to be. I tried to find as many excuses as I could to enable that.

Evenings were a calmer period. She would patiently and quietly beg with her beautiful brown eyes during dinner; she knew she always got scraps, but waited beside me with anticipation for the delicious bits. I taught her to catch the morsels and she was a marvel to behold as she snagged the airborne treats with speed and agility, but always with grace.

We’d watch TV or read a book or magazine, again with her curled into my lap. If she overheated she would roll over my feet and melt onto the floor with a clunk. Before long she’d be in my lap again. 

When it was time for bed we’d head back down the hall. For an unknown reason she was afraid of the area just outside the bedroom door and would pause anxiously before making a dash into the room. It was the same at both houses we’ve lived in. When I walked with her it helped relieve the anxiety and she’d settle in on her pad at the side of the bed. A few hours later she’d be at my feet on top and we’d start our day again.

Shaca had an endearing love for everyone around me. She accepted my new wife with utmost devotion and affection. On the days I was in town or away on a trip, she would curl at my wife’s feet under her desk. She would anxiously await my return. She would accompany my wife through the house and in whatever tasks they shared, but as soon as I reappeared everyone else disappeared. She would be glued at my side as she waited for the next activity we could share. Always at my side.

She’s gone now and there’s a hole in my heart. An unexpected and serious medical issue made her departure happen too fast. We had a scare a year ago when a thyroid tumor threatened our partnership. But we overcame that dilemma and she sailed past the vet’s prognosis like she sailed over the steps in the morning.

It will be difficult to continue gardening without her. I will, but it will be hard. I see her in everything I see in the yard and gardens. That’s why I can continue because I know part of her is in the soil and plants and trees. Wherever she is she’ll be able to lie down and watch me. That’s what she liked to do so much. I don’t want to take that away from her, especially now.

My life is better because of her time in it. She taught me to be a better person. She taught me to enjoy my garden and the outdoors in a way I never had before. She made every day special because to her every day with me was special. We shared life.

I miss her. I always will. We still have other dogs and will have more in the future. But there is only one Shaca Latte. The experience of deep and total love, from her to me and me to her, can never be forgotten.

Thank you, Shaca. May you chase squirrels forever as you protect your garden and watch over me.

Shaca Latte, 2002-2010
Rest in Peace

War of the Worlds in Your Garden

It amazes me how simple sights can trigger emotion and enhance the imagination. The garden abounds with images for the mind, especially after a season change. Today my wife commented how she loves the way the sunflowers look now. As I've blogged before, the sunflowers are her special place in the garden. The exploding golden colors, the gigantic faces turning toward the sun, the forest of shade from elephantine stalks.  Even as the moribund petals slowly faded, she focused her attention and pleasure on that section of the garden.

Today the color is gone. The seeds have been neatly cleaned by the birds. The fanning leaves are shriveled and torn. All that remains are darkened heads resting atop slender and sturdy towers. In the cold of morning with a glazing of frost, they obviously invoke a singular beauty for her. It's a unique garden presence that can't be duplicated during the fertility of summer.

Today the sunflowers make me think of the Martian invaders from the classic 1953 film, "The War of the Worlds". As Gene Barry hides in the basement, the metallic probe snakes through the darkness; he beheads it with an axe. The probes that sprout from the invading spacecraft shoot death rays and remind me of the vigilant sunflowers in my garden. It's an image that makes me smile.

Like my wife, I enjoy looking at the sunflowers, but, more importantly, I relish the entire garden during fall and winter. I think it's advantageous to plant with four seasons in mind. Flowers in full bloom attain the beauty many gardeners seek, but you can enjoy many other aspects of beauty as the year progresses. Miniature icicles sparkling in the winter sun as they drip from dried coneflowers are a wonder to behold. Delicate ice crystals that blanket apricot blossoms after a freezing fog in early spring are photograph-worthy even as they destroy the crop.

During fall, blowing leaves change the landscape as they catch on withering flowers, and bushes, and decorative grass. As the snow billows in, it rests upon the same leaves and plants as it sculpts the gardens into an ethereal museum of artistic wonder.

I'm all for cleaning up your garden and having it ready for spring planting, but delaying the clean up can add so much. There isn't much you can say about barren soil lying flat beneath the frost and snow. But the dead plants you were so quick to remove could have created a framework for the same frost and snow. The result may have been something to remember and treasure.

My sunflowers will remain on guard through the new year. Only after they've given us every conceivable viewpoint of weather and season will I remove them and plant a new crop. The same can be said for most of my plants. A garden doesn't need to be filled with color to be beautiful.

