Oh, I've got gardening on the brain.

Yes, I also have a deadline today and need to call one more person for quotes before I can finish the story I'm working on.

So naturally I'm procrastinating, dreaming of gardens.

The condo I'm moving into (next week, if all goes well) has a good-size deck. I wish I knew the exact dimensions, but all I can say is that there's more than enough room for a large patio table and chairs, a garden bench, a wicker rocking chair, a side table and a bunch of plants. All but the plants are currently on the deck.

In the last couple of weeks I've glanced at pictures of patio/deck gardens, and scanned tips on feng shui gardens. There's so much to learn! Why learn it at all? Well, when I had my apartment, pre-baby, I had a small balcony. I'd envisioned being able to relax on the balcony with all my plants, but I never got around to making it a hospitable place. It pretty much stayed a mess, with old astroturf and a few dead plants, although I sporadically tried to grow one or two things from seed out there. Hey, I had other things to do, and I was depressed (although I didn't understand that at the time).

But the deck at my new place is right on the entry level — the front door and the patio door both open right onto the deck. This is the first thing visitors will see when they come to visit. And since we won't have a yard, per se, the deck will serve as one. This means that before I do any aesthetic altering of the deck, I've got to make it safe for my little one. The vertical rails on the deck are set too far apart for safety. Apparently the building code was changed a few years ago, and railings built after that had to be no more than four inches apart. The vertical railings (or whatever they're really called) on my new deck are at least eight inches apart — maybe more. All I know is that when Grant stood next to them I could clearly see his body would easily fit through them. This is not good, seeing as the deck is on the second floor of the building. (My garage is on the first level.) We'll be making a trip to Home Depot for some substantial screening or, more likely, plexiglass, as it won't ruin the view and won't attract attention from the other homeowners. That is, I'll be dealing with a homeowners association and I don't want to start with an argument over what to put on the deck.

After the safety adjustments, though, I can start to beautify the deck. The possibilities are numerous. What I know for sure right now is that I don't want to just have a bunch of little potted plants scattered willy-nilly all over the place. I want variations in height. Some kind of integrity. Some non-plant ornamentation, too. The sellers are leaving me a wishing well that I plan to refurbish and set up. One thing I also want to include: a door. No, the door won't exactly go anywhere; it'll be just for decoration. But it'll give the illusion of going somewhere, and that'll be worth the price of admission right there. :-) I may even ask my mom-the-artist or one of her artist friends to paint a few faces to peer into the door's windows. (Yes, I have my door picked out in my mind!)

Mmmmm. My deck. There's a quote from Return of the Native: "Pleasure not known beforehand is half wasted. To anticipate it is to double it."

Color me anticipating...

- Beth

Okay, I promised an introduction, so I suppose I should provide one.

For those who don't know me, I'm Beth. I'm known as Bethie on a chat room I visit, and to people who fondly call me by my childhood nickname.

Sometimes I think I'm an eight-year-old in a 36-year-old's body. At other times I feel like an overgrown 16-year-old. They're all in there. There's a Sandra Cisneros story that seems to illustrate this for me. If I can find it I'll post the link.

I have a two-and-a-half-year-old son who's my joy and delight. I love him like crazy, and tell him so often. He often says, "Mommy loves you like CRAZY!" and it's just so goshdarn cute. (Yes, I'm biased, but it really is cute.) :-)

This is a picture of us, taken when Grant was maybe a month or two old. He wasn't even holding his head up yet, that much I know. My aunt and my mom, who were sitting nearby, told me to be very careful not to catch his skin on the button of my overalls, as if I'd let that happen.

What was I thinking with those overalls, anyway? I think I just liked the fact that they camouflaged my post-partum body and had a lot of pockets. For the first couple of months I wore my robe or overalls, and carried all sorts of things around: cell phone, bottle, burp cloth, house key, TV remote control — anything I thought I'd need and didn't want to get up to fetch repeatedly. R. called me "farmer girl" once and I was offended, even though I later realized he meant nothing by it. But I digress...

In my pre-baby life I was a librarian, then a magazine editor. Let's not talk about the librarian part; it wasn't my favorite job. But while I was a librarian, an acquaintance of mine called one day to ask if I'd be interested in writing an article for a new Web magazine (hard copy and online) he was starting. I told him I'd much rather edit the magazine, and he was intrigued enough to meet with me. I did a little proofreading/editing for the first issue, but when the issue actually came out in print I discovered my changes had been undone by the graphic artist. I grabbed a red pen and proofread the issue, brought it over to show my acquaintance and said, "If you hire me, I can prevent all these errors from happening." He hired me the next day, and I worked for the magazine for about four years.

