In Search of the Pink Lady Slipper

Recently, Lance, Thomas and I went hiking in the mountains.  All along the trail were blooming patches of the elusive pink lady slipper orchid.  This is the first time I had ever seen them in the wild.  What a treat--and so was playing the creek!

The Evolution of a Garden

Youth and ambition are frequent companions. Some of us dream of traveling the world, experiencing new cultures, scaling great, high mountains; while others seek to climb the corporate ladder and live the high life in McMansions.  Fresh out of college, I wanted to make my mark on the world in a very Emersonian way--by cultivating a plot of land.  Of course there was nobility in this goal.  I wouldn't simply be puttering around with a hoe, but I would be part of a growing movement away from fossil fuels, from monoculture, from chemical-laced fields of grain.  Like Wendell Berry's mad farmer, I was going to prove everyone who buys tomatoes in January WRONG. So one of the first things I did when Lance and I bought the farm was to plant a garden.  We recruited our neighbor,  Mr. Smoot, to plow up the "yard" behind the house, so I could go to work sowing seeds. Looking over that freshly tilled dirt, I had visions of preserving the harvest and filling my basement full of jars of beans, vegetable soup, jams, jellies, and pickles, just like my grandmother did. It seemed like such a do-able goal.  I didn't want to climb Mount Everest, just grow corn. Little did I know that the Garden Gods were peering over me, ready to make my task appropriately Herculean.  They were laughing. They knew how many thousands of weed seeds would sprout headstrong from that red clay soil, how many droves of japanese beetles would emerge from the ground hungry for bean leaves, how many rainless days would make up the summers, and how many guzillion spores of blight would fall upon my burgeoning tomatoes.

Needless to say, the Garden Gods have put me in my place. Ten years of tending this plot of land has taught me many things about gardening.  First of all, you need a teacher, a flesh and blood one. In this case (and in many others), books simply cannot take the place of oral tradition.  What is written on the page is far less effective than what is spoken to you directly by people who know the soil and weather in your particular location. I would trade all my Eliot Coleman (leading organic gardener) books for one afternoon with my grandmother in her garden. I've also learned that gardening might not be the best occupation for an INTJ.  Myers Briggs tells me that I thrive on organization, control, predictability, and closure.  My garden, however, is a study in chaos and "undoneness."  I can never haul enough water or squash enough potato beetles or strangle enough bermuda grass.  This is a harsh lesson learned over and over again each year when in February I look out over bare dirt and think, "This is the year that I'm going to stay ahead," and then come July, I wistfully proclaim, "Well, there's always next year."  And that brings me to the final lesson: start small.  You can't save the world if you spend all of your time pulling weeds.

Below are pictures of my garden from the last ten years.

2003

And so it begins...

2003

Mom, Bobby, Poe, and me planting tomatoes in clunky red clay

2003

High Summer

2004

Lance built me some raised beds! (Which I filled WAY too full!)

2005

Lance working on my first composter--a worm bin

2005

Wood chips in the pathways

2006

House project has begun and deer fencing is up 

to keep the chickens--not deer!--out of the garden

2006

2007

Landscaping fabric down in the pathways

(Notice the chicken trying to figure out how to get through the deer fencing)

2007

2010

2012

Thomas looking for cherry tomatoes

Early Spring 2013

New raised beds, pea gravel down in the paths

Summer 2013

And here are some pictures of the blooms and bounty:

Goodbye, Uncle Frank

My mother's brother, "Uncle Frank," passed away last week.  I knew him mostly through stories, as he moved to Michigan long before I was born as part of the Great Migration of Appalachian men who sought better work in the northern factories.  He got a job at Ford Motor Company where he worked for several years before falling on a lead pipe, an injury that damaged his spine and left him paralyzed for decades.

He was born in Drill, VA--"on the mountain"--on May 3, 1936--the eighth child of my grandmother's brood of twelve. As was a popular custom in my family, he was named after a president: Franklin Delano Lockhart.  He was still young when my grandparents left their farm in Virginia and came to Ross Campground, TN.  My grandmother's brother, Obie, carried the family to Tennessee in his car, onto which he had tied fox tails. Frank's older brothers and sisters remember him being scared to death of those fox tails, so much so that they barely got him in the car. 

In Tennessee, he led the typical life of a farm boy, playing marbles and "cowboy and Indians" in between hoeing corn and slaughtering animals.  My mother remembered that he ran all the time with a string in his hand (like a lasso), swearing that flipping the string made him run faster.  She also remembered that he loved to play cards, so much so that he couldn't hide his excitement if he got a favorable hand or the rook.

Uncle Frank's school picture (he's fourth from the left on the top row of students)

He eventually moved to Michigan to look for work.  Though he couldn't play, he carried a guitar around in the back of his trunk to impress the girls.  Not wanting to get tied down in a serious relationship, though, he told them that his name was Jim Stacy (one of his friends back in Tennessee) so they wouldn't be able to track him down. He finally met one that captured his heart and to whom he didn't mind sharing his real name--that would be his wife Betty.  In a questionaire I sent