It amazes me how simple sights can trigger emotion and enhance the imagination. The garden abounds with images for the mind, especially after a season change. Today my wife commented how she loves the way the sunflowers look now. As I've blogged before, the sunflowers are her special place in the garden. The exploding golden colors, the gigantic faces turning toward the sun, the forest of shade from elephantine stalks.  Even as the moribund petals slowly faded, she focused her attention and pleasure on that section of the garden.

Today the color is gone. The seeds have been neatly cleaned by the birds. The fanning leaves are shriveled and torn. All that remains are darkened heads resting atop slender and sturdy towers. In the cold of morning with a glazing of frost, they obviously invoke a singular beauty for her. It's a unique garden presence that can't be duplicated during the fertility of summer.

Today the sunflowers make me think of the Martian invaders from the classic 1953 film, "The War of the Worlds". As Gene Barry hides in the basement, the metallic probe snakes through the darkness; he beheads it with an axe. The probes that sprout from the invading spacecraft shoot death rays and remind me of the vigilant sunflowers in my garden. It's an image that makes me smile.

Like my wife, I enjoy looking at the sunflowers, but, more importantly, I relish the entire garden during fall and winter. I think it's advantageous to plant with four seasons in mind. Flowers in full bloom attain the beauty many gardeners seek, but you can enjoy many other aspects of beauty as the year progresses. Miniature icicles sparkling in the winter sun as they drip from dried coneflowers are a wonder to behold. Delicate ice crystals that blanket apricot blossoms after a freezing fog in early spring are photograph-worthy even as they destroy the crop.

During fall, blowing leaves change the landscape as they catch on withering flowers, and bushes, and decorative grass. As the snow billows in, it rests upon the same leaves and plants as it sculpts the gardens into an ethereal museum of artistic wonder.

I'm all for cleaning up your garden and having it ready for spring planting, but delaying the clean up can add so much. There isn't much you can say about barren soil lying flat beneath the frost and snow. But the dead plants you were so quick to remove could have created a framework for the same frost and snow. The result may have been something to remember and treasure.

My sunflowers will remain on guard through the new year. Only after they've given us every conceivable viewpoint of weather and season will I remove them and plant a new crop. The same can be said for most of my plants. A garden doesn't need to be filled with color to be beautiful.

Gardening... The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Do you view your gardening hobby as something that takes a little too much? It takes your time and it takes your money. Every spring you spend more than you budgeted to buy annuals or maybe you overspend on bulbs in the fall. Along the way you buy an overpriced bush or tree or statue that you really don't need. There are always nicer tools and more exotic flowers and new gardening methods to try.

Many of us spend our time and hard-earned money adding more and more things to the garden that we think will make it better. I suggest you take a look at the things you can take from the garden that will improve it more than you can imagine. Along with the blossoms and fruits, our gardens can provide us an endless supply of charity and friendship.

I'm blessed with a small group of very dear gardening friends. Yesterday I had the privilege of helping my good friend Della "clean up" her garden. Della has one of those yards that makes a neighborhood safer. How so? Because speeding cars slow down as they pass her house, as they admire the grasses and bushes and flowers and bask in the beauty of her landscape. She certainly didn't need my help because her burly, manservant (husband) Roger is always willing to work along side his love and add his magic in the gardens too.

Della allowed me to help her so that I might take some of her sage, creeper, daylilies, artemisia, penstemons, and veronica for transplanting in my garden. The impact of losing those plants in her manicured, well-established garden is barely noticeable, but the impact in my new, first-year beds will be huge. Della's charity adds a piece of her garden and, more importantly, a piece of her heart into my garden and my life.

One of my two-month-old garden beds

Another good friend, Diane, also allowed me to help her "clean up" her garden a few months ago. After adding hundreds of dollars of new bulbs, flowers, and bushes, to my expanse of newly-prepared garden beds, it still looked relatively bare and lifeless. Diane noticed and surreptitiously offered her castoffs of thyme, yarrow, knautia, Russian sage, brass buttons, and much more. They didn’t put a dent in her lavish gardens, but her gracious gifts gave my new garden substance and soul. And now a piece of her lives in my garden too.

In both cases, good friends helped another friend. They took a part of themselves and freely gave it away. We just happen to be gardeners and the vehicle for their caring was a variety of plantings, but for me it is much more. It's a sign of friendship and charity and a legacy of giving that can trace its path back to the earliest gardeners. In years to come when I share parts of my garden to old and new friends alike as I "clean up the garden", I'll know that I'm not only sharing a part of me but also a small part of Della and Diane and all the other gardeners who helped make me who I am.

As you clean up your garden and take plants from it, think about what you can give away. Everything you grow has some of your energy in it and when you share the plant you share that energy. As sharing and giving continues through the gardening community, your energy spreads. In a small way gardening gives us the possibility of immortality.

