Fertilizer Mixer Extraordinaire

Ready to dig its roots in

Green fingers are the extension of a verdant heart.

Russell Page · British garden designer
1906 - 1985

Three months ago when I bragged about my inherited hydrangea, I could hardly wait for planting season to arrive — then when it did, I grew nervous and began to drag my feet.

North side of the house?

Not enough direct sunlight.

South side then?

No way, it would block the forsythia.

Back flowerbed?

In the only suitable spot for Grandmother's hosta?

Okay then, somewhere out in the yard?

Just another obstacle to mow around.

How in the world will I get it out of this big planter?

This dilemma eventually took care of itself when the rotten wood began to fall off, making the rest easy to remove.

But what if it becomes fungussy and diseased?
Hates living here and refuses to bloom?
Or just shrivels up and dies?

You'll never know at this rate, will you?

Finally settled on a location, dug a big hole, pushed it in. Even remembered to use root stimulator.

And look what I found hiding under several years of dust in the garage — An old fashioned hydrangea's best friend!

My own piece of hydrangea heaven

In 1975, I was given a gift of a blue hydrangea. It was love at first sight. As I explored the genus, my passion grew. A few years later, I learned I was not alone; many gardeners share my addiction. By 1994, I was convinced that the world's perfect shrub deserved a plant society to celebrate and explore its versatility.

Penny McHenry · 1925-2006
Founder of the American Hydrangea Society

It is with deep respect and humility that I report my recent inheritance of an adolescent hydrangea shrub. It belonged to my mother-in-law, who has tended it carefully for at least a decade.

Nevermind all that overgrown Bermuda grass. The summer blooms that grow on this plant are stunning! I'll admit that this isn't my first hydrangea. I've purchased several small ones over the past 20 years, but promptly killed them.

And from what I've been told, I ended up with this precious hand-me-down ... because no one else wanted it?

Unsuccessful, but not fruitless

Seek truth in all things — even when the truth hurts.

— Me

Despite good intentions last June for my first watermelon patch, this growth-stunted specimen is its lone survivor. Looking back, I can't help but wonder what inspired me to brag about the spot I'd chosen for planting, which is poorly drained and doesn't receive enough sunlight for growing fruit.

Although the melon grew only slightly larger than a canteloupe, I sliced it open and discovered it was juicy, sweet and oh-so-tasty.

Plan B

Of all the wonderful things in the wonderful universe of God, nothing seems to me more surprising than the planting of a seed in the blank earth and the result thereof.

Julie Moir Messervy

Last summer's edible tomato has encouraged me to grow another tasty treat this season. Before I broke my hand, I'd expected to try tomatoes again. The upside-down planter, though, is a "get dirty" contraption that my cast prevented me from using. Instead, I started off a dozen or so watermelon seeds in a starter tray, then transplanted the five surviving seedlings to a front spot on the west side of the house, where they'll get lots of hot afternoon sun. I hope they're as good as the seed package looked.

And four months later:

CarlaCarlaCarlaCarla · 10/10/2009
Unsuccessful, but not fruitless

Spring song

Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.

Lewis Grizzard · 1946-1994
From Kathy Sue Loudermilk, I Love You

While taking a few lame landscape photos yesterday afternoon, I was treated to the happy song of a nearby mockingbird. I only wish this 15-second video shared the blooms' sweet aroma.

The hummingbird feeder has already attracted its first visitor of the year (and it's always a yellow jacket). I'm fixinta sit down with my favorite gardening catalog and begin marking all the new toys I want, starting with the perfect gloves for digging around in the dirt.

Bittersweet reminder ... My Palm Pilot beeped to notify me of my grandmother's birthday this morning. She passed away at 93 years old last December.

Homegrown goodness

It is difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.

Lewis Grizzard · 1946-1994

Besides a no-show peanut sprout prior to entering Kindergarten, this summer heralded my first attempt at growing something more nourishing than a flower garden. I confidently invested about twenty-five bucks in two tomato seedlings and supplies, including a newfangled upside-down tomato planter, then doomed the first plant to failure by placing it in a spot with limited sun exposure. Learning from my mistake, I cultivated the second plant in full sun, where it grew tall and sturdy. A week or so after being blown down by a summer storm, I harvested its only tomato:

After sitting on the kitchen counter for a week, my tomato ripened to an impressive deep red. Although it looked ready for eating, I was still apprehensive about doing a taste test. What if my tomato was bitter? Or sour? Or full of salmonella? Or harboring a microscopic parasite that will turn my internal organs to mush?

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me, and I sliced it open to reveal its perfect deep red meat. And it tasted as good as it looked.

No wonder this variety is named Beefmaster
(unretouched photo ... I promise!)