After my stint at the magazine I went to work for a large magazine company (they publish several pet-related magazines) as their Web site editor. There was no written job description, so I had a challenging time there for a little over a year. During that time, I became pregnant with my son, and I resigned shortly after he was born. Now I freelance for the company; currently I'm writing a 2005 desk calendar on cats! :-)

What else? Oh, well, I'm moving in two weeks or less, to a condo near a lake in San Diego. The place is being sold to us furnished, and there's a piano included. I'm thrilled! I haven't played for ages, and I can't wait to get my hands on that thing.

Okay, my son is summoning me to put him down for a nap, so I'd best stop here. More later.

Hey, if anyone's actually reading this, why don't you drop me a line, with "Kate's journal" in the subject line? I'd love to hear from you!

So R. and Grant pruned all the rosebushes and R. cut several flowers to put in the house. There must be at least 25 rosebushes out there, but the ones I like the best are called Sterling Silver. They're just a pale lavender color, maybe a tad grayish, hence the "silver" moniker. But it's not necessarily the color that gets me -- it's the smell. Divine! R. says it smells like an old lady's perfume, but he hastens to add that's not a bad thing. ;^) Anyway, I put about seven roses in water in the house and they were absolutely beautiful. I wonder if I can grow roses in big pots on the deck of my new home...

Today Grant and I left R.'s place to return home. "Home" currently is my parents' house, which Grant enjoys because it means he can see Grandma and Grandpa every day. My mom is an artist with a day job, so Grant loves to draw with "Grandma's special crayons" -- her pastels. The colors are so vivid and moist-feeling, like you could just eat them or wear them. Or something. So when Grandma returned home today, Grant immediately asked if they could draw with the special crayons. How could she resist the sweet way he asked? Soon they were drawing on a big sheet of paper on the coffee table. Well, mostly it was Grant doing the drawing, and Grandma encouraging him. I think we'd both be happy if he turned out to have artistic ability. The kid loves music, that much we know already. But of course I'd be happy if he just found anything he liked to do. That's all that matters, isn't it?

I'm exhausted today. Bone-tired. I have no idea why, although I suspect it has something to do with my staying up too late to watch Oprah's biography on TV last night. Couldn't help it; she intrigues me. Plus I slept on the giant (bed-height) air mattress last night, and although it sure beats sleeping on a futon, it does leave a little to be desired in terms of firmness and temperature. Yes, it was hot in the house again (no air conditioning, and an indoor temperature of about 85 degrees F), so sleeping on a bigole piece of rubber doesn't help matters.

I have a deadline on Wednesday, and one on August 1. In between writing those stories I have to pack to move to San Diego. And take care of Grant. And take him for a play date with my girlfriend's 4-year-old. And, and, and...too much to mention. Maybe my tiredness comes also from stress. I'll sure be glad when the move is over and I can settle into my new home.

email Beth

Oh, man. Is it hot out there!! I'm in San Diego, staying at R.'s place for the weekend. Currently he and our son are outside watering and feeding all the rosebushes. They invited me to join them, but after only about 10-15 minutes out there I was wilting and glazed with sweat. And I've just had a shower, too. Can you believe it's only about noon? The mercury is sure to rise before the day's out.

Last night we went to a beach party held by one of R.'s colleagues, a very pleasant and generous psychotherapist at the prison where R. is also a psychotherapist. Her husband is in radio and has a big personality, as I'd sort of anticipated. A very likeable guy. The party was held at a private beach club in La Jolla. I couldn't help thinking I was in a movie or something — the place was so pretty, with tables and chairs set up all over the beach, and fresh towels everywhere. Omigosh. Tiled foot baths on the boardwalk, and hotel-like rooms right at the edge of the sand. I must admit I kept wondering how much it costs to belong to a club like that.

(Ah, it's noon exactly — I hear the church chimes from down the way, playing a lovely hymn. So beautiful...)

Anyway, Grant and R. had a blast digging in the sand and making sand "castles" — more like filling a few plastic bowls with wet sand and turning them over. A little sand village, if you will. I was content to sit nearby and watch them play. I get to play with Grant just about every day of the week, and sometimes I like to step back and let R. have a chance, since he sees him only on weekends (so far — we're moving to his city in a couple of weeks). But who am I kidding? My reason for sitting back was not strictly noble — I'd just given myself a long-deserved pedicure that day and wanted to keep my sandals on, so as not to damage it right away. Okay, there. I said it. ;-)

Our fellow attendees at this soiree were very nice. One man in particular was sweetly attentive to Grant, asking him questions and making a real effort to understand Grant's replies. He was a grandfatherly type who seemed to really like kids. I love to see people be kind to my son.