Those of us who love gardening and love to share our experiences and plants with our gardener friends are also sharing a gift of our love. Adding to your garden may help it look better, but taking the gift of love from your garden will help all of us feel better.

Do you view your gardening hobby as something that takes a little too much? It takes your time and it takes your money. Every spring you spend more than you budgeted to buy annuals or maybe you overspend on bulbs in the fall. Along the way you buy an overpriced bush or tree or statue that you really don't need. There are always nicer tools and more exotic flowers and new gardening methods to try.

Many of us spend our time and hard-earned money adding more and more things to the garden that we think will make it better. I suggest you take a look at the things you can take from the garden that will improve it more than you can imagine. Along with the blossoms and fruits, our gardens can provide us an endless supply of charity and friendship.

I'm blessed with a small group of very dear gardening friends. Yesterday I had the privilege of helping my good friend Della "clean up" her garden. Della has one of those yards that makes a neighborhood safer. How so? Because speeding cars slow down as they pass her house, as they admire the grasses and bushes and flowers and bask in the beauty of her landscape. She certainly didn't need my help because her burly, manservant (husband) Roger is always willing to work along side his love and add his magic in the gardens too.

Della allowed me to help her so that I might take some of her sage, creeper, daylilies, artemisia, penstemons, and veronica for transplanting in my garden. The impact of losing those plants in her manicured, well-established garden is barely noticeable, but the impact in my new, first-year beds will be huge. Della's charity adds a piece of her garden and, more importantly, a piece of her heart into my garden and my life.

One of my two-month-old garden beds

Another good friend, Diane, also allowed me to help her "clean up" her garden a few months ago. After adding hundreds of dollars of new bulbs, flowers, and bushes, to my expanse of newly-prepared garden beds, it still looked relatively bare and lifeless. Diane noticed and surreptitiously offered her castoffs of thyme, yarrow, knautia, Russian sage, brass buttons, and much more. They didn’t put a dent in her lavish gardens, but her gracious gifts gave my new garden substance and soul. And now a piece of her lives in my garden too.

In both cases, good friends helped another friend. They took a part of themselves and freely gave it away. We just happen to be gardeners and the vehicle for their caring was a variety of plantings, but for me it is much more. It's a sign of friendship and charity and a legacy of giving that can trace its path back to the earliest gardeners. In years to come when I share parts of my garden to old and new friends alike as I "clean up the garden", I'll know that I'm not only sharing a part of me but also a small part of Della and Diane and all the other gardeners who helped make me who I am.

As you clean up your garden and take plants from it, think about what you can give away. Everything you grow has some of your energy in it and when you share the plant you share that energy. As sharing and giving continues through the gardening community, your energy spreads. In a small way gardening gives us the possibility of immortality.

Those of us who love gardening and love to share our experiences and plants with our gardener friends are also sharing a gift of our love. Adding to your garden may help it look better, but taking the gift of love from your garden will help all of us feel better.

Future Gardening

Believe it or not, most of our gardening is done for the future. We plant seeds and seedlings in the spring looking forward to the flowers or vegetables we'll enjoy in the fall. We plant fall bulbs for the flowers we'll enjoy the following spring. We pull weeds and fertilize today because we know if will benefit the plants tomorrow. While some activities reward us immediately, like picking a nice bouquet of lilies or plucking a tomato for tonight's dinner salad, the majority of our gardening activities are done for future results, near and far.

Many gardeners tend to garden with just one season in mind. Every year is pretty much the same: winter is used for planning and pruning, spring is for tilling and planting, summer is spent weeding and fertilizing, fall finally arrives for harvesting and cleanup. The next year follows a similar pattern, though the specific plants and where they're planted may vary slightly. There is nothing wrong with this schedule; it benefits gardeners with organization and consistency.

I recommend we look beyond this year's pattern toward a farther gardening future. Act today for results you might not see for years to come. Think about what garden you want in three years, or five, or ten. Rather than think about what you might plant next year, after you harvest this year's efforts, think about what you'll plant for the next decade.

Last week I planted a Canadice Seedless Grape plant. It will be at least three years before I see any fruit and at least five before I have quantity worth the effort. I've already started expanding the area in which I'll plant more grapes by removing the prairie sod and staking out borders. I plan to have multiple Concord grapes and a few other less-known varieties that should do well in my zone 5 garden. These plants will require watering and pruning and care like any other garden plant, but my efforts won't see any substantial results for many years.

Today, while watering, I bent one of my blackberries canes to the ground, pulled off a few leaves, scratched the underside of the cane, and buried it under a small pile of soil. I weighted it down with a small piece of a brick. This process is called layering; roots should develop where the cane is buried and a new plant will result. The new blackberry plant won't be strong enough to stand on its own for about a year and probably won't fruit until the year after that, but I started the process today.

