Rainie's Corner

Rosemary Bread

In my family, we developed a tradition some years ago of baking rosemary bread. It could have been because of the delectable taste, or the bread-making machine we received for Christmas that year or, unlike some recipes, it always came out perfect. Maybe we just needed to create a family tradition of our own. The primary deciding factor was utilizing the hedge of rosemary in our garden, for culinary purposes. Ever since, we have baked rosemary bread for birthdays, holidays, late night snacks, or just to warm the kitchen on winter evenings.

I wanted to find a way to bring the delightful and refreshing fragrance of rosemary, from the garden, into my home. Our hedge is Rosmarinus ‘Tuscan Blue’ but other selections of...

Fan Man

The repeated thud of heavy footsteps, exploded suddenly outside the office door. Looking up I saw the tall lean figure of a thirteen-year-old boy, moving in that awkward, disconnected way that children move, when pre-adolescence overtakes their limbs. He careened round the back of the house, running full tilt toward the path beneath my office window. Pebbles flew from his feet, ricocheting off the wood siding and striking the glass pane with a ‘ping’. Legs churning, he tore past looking straight ahead, oblivious to my gaze, eyes wide as chocolate-brown saucers, and long arms flying at his sides like the wings of a glider teetering to a landing. With an expression of utter determination, he bolted for the nursery time clock. His workday in the garden had ended. Peeking out the screen door, I was hard pressed to imagine the large depressions, left on the path, belonging to the feet of a boy.

At his request, his parents had inquired about a summer job in my nursery and garden...

Last Breath of Light

Dusk falls on Halloween night and a last breath of light hovers in our garden. Near me a dawn redwood shines like weathered copper, and the flowering stems of Miscanthus 'Little Kitten' stand like candlesticks gathering remnants of evening light. To the west, Eucalyptus trees are held in silhouette against a fiery sky. The string of tiny orange lights, strung about the side entrance to the house, anticipates the arrival of young guests. Although evening commitments await me, I resist going inside. I long to hold time, to savor this moment. Walking along the pathways of the garden I attempt to etch memories into my mind.

The air is unusually hot and clouds of humming insects tumble from tree to shrub. In the meadow stiff stalks of cane bluestem stroke the air like sable paintbrushes. Further down the path the last leaves on the cottonwood, stir in the wind, before twirling to the ground. Crossing the front of the house, I notice the California grape changing color. The dry,...

Scarecrows

While perusing the pages of several fall nursery catalogues, I saw pictured whimsical scarecrows, equipped with names, costumes, and patchwork faces that brighten the already lively displays of flowers. They are fashioned after farmers, rag dolls and the straw man in The Wizard of Oz. Seeing them reminds me of the stick figures that have watched over my own vegetable garden in years past.

The addition of a scarecrow brings a mischievous touch to any garden. They come in all shapes, sizes and styles, from homemade to store bought, with smiles that bring to one’s mind railroad tracks, needlepoint stitches, orthodontic braces, and tic-tac-toe. Those watching over my vegetables have had noses made of buttons, and black triangle eyes...

My Gardener

My gardener happens to be my husband. He disappears into the landscape, in the middle of conversations, tracks gravel across my newly vacuumed living room carpet, and dusts bits of leaves off his clothes onto our dining room table when sitting down to supper. At the end of the month our credit card bill lists seed, clay pots, clippers, soil mix, sprinklers, and I am still trying to finish the conversation I started three weeks ago about the pipe that is leaking in the bathroom. For better or for worse, I am married to my gardener.

My introduction to horticulture began in Santa Cruz thirty-four years ago. As a new bride I learned from my husband how to care for an established Boston fern, a large dumb cane, a delicate maidenhair fern, and a flourishing spider plant. He quickly taught me the routine. At the time I knew very little about plants, only what I had learned from my mother, who salvaged withered stems and seedlings. She would place them in canning jars filled with...

Slender Field Sedge - a lawn substitute

My affection for lawn stems from childhood, a time when I spent hours playing outdoors with the other neighborhood children. We made tiaras, crowns, and bracelets from the clover and dandelions that grew randomly in the lawn my father tended. Sitting on the grass tying stems into loose knots, linking them one into the other, we were occupied, peaceful, and engaged with our environment. On sultry summer mid-western evenings, we took turns rolling down the long green hillside in front of my house, gaining speed until each of us barreled into the hedge below, laughing uproariously. On those hot humid nights, the cool grass was a comfort to our bare arms and legs.

My yearning for “lawn” sparks a variety of seasonal memories. In early...

Burn Pile

Through three seasons of tending the garden, an assortment of pruned branches, slash, leaves and debris had accumulated at the periphery, near the oak forest that marks our property line. By name it was called the “burn pile” and having grown to unusually large proportions it sat waiting for winter rains and it’s destiny. The day came after a week of storms, when my husband set the pile ablaze.

Together we watched its size slowly diminish, I raking embers and he watering the edge of its trail. Flames spit and sputtered until the pile became smaller and the area opened, revealing naturalized seedlings nearby. In our excitement we crouched to examine the new discoveries: manroot, Dutchman’s pipe, and Keckiella cordifolia....

Nesting

I first became intrigued by the composition of bird nests when observing a male and female Hutton’s Vireo, through my dining room window, flitting under the eaves, from the roof of my house to an oak, with pink fluff secured in their beaks. At the time I was eight months pregnant and folding baby clothes....

Letters of Gratitude

Sometimes it is easy to overlook the central point of children’s words and behavior. Many years ago, I accepted an invitation to speak to a classroom of first graders at the local elementary school. The day I arrived there was a rainstorm. Rain lashed the windows in invisible sheets. Try as I might I could not hold the children’s attention. Even their teacher could not contain them. They gathered round the two panels of glass enthralled by the sight. Every attempt on my part to engage them in a lesson plan, was in vain. Finally their teacher and I realized that in their lifetime they had never witnessed rain. This was the first storm after a seven-year drought. What appeared at first to be disregard, was in fact a deep and reverent gratitude...

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