M. (R.'s colleague) fed us well — giant hamburgers, salads, various cheeses, huge cookies. She was the hostess with the mostess, making sure everyone was taken care of before sitting down herself to eat — and even then, lighting only for a few minutes before getting up again to facilitate things. I've got to send her a thank-you note.

We decided to quit while we were ahead, since Grant was still in a great mood. I'm learning to leave before he hits the wall, emotionally. Grant chatted all the way home, as he is wont to do on car trips: "There's a bus! There's a tanker truck! There's a SUV truck! Do you see the SUV, Daddy? Do you see it, Mommy?" Cracks me up. At one point, he spotted a limousine and called it a bus or something. I corrected him and told him it was a limousine — he interpreted that as "a letter Z." Such a sweet boy...

We arrived back at R.'s and I plunked Grant straight into the tub. He was full of sand — even his face — and I wanted to wash him off before he rubbed it into his eyes during his sleep. After he was clean, I showered and we all hit the sack — Grant with me, and R. in the next room. R. and I are co-parenting, but we're not in relationship. It's complicated sometimes, but right now this is what works for us.

Ah, I hear the boys coming back in from watering and pruning — best see if the little one needs a bath again!

- Beth

Hello, all! Kate has generously asked me to guest-post for her while she's gone, so as the saying goes...here goes nothin'! I'll introduce myself a bit later, once I'm convinced I've got the hang of this thing. :-) In the meantime, where to start...where to start...?

Hmm.

- Beth

So much to do, and only a couple hours left to do it in. Gotta drag all these flowerpots into the shade, for one thing, and I'm not even dressed yet, and it's almost 12:30, and we are leaving at suppertime, and I have 376 things to do.

You can tell I don't really want to go. Why, the lettuce will all be gone to seed by the time we get back.

Beth has graciously agreed to journal like crazy in this space while I am away, for those of you who like your dose daily. So I'll leave her to introduce herself at her leisure. Take it away, Bethie!

xoxoxoetc
Kate

11:30 a.m.

I am having one hell of a time motivating myself to prepare for this trip. So far, I have a list that has been created over the past few weeks, added to whenever I thought of something to remember to take along.

But there are dishes to do, laundry to have ready for the suitcase, and mulch! The flower beds around the house need to be mulched or the snapdragons, at least, will parch and shrivel and be crispy ash skeletons by the time we get back here.

Last night I went for a bike ride and had to keep getting off and darting into the ditch to pick wildflowers.

I also brought home six stems of something — no clue what it is — and stuck them in a petite brass pitcher. My camera won’t take a closeup to show you, I don’t think. Oh okay, I’ll try. [please ignore the dust on my desk; it wont' go away]

They are less than a quarter-inch in diameter and stand about a foot high, with horizontal yellow rings at intervals up to an elegant crownlike bud. They could be slim, stiff, curved snakes! They could be Saskatchewan bamboo, if there were such a thing. Catherine Jamison, I need you to bring your camera and take a walk with me.

I am looking at the flowers, even of thistles, with brand new eyes.

Ah. While going through the motions of processing the picture, I got The Standing People out and opened it across my lap. Right at the beginning is the lowly, lovely Horsetail, and that’s what those neat little stems must, at some stage of development, be.

12:30 p.m.

Got sidetracked there and have been trying to identify wildflowers. These tallish purple ones, I’ve discovered, are Wild Bergamot. It’s a member of the mint family.

And what I’ve been calling brown-eyed susans are really the Prairie Coneflower.

And now, this computer gets turned off and I get on about my business.

xoxoetc
Kate
 

Here’s the main office of the camp we left Don at last Friday. There was another stone building too, quite lovely.

After leaving the boys down south, we drove cross-country for quite a few miles between pavement. Off the gravel road we were on, we spotted this road built by someone who “really wanted to get out to that field,” according to Farmbeau.

No kidding. That had to take a lot of time and effort. The ambition of some people ~

It’s hot and sunny here again. But in the evenings, I almost always take a warm jacket with me, and since we’ve had rain, the ground is still wet when I head for a ditch or the garden. Walking in the garden right now is like stepping through foot-thick black sponge.

I am not a fashion plate.

Nor am I pregnant, or beer-bellied. Unless you believe the picture...

But oh, it is so beautiful here. I took these pictures last week, the day after rain. This is looking west, toward town.

I turn off to the right just ahead, and walk on “the hill,” which used to be one, they claim, but now isn’t. The hay bales are stacked in a long, round line out there, and beyond them, six horses in a pasture.

This next picture is taken as I am on my way back to the road. I will veer off to the left before getting that far, and slip through the barbwire fence and into the garden.

I tried to take a picture of the moon from out there one afternoon, but haven’t managed one I want to look at twice, yet. My paltry effort:

I’m whacking you with pictures because otherwise by the time I do, they’ll be obsolete. The leaves will be a different colour. The cosmos will be blooming.