All summer I've been preparing the area that I'll plant fruit trees next year. It's at the bottom of the sloped area where I planted my raised, vegetable beds. In an effort to level the ground, that's where I've spread soil and dried pieces of sod that I dug up from other areas of the yard as I created new beds. With more soil to come, and a winter to stabilize the ground, I'll plant some dwarf fruit trees in the spring. That project won't produce measurable fruit for about five years, but I'm working on it now.

I planted a Montmorency Cherry tree and a Gala Apple tree in my backyard as soon as I could remove some sod and work the soil. Right now they look a little odd, each standing alone, 30 feet apart, with no other plants near them. But in 10 years they'll each be 20 or 25 feet tall and wide with benches underneath, paths between, and companion plants surrounding them. To get the vision I have for a decade from now I began by planting them with plenty of space to grow.

Sure I have flower beds with annuals in them and I have my vegetable garden that will be tilled up and replanted next spring. I love that part of gardening. But as I walk through my garden each day and look at it through the window each morning and evening, I'm always envisioning what else it will be. I try to picture what my future grandkids will see when they visit. I imagine the new beds I'll create for the sole purpose of sharing my love of gardening with a new generation by giving them their own patch of soil.

How do you see your gardening? Do you look beyond this season or year? Do you look to a future garden that will take a long time to realize? It takes great patience to plan and act today for results you may not see for many years.

I suggest it's worth the wait. For when you're sitting under the shade of your apple tree, watching a child climb it's branches to pluck a ripe fruit, you'll smile and be glad for the moment. A moment that began years before.

Believe it or not, most of our gardening is done for the future. We plant seeds and seedlings in the spring looking forward to the flowers or vegetables we'll enjoy in the fall. We plant fall bulbs for the flowers we'll enjoy the following spring. We pull weeds and fertilize today because we know if will benefit the plants tomorrow. While some activities reward us immediately, like picking a nice bouquet of lilies or plucking a tomato for tonight's dinner salad, the majority of our gardening activities are done for future results, near and far.

Many gardeners tend to garden with just one season in mind. Every year is pretty much the same: winter is used for planning and pruning, spring is for tilling and planting, summer is spent weeding and fertilizing, fall finally arrives for harvesting and cleanup. The next year follows a similar pattern, though the specific plants and where they're planted may vary slightly. There is nothing wrong with this schedule; it benefits gardeners with organization and consistency.

I recommend we look beyond this year's pattern toward a farther gardening future. Act today for results you might not see for years to come. Think about what garden you want in three years, or five, or ten. Rather than think about what you might plant next year, after you harvest this year's efforts, think about what you'll plant for the next decade.

Last week I planted a Canadice Seedless Grape plant. It will be at least three years before I see any fruit and at least five before I have quantity worth the effort. I've already started expanding the area in which I'll plant more grapes by removing the prairie sod and staking out borders. I plan to have multiple Concord grapes and a few other less-known varieties that should do well in my zone 5 garden. These plants will require watering and pruning and care like any other garden plant, but my efforts won't see any substantial results for many years.

Today, while watering, I bent one of my blackberries canes to the ground, pulled off a few leaves, scratched the underside of the cane, and buried it under a small pile of soil. I weighted it down with a small piece of a brick. This process is called layering; roots should develop where the cane is buried and a new plant will result. The new blackberry plant won't be strong enough to stand on its own for about a year and probably won't fruit until the year after that, but I started the process today.

All summer I've been preparing the area that I'll plant fruit trees next year. It's at the bottom of the sloped area where I planted my raised, vegetable beds. In an effort to level the ground, that's where I've spread soil and dried pieces of sod that I dug up from other areas of the yard as I created new beds. With more soil to come, and a winter to stabilize the ground, I'll plant some dwarf fruit trees in the spring. That project won't produce measurable fruit for about five years, but I'm working on it now.

I planted a Montmorency Cherry tree and a Gala Apple tree in my backyard as soon as I could remove some sod and work the soil. Right now they look a little odd, each standing alone, 30 feet apart, with no other plants near them. But in 10 years they'll each be 20 or 25 feet tall and wide with benches underneath, paths between, and companion plants surrounding them. To get the vision I have for a decade from now I began by planting them with plenty of space to grow.

Sure I have flower beds with annuals in them and I have my vegetable garden that will be tilled up and replanted next spring. I love that part of gardening. But as I walk through my garden each day and look at it through the window each morning and evening, I'm always envisioning what else it will be. I try to picture what my future grandkids will see when they visit. I imagine the new beds I'll create for the sole purpose of sharing my love of gardening with a new generation by giving them their own patch of soil.

