Lifescapes

roses in winter

One of the glories of gardening in Texas is watching roses blooming in winter. Of course, it's not strictly winter yet, not until the solstice, which is a month away. But anytime after Thanksgiving is "winter" to this Midwestern girl, and this Duchesse de Brabant is a special treasure for its all-season bloom. It's a tea rose, dating from the 1850s--one of those antique roses that stubbornly defy climatic extremes and human neglect. Their stubbornness must certainly be rooted in their simplicity: these are non-hybridized plants, growing on their own roots (what a novel idea!), thriving on my inattention. They get pruned around Valentine's day and sometimes in August, but otherwise, they're on their own, and I love them for their independent spirit.

Some of my roses are shrubs, like Duchesse, others are climbers. Here is the Evangeline, an exuberant 10-year-old rambler blooming this morning beside our back deck. This one is almost thornless and is easily kept in check, but I made a mistake with another climber, a thorny red rose I planted too near a walkway. Ouch!

And there's this one, a pink noisette whose name I have forgotten but whose beauty and fragrance surprises me with each new bloom.

I think of my love for these roses as a practical passion. For the little I do for them, they reward me with months of pleasure. They laugh off cold weather and thrive in heat. No mildew for these guys; they sneer at black spot; and they bloom and bloom again, as the weather and their inclinations suit. Their only fault is a rampant enthusiasm that is often hard to contain.

What more could I ask of life? A few roses in winter, rewarding work, a shelf of good books, a sock on my knitting needles, children who are independent spirits, friends who share, and quiet days that hold all the beauties I can possibly manage.

Reading Note. I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.--Eleanor Roosevelt

thanks

Every year, at Thanksgiving, I reread Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"--my own private ritual of thanks giving, of deep gratitude for all that is around and within me, even the small things, always the smallest things. Here are a few lines from this miracle of a poem:

The insignificant is as big to me as any.
What is less or more than a touch?
I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars,
And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren,
And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,
And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven,
And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery,
And the cow crunching with depressed head surpasses any statue,
And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels,
And I could come every afternoon of my life to look at the farmer's girl boiling her iron tea-kettle and baking shortcake....

Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass;
I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will punctually come forever and ever.

All About Thyme

In the writing business, it's all about getting the word out--the word about your books, to those who might be interested. I know, I know. It sounds enormously egocentric, blatantly self-promoting, and maybe even whiny, but it is unfortunately true.

It wasn't always like this. Used to be, if you were lucky enough to be published by a New York publisher, you figured the marketing monkey was on their backs, and you sat back and let them do whatever it was they did to get the word out.

But not anymore. It's not only the writer's job to put the words on paper, but to bring them to the world's attention--or to that little corner of the world that is likely to want to read what you've written. Your publishing house does what it can (sometimes), but it actually can't do a lot except to ensure that books are on bookstore shelves (in case anybody comes to the bookstore looking), or put an ad in a magazine or newspaper (in case anybody is reading). These days, a big part of the writing business involves promoting what you've written. You don't have to like doing this, of course, although that certainly helps. And if you don't want to do it, you'd probably better get into another line of work.

I happen to be one of those crazy people for whom the promotion part of the business actually seems like fun. Which is one of the reasons I created the new weekly eletter that will be going out every Monday morning. All About Thyme is all about herbs--well, okay. I won't explain it here. You can click on the link and read all about it.

But I will say that I am enjoying doing it: working with Peggy (webmistress extraordinaire) to create the design/layout and iron out the distribution wrinkles; getting back into the research material I used for The Book of Days; and doing the actual writing. To me, the eletter feels like an online extension of Days, which is really interesting. In fact, it will have a great many more resources than Days, because I can include links to other sources, which I can't do in the book itself. The Web is a broader, more comprehensive publishing medium than a book can ever be, which may eventually (and sadly, for those of us who enjoy the feel of a book in our hands, the adventure of the turning pages) lead to the demise of books. But not in my lifetime, so I'm not going to worry about it. And anyway, I'm in the writing business, which is larger and more inclusive than the book business, isn't it?

Go check out the eletter. I've got all kinds of ideas for ways to make it more interesting, more informative, more fun. Who knows what it will grow into?

Reading note. You write a book and it's like putting a message in a bottle and throwing it in the ocean. You don't know if it will ever reach any shores. And there, you see, sometimes it falls in the hands of the right person.--Isabelle Allende

Cypress beauties

Twentysome years ago, we planted six bald cypress trees (Taxodium distichum) along our creek. They were maybe 5 or 6 years old at the time, about four feet tall. In fact, we nealy lost one, because something--a hungry rabbit, maybe?--gnawed off most of the bark just above the soil line. But that tree, and the others, survived, and are now forty feet high and still stretching for sky. They'll reach a hundred feet or more at their maturity. These glorious trees can live a thousand years, so they'll outlive me by several lifetimes--a lovely thought.

And just as lovely: their beautiful rust-colored fall foliage. Our fall colors here in the Hill Country are muted reds and golds, none of that flaming show-off scarlet you Northeasterns have, or the banks of glowing golden aspens in the West. So we wait with great anticipation for our cypress trees to turn.