We are leaving for two weeks, after all. Already I can hardly wait to get back.

Besides, I'll have pictures of the majestic mountains to show you then, won't I?

xoxoetc
Kate

Slept till almost 10 this morning — no kids coming downstairs to “give you a morning kiss, Mom!” (that’s Don) or ask “Can I ...?” something or other (that’s Barney).

I was dreaming about taking a gallon-pail full of gingerbread cookies to Bill Richardson, the broadcaster and author, who in the dream was my high school teacher. But I couldn’t find the school and couldn’t find his phone number in the phone book to call and apologize for not making it. I knew he’d been waiting and would be disappointed. Oh, the stress. As I made my way through the city at night, I stopped at two homes for directions: one lived in by two men, one by two women.

There was a note scribbled on an envelope propped up on the computer keyboard when I got upstairs:

“See you later Sweetie”

Little things mean a lot.

Farmbeau didn’t kiss me goodbye before he left for work, but this will do.

I am in a heaven of glory, living here, living on this planet.

Last night Farmbeau dashed home and asked me if I’d like to go with him back to a job where he had to spend another half-hour smoothing wet cement. I went along and while he worked, I walked out to the small lake that was beckoning me to come, come! It was a gorgeous evening and my heart literally swelled with pleasure and gratitude as I followed the little bird that was determined to lead me far away from its nest. I looked out over the shimmering calm water and listened to some kind of duck -- a mud hen, I think -- peeping anxiously as it floated away from the tall grasses next to shore. It sounded like a nervous floor that just can’t restrain itself from squeaking excitedly.

There was a nice growth of some kind of tall yellow daisylike flowers in the ditch, among gaillardias (I call them brown-eyed susans) and a stand of fireweed out of my rubberbootless reach.

We passed this windmill out in a field on our drive home. Must have been someone’s farmyard out there once. I noticed another two or three old windmills before the drive was done. They don’t appear to be in use and I wonder when they were. Before electricity came to these parts?

This little gal — Farmbeau called her a pheasant; she looks like a partridge to me; maybe they’re the same thing? — seemed to think that if she just stood still at the side of the road, we wouldn’t see her. She didn’t blink as we backed the truck up, rolled down the driver’s window, and snapped two photos of her.

I walked yesterday afternoon just outside the yard, next to the hay bales on the hill. The variety of wild flowers (commonly called weeds) growing there is astounding and I am taken by a hungry urge to know what they all are and how they can be used for health and healing and yes, okay, I’m interested in other sorts of magical spells they might be used for, too.

The Standing People came in the mail and I have read it cover to cover and begun using it to identify wild plants. Now, I notice them more than ever and am curious to know their names and fascinated by their unassuming beauty, kept from me like a secret all these years by my own blindness. A moreorless placid passion is becoming vitally ardent.

This is a sprig of baneberry. The berries are sometimes white, and called “dolls’ eyes.” Don’t eat them.

A morning walk around the bush near the house provided the first course of breakfast, a handful of indigo saskatoons followed by a handful of ripe red raspberries. Stinging nettles stand taller than I along the path to the garden.

Heaven. It’s heaven, I tell you.

A gift from dear Katherine, in Moab, just opened.
I see some fabric and am so thrilled I can't tell you --
and roasted plum tomatoes!
and what is the cob made of dry leaves --
some kind of sage?

Gorgeous fabric
scarf and woven quilted piece
i love these colours
and will make sure they are where i can see them
as a matter of fact my tack jar better be ready any moment
god only knows what could happen

On goes the Mimosa Blossom Dream Cream! (under my nose first)
It's to die for
Next, the African Shea Butter
straight to my 'souls'

It so happens that today I pulled my jewellery box off the top of the dresser, dug out a few of my favourite things, and adorned myself from head to toe with more ear rings, bracelets, rings, anklet, and lapis lazuli necklance.

I am blessed with beautiful things, and beautiful, generous friends.

Love,
Kate

np: Alanis Morissette, Jagged Little Pill
which doesn't fit my mood one bit!
for I am in a perfect luxury of peace and plenty

why, Bill Richardson even emailed about last night’s dream
i knew it! he’s a dreamer too
but then, aren’t we all

3:35 p.m.

I need to be out of here in half an hour, and should be cleaning up what’s left of my mess after putting together salads for the potluck I’m off to at the lake. But ...

Lord it’s hot. I felt like passing out when I was in the garden a while ago, picking leaf lettuce and green onions and loving the greenery to pieces.

Just me and my Farmbeau all week.

Gotta bolt. I leave you with a picture of Angie and Barney doing their thing last Saturday night.