How do you see your gardening? Do you look beyond this season or year? Do you look to a future garden that will take a long time to realize? It takes great patience to plan and act today for results you may not see for many years.

I suggest it's worth the wait. For when you're sitting under the shade of your apple tree, watching a child climb it's branches to pluck a ripe fruit, you'll smile and be glad for the moment. A moment that began years before.

Sunflowers for Love

The sunflowers are blooming! Few plants so visibly display the vitality of a garden as sunflowers. Long, thick green stalks with bursting yellow flowers the size of dinner plates catch the eye immediately. Their beauty adds a punctuation mark to all other flowers and plants a gardener grows. I love sunflowers, but hadn't planned to grow them this year.

They now provide striking scenery in my garden beds because my wife asked me to plant them.

I think it's important to realize gardening is more than what you think it should be. Avid gardeners have a vision and toil long and hard to bring that vision to life, literally. Too often gardeners plant what they want, where they want, and how they want without realizing that their efforts impact the people around them. Though I'm the only one in my household who digs and plants and prunes and weeds and waters, my family and friends anxiously await the results of my labors. They enjoy the beauty of the flowers and songs of the birds and lazy fluttering of the butterflies that my garden creates. They enjoy the fresh summer salad with tomatoes, and cucumbers, and basil from my garden.

My family and friends influence my gardening. And when your family and friends influence your garden, it offers them a sense of partial ownership and their appreciation for you and your efforts grows. My wife asks often how the garden is doing, if the tomatoes are growing, if the hail destroyed anything new. But she asks most often about the sunflowers and journeys to that section of the yard, more than before, to see their progress. Though restrained, her enthusiasm in the last week was noticeable as they bloomed. In a sense, that's her section of the garden because she created the idea of sunflowers.

My daughter loves the pickled green beans that I make at the end of each season. My wife and I fostered our relationship because she loved the same pickled green beans I served at a Christmas party. Though I don't especially enjoy their taste, I grow dozens of plants so I can have a big harvest and make jars and jars of pickled green beans for my daughter and wife. I'm not just gardening for me, I'm gardening for them. They play a major role in how I garden.

People often enjoy viewing what they aren't capable of producing. Be it a painting by a Renaissance master or the tomatoes in their grandmother's backyard, people appreciate beauty in whatever form it takes. I believe they appreciate it more when they feel they had a role to play in its development. Think about the school projects from kids or grandkids that adorn the refrigerator door; familiarity with the "artist" improves the perceived quality of the work.


Gardeners are artists on many levels. Through your passion you create beauty on the canvas of your landscape. Use the people around you as muses for your canvas.

If your son-in-law likes snapdragons, grow a few snapdragons. Grow pumpkins for the sole reason of having your kids turn them into jack-o-lanterns at Halloween. When your grandmother stops bringing strawberry-rhubarb pie to Thanksgiving dinner, grow your own strawberries and rhubarb and make the pie yourself. After your friend casually mentions a new hobby of decorating gourds, surprise her next year with the dozens that you grew.

Take inspiration from everyone around you. In that way you're sharing your gardening in a way you didn't envision when you planted your first seed years ago. The people close to you will recognize it and appreciate it. You may even appreciate your own efforts more.

The sunflowers are blooming! Few plants so visibly display the vitality of a garden as sunflowers. Long, thick green stalks with bursting yellow flowers the size of dinner plates catch the eye immediately. Their beauty adds a punctuation mark to all other flowers and plants a gardener grows. I love sunflowers, but hadn't planned to grow them this year.

They now provide striking scenery in my garden beds because my wife asked me to plant them.

I think it's important to realize gardening is more than what you think it should be. Avid gardeners have a vision and toil long and hard to bring that vision to life, literally. Too often gardeners plant what they want, where they want, and how they want without realizing that their efforts impact the people around them. Though I'm the only one in my household who digs and plants and prunes and weeds and waters, my family and friends anxiously await the results of my labors. They enjoy the beauty of the flowers and songs of the birds and lazy fluttering of the butterflies that my garden creates. They enjoy the fresh summer salad with tomatoes, and cucumbers, and basil from my garden.

My family and friends influence my gardening. And when your family and friends influence your garden, it offers them a sense of partial ownership and their appreciation for you and your efforts grows. My wife asks often how the garden is doing, if the tomatoes are growing, if the hail destroyed anything new. But she asks most often about the sunflowers and journeys to that section of the yard, more than before, to see their progress. Though restrained, her enthusiasm in the last week was noticeable as they bloomed. In a sense, that's her section of the garden because she created the idea of sunflowers.