But of course, there's more. The bald cypress, like some other members of the Cupressaceae family, contains the tumor inhibitors taxodione and taxodone. Perhaps some day it will help in the fight against cancer.

And another bonus. The seed cones you see in this photo will open as the days grow colder, dropping dozens of wedge-shaped seeds. They're covered in a resinous coating that keeps insects, rodents, and birds from gobbling them straightaway. Next spring, these seeds will germinate and produce dozens of cypress seedlings. We've transplanted fifteen or twenty of these, into the marshy patch of cattails and willows below the dam and along the creek downstream. They're now ten to twelve feet high, happy and flourishing. Who knows? In three or four hundred years, MeadowKnoll could host a cypress bog. Wouldn't I love to see it?

Reading note. "The Cupressus disticha [Cupressus is the family name for bald cypress] stands in the first order of North American trees. Its majestic stature is surprising; and . . . we are struck with a kind of awe, at beholding the stateliness of the trunk, lifting its cumbrous top toward the skies . . . a gran straight column eighty or ninety feet high . . . where eagles have their secure nests and cranes and storks their temporary resting-places.--The Travels of William Bertram

poverty weed

I cherish the names of this straggly shrub: poverty weed, Roosevelt weed, New Deal weed, false willow, seep willow, and the Latin, Baccharis neglecta--so called, I suppose, because it seems to grow in the most neglected places, or perhaps because it grows perfectly well on its own, regardless of whether it is cared for or even noticed. Or perhaps because it is indifferent to, or careless of, whatever attention might be paid to it. 

Roosevelt weed? New Deal weed? Poverty weed? I'm told that this Baccharis earned these names during the Dirty Thirties when the the shrub was planted for erosion control throughout the Dust Bowl. It grows fast, spreads quickly, and thrives in poor soil (neglecta, yes), so it admirably did the job it was meant to do. Here at Meadowknoll, it grows along the fence, in an area that's always marshy during the rainy season--hence, seep willow.

But B. neglecta is probably not a plant you'd want in your garden. It's a water hog with a straggly habit, and is pretty for only a few weeks of the year. But just ask a bee or wasp or beetle or butterfly what they think about this weed. You'll get an earful. In the fall, the plants are covered with creamy white blossoms, producing a nectar that summons every bug with a sweet tooth for miles around. It's a delight to stand in our poverty weed patch and listen to the buzzing of happy insects sipping their rich treats.

And Baccharis has plenty of other uses, according to one of my favorite sources, Daniel's Moerman's Native American Ethnobotany. The Navajo used Baccharis wrightii as a venereal medicine ("Strong decoction of plant taken in large amounts for sexual infection") and as a "ceremonial emetic"--internal cleansing. The Cahuillas used the leaves to make an eyewash and a remedy for baldness, while the Hualapai applied hot poultices of the leaves to swellings, and made a cold infusion to bathe the temples as a headache treatment. So I've resolved to pay B. neglecta a little closer attention--and a little more respect.

Reading note. The trouble with writing about the wilderness is that there is almost none of it left, and so, although more and more writers are born, grow up and appear in print, fewer and fewer can possibly have even an approximate acquaintance with the wild destroyed world on whose splinters we stand.--Edward Hoagland

Nightshades

I always enjoy doing the research for a book--sometimes I get so wrapped up in it that the writing itself seems almost anticlimactic. At the moment, it's the nightshade family that's captured my attention.

The nightshades are members of the Solancaea family, whichincludes such edible plants as the tomato, potato, eggplant, and chile pepper; decorative plants such as the petunia; and toxic plants such as datura (Jimson weed), tobacco, henbane, mandrake, and deadly nightshade, also known as belladonna.

The photo shows three of the nightshades growing within a hundred yards of our house. The yellow-green berries are the fruit of the silverleaf nightshade, which is considered a weed, and known to be toxic. They were used, I've read, to curdle milk when making cheese--other nightshade fruits have been used for the same purpose. The green and brown pouchy calyxes contain the fruit of the cutleaf ground-cherry, another member of the nightshade family, supposedly edible when ripe. (I think I'll give it a pass this season.) The orange ones? Oh, yes. Habanero chiles, the fruit of the plants Bill is growing on the porch. I don't intend to eat these little devils, either. They're not poisonous, but they are are hot, HOT, HOT.

After I had taken this photo, I realized I had missed several nightshades I could have included: the tomatoes in the fridge, potatoes in the bin, and an eggplant on the counter. They're not toxic, of course, although people once thought they were. Before the potato became the food staple of the people, it was thought to be a source of leprosy and an incitement to lust. And a potato almost killed Sir Walter Raleigh, when he ate the blossoms rather than the tuber.

And that's the sort of detail I love to dig up when I'm rooting around, doing research for China's novels. Picture me having fun!

Reading note. The wonderful thing about writing is that you're constantly having to ask yourself questions. It makes you function morally. It makes you function intellectually. That's the great pleasure and great reward of writing.--Robert Stone

If you will follow my counsell, deal not with Nightshade in any case, and banish it from your gardens and the use of it also, being a plant so furious and deadly.--John Gerard, The Herbal, 1598