My daughter loves the pickled green beans that I make at the end of each season. My wife and I fostered our relationship because she loved the same pickled green beans I served at a Christmas party. Though I don't especially enjoy their taste, I grow dozens of plants so I can have a big harvest and make jars and jars of pickled green beans for my daughter and wife. I'm not just gardening for me, I'm gardening for them. They play a major role in how I garden.

People often enjoy viewing what they aren't capable of producing. Be it a painting by a Renaissance master or the tomatoes in their grandmother's backyard, people appreciate beauty in whatever form it takes. I believe they appreciate it more when they feel they had a role to play in its development. Think about the school projects from kids or grandkids that adorn the refrigerator door; familiarity with the "artist" improves the perceived quality of the work.


Gardeners are artists on many levels. Through your passion you create beauty on the canvas of your landscape. Use the people around you as muses for your canvas.

If your son-in-law likes snapdragons, grow a few snapdragons. Grow pumpkins for the sole reason of having your kids turn them into jack-o-lanterns at Halloween. When your grandmother stops bringing strawberry-rhubarb pie to Thanksgiving dinner, grow your own strawberries and rhubarb and make the pie yourself. After your friend casually mentions a new hobby of decorating gourds, surprise her next year with the dozens that you grew.

Take inspiration from everyone around you. In that way you're sharing your gardening in a way you didn't envision when you planted your first seed years ago. The people close to you will recognize it and appreciate it. You may even appreciate your own efforts more.

Success in a Dead Pepper

Many gardeners gauge gardening success by the beauty of their roses or the size of their tomatoes. We weigh our pumpkins, measure our crookneck squash, and count our chickens. The green of our leaves and yellow of our corn show us that our efforts were worth the sweat and toil. My buddy Jeff found success in a dead pepper plant and I am motivated by his enthusiasm over what most of us would see as a failed endeavor.

With the move to a new house, I started a new vegetable garden this year with seven raised beds, areas for raspberries, blackberries, and grapes, and a small area for rhubarb and sunflowers. I planted a cherry tree and an apple tree. Hours of digging, sawing, hammering, filling, planting, watering, fertilizing, and weeding have provided a fairly substantial garden with green beans, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and potatoes growing very well. It's a beautiful garden, but I've been very disappointed by the progress of my cucumbers and asparagus. I planted 25 asparagus roots and 25 cucumber seeds and only have two plants of each to show for the effort.

My buddy Jeff grew one plant. After filling it with potting soil, he sowed dozens of hot pepper seeds in a single pot, enjoyed a high germination rate, and gradually plucked weak and spindly sprouts until he was left with a single, strong pepper plant. The generic packet of seeds was a variety mix so he didn't know which kind of pepper the plant would produce as he watered it and fertilized it and moved it around his small deck to gain the most of the sun's energy. His total gardening effort for this summer was focused on that single plant.

I can picture Jeff scanning darkening skies as thunderstorms built over the mountains. I can see him looking down at his solo pepper and looking back to worsening weather as he thought of hail and wind and rain. On numerous occasions, Jeff would pick up the pot and move it into the safety of his home, protecting the green shoot from harm. When danger passed he'd return it outside, carefully selecting a sunny spot for it. The stalwart pepper enjoyed the warmth inside his home when the nights were cold.

It was well-watered and coddled and rewarded Jeff with many small white flowers. A few of the blossoms were pollinated by passing flies or bees and small peppers began forming where the flowers once bloomed. I imagine Jeff checking on his pepper plant each morning before heading out to work, smiling on the inside and on the outside upon seeing the growth. It's a feeling I'm familiar with and suspect most gardeners are too: literally seeing the fruits of your labor.

The potential crop ceased to exist when a rogue wind gust sent the brave plant toppling. Jeff's solitary pepper plant died.

The fable from our childhood warns us about putting all of our eggs in one basket because a mishap will make us lose everything. I always thought the warning meant that losing all of our eggs was a bad thing, but Jeff helped me see a different moral. Putting your eggs in a single basket, or devoting all of your attention to a single pepper, can be a good thing when things come crashing down.

Jeff is not what many of us would call a gardener. But emboldened, I suspect, by some of my gardening stories around the office, he bought the pot, soil, and seeds and embarked on his first foray into the wonderful world of gardening. He saw success in each sprout, and his careful pruning, and his tender care of the triumphant pepper plant. In a harsh environment and limited living space, he was able to start with a seed and in a few months see fruits that had him envisioning the salsa he would make with his harvest.

The plant grew stronger and longer than he ever thought it would. He started the venture expecting a failed experiment, but was surprisingly rewarded by the feeling gardeners get when they make a connection with a green, growing organism. There is no doubt he was upset and disappointed upon finding the dead plant, but he turned lemons into lemonade, or maybe dead peppers into a phantom salsa, by realizing he accomplished much more than he expected. Jeff is enthusiastically looking forward to doing it all again next year.

In every perceived gardening failure, we actually have success. When the new heirloom tomato seeds fail to produce an abundant crop, we learn to use different seeds the next time or maybe try the same seeds again but with different growing methods. When the birds eat all of your apricots, you learn to harvest a few days earlier the next time or cover the tree in bird netting. We find out what's best for our gardens by observing; we fix what doesn't work and repeat what does.

Jeff's enthusiasm has me realizing that two asparagus plants are more than I started the season with and two cucumber plants can still give me something to put in my salad. It's easy to lose sight of why we garden when we don't get what we thought we wanted. The real success is in the journey and the venture and the love of gardening.

Thanks, Jeff. You're a true gardener.

Many gardeners gauge gardening success by the beauty of their roses or the size of their tomatoes. We weigh our pumpkins, measure our crookneck squash, and count our chickens. The green of our leaves and yellow of our corn show us that our efforts were worth the sweat and toil. My buddy Jeff found success in a dead pepper plant and I am motivated by his enthusiasm over what most of us would see as a failed endeavor.

With the move to a new house, I started a new vegetable garden this year with seven raised beds, areas for raspberries, blackberries, and grapes, and a small area for rhubarb and sunflowers. I planted a cherry tree and an apple tree. Hours of digging, sawing, hammering, filling, planting, watering, fertilizing, and weeding have provided a fairly substantial garden with green beans, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and potatoes growing very well. It's a beautiful garden, but I've been very disappointed by the progress of my cucumbers and asparagus. I planted 25 asparagus roots and 25 cucumber seeds and only have two plants of each to show for the effort.

My buddy Jeff grew one plant. After filling it with potting soil, he sowed dozens of hot pepper seeds in a single pot, enjoyed a high germination rate, and gradually plucked weak and spindly sprouts until he was left with a single, strong pepper plant. The generic packet of seeds was a variety mix so he didn't know which kind of pepper the plant would produce as he watered it and fertilized it and moved it around his small deck to gain the most of the sun's energy. His total gardening effort for this summer was focused on that single plant.

I can picture Jeff scanning darkening skies as thunderstorms built over the mountains. I can see him looking down at his solo pepper and looking back to worsening weather as he thought of hail and wind and rain. On numerous occasions, Jeff would pick up the pot and move it into the safety of his home, protecting the green shoot from harm. When danger passed he'd return it outside, carefully selecting a sunny spot for it. The stalwart pepper enjoyed the warmth inside his home when the nights were cold.

It was well-watered and coddled and rewarded Jeff with many small white flowers. A few of the blossoms were pollinated by passing flies or bees and small peppers began forming where the flowers once bloomed. I imagine Jeff checking on his pepper plant each morning before heading out to work, smiling on the inside and on the outside upon seeing the growth. It's a feeling I'm familiar with and suspect most gardeners are too: literally seeing the fruits of your labor.

The potential crop ceased to exist when a rogue wind gust sent the brave plant toppling. Jeff's solitary pepper plant died.

The fable from our childhood warns us about putting all of our eggs in one basket because a mishap will make us lose everything. I always thought the warning meant that losing all of our eggs was a bad thing, but Jeff helped me see a different moral. Putting your eggs in a single basket, or devoting all of your attention to a single pepper, can be a good thing when things come crashing down.

Jeff is not what many of us would call a gardener. But emboldened, I suspect, by some of my gardening stories around the office, he bought the pot, soil, and seeds and embarked on his first foray into the wonderful world of gardening. He saw success in each sprout, and his careful pruning, and his tender care of the triumphant pepper plant. In a harsh environment and limited living space, he was able to start with a seed and in a few months see fruits that had him envisioning the salsa he would make with his harvest.

The plant grew stronger and longer than he ever thought it would. He started the venture expecting a failed experiment, but was surprisingly rewarded by the feeling gardeners get when they make a connection with a green, growing organism. There is no doubt he was upset and disappointed upon finding the dead plant, but he turned lemons into lemonade, or maybe dead peppers into a phantom salsa, by realizing he accomplished much more than he expected. Jeff is enthusiastically looking forward to doing it all again next year.

In every perceived gardening failure, we actually have success. When the new heirloom tomato seeds fail to produce an abundant crop, we learn to use different seeds the next time or maybe try the same seeds again but with different growing methods. When the birds eat all of your apricots, you learn to harvest a few days earlier the next time or cover the tree in bird netting. We find out what's best for our gardens by observing; we fix what doesn't work and repeat what does.

Jeff's enthusiasm has me realizing that two asparagus plants are more than I started the season with and two cucumber plants can still give me something to put in my salad. It's easy to lose sight of why we garden when we don't get what we thought we wanted. The real success is in the journey and the venture and the love of gardening.

Thanks, Jeff. You're a true gardener.

Dennis Is Almost Right

There is something juvenile, yet invigorating, about plunging your hands into warm garden soil. In today's "Dennis the Menace" comic by Hank Ketchum, Dennis is on his swing set watching Mr. Wilson plant some seedlings. Observing the plump retiree bent over a garden mound with trowel in hand, Dennis remarks, "Gardenin' is just an excuse for grownups to play in the dirt." Dennis is onto something, but only scratches the surface.

While kids play in the dirt for myriad reasons, adults tend to do it for just the one. Kids cover themselves with soil just to get dirty and see a mother's reaction, or for the gritty sensory experience, or because they're oblivious to the mess as they explore their imaginations. Adults have learned that society encourages cleanliness and usually avoid getting dirty, except when it comes to gardening.

As I watered my garden this morning, I couldn't help but reach down and pull a few weeds, and reset some plant markers, and realign some strawberry runners. In each case the feel of the warm soil warmed my blood. I'm not sure if that warmth was literal or figurative, but it felt good connecting with the most primal sensation of touching the earth.

Many studies have shown that gardening relieves stress. I think most gardeners know that's true without relying on a study to say it. It seems that in the instant you first feel the minerals and organic matter, you share a transfer with Mother Earth. Some of your stress, tension, and worries travel through your fingers into the ground to be overseen by a greater force. Some of the calm, energy, and strength from that larger power flows into you and surges into your being.

We say we interact with the earth with a goal in mind: to plant a plant, pull some weeds, or harvest our crop. We aren't doing it as a child would, for play. But when you're immersed in your efforts, with soil caking on your boots, or pants, or gloves, do you really see it as a chore? How often do visions of your childhood enter your thoughts as you set in a tender seedling? Do you think of your grandparents' garden when you plant your seeds? Do you encounter a vision of summer days, playing after dinner, as you water the garden at dusk? Does a youthful part of you emerge, if just briefly, when you smell the tomato plants or brush against the corn stalks? As your garden begins to fruit do you remember the first time you bit into a fresh, sun-warmed tomato?

I think gardening helps make us young again. Our blood flows more easily, our wrinkles smooth out, and our muscles ache a little less. We gain a few hours of life in exchange for the life we give our plants. The memories of happier days fill a garden and they're there for us to harvest.

So get your hands dirty. Become young again. Play in your garden.

There is something juvenile, yet invigorating, about plunging your hands into warm garden soil. In today's "Dennis the Menace" comic by Hank Ketchum, Dennis is on his swing set watching Mr. Wilson plant some seedlings. Observing the plump retiree bent over a garden mound with trowel in hand, Dennis remarks, "Gardenin' is just an excuse for grownups to play in the dirt." Dennis is onto something, but only scratches the surface.

While kids play in the dirt for myriad reasons, adults tend to do it for just the one. Kids cover themselves with soil just to get dirty and see a mother's reaction, or for the gritty sensory experience, or because they're oblivious to the mess as they explore their imaginations. Adults have learned that society encourages cleanliness and usually avoid getting dirty, except when it comes to gardening.

As I watered my garden this morning, I couldn't help but reach down and pull a few weeds, and reset some plant markers, and realign some strawberry runners. In each case the feel of the warm soil warmed my blood. I'm not sure if that warmth was literal or figurative, but it felt good connecting with the most primal sensation of touching the earth.

Many studies have shown that gardening relieves stress. I think most gardeners know that's true without relying on a study to say it. It seems that in the instant you first feel the minerals and organic matter, you share a transfer with Mother Earth. Some of your stress, tension, and worries travel through your fingers into the ground to be overseen by a greater force. Some of the calm, energy, and strength from that larger power flows into you and surges into your being.

We say we interact with the earth with a goal in mind: to plant a plant, pull some weeds, or harvest our crop. We aren't doing it as a child would, for play. But when you're immersed in your efforts, with soil caking on your boots, or pants, or gloves, do you really see it as a chore? How often do visions of your childhood enter your thoughts as you set in a tender seedling? Do you think of your grandparents' garden when you plant your seeds? Do you encounter a vision of summer days, playing after dinner, as you water the garden at dusk? Does a youthful part of you emerge, if just briefly, when you smell the tomato plants or brush against the corn stalks? As your garden begins to fruit do you remember the first time you bit into a fresh, sun-warmed tomato?

I think gardening helps make us young again. Our blood flows more easily, our wrinkles smooth out, and our muscles ache a little less. We gain a few hours of life in exchange for the life we give our plants. The memories of happier days fill a garden and they're there for us to harvest.

So get your hands dirty. Become young again. Play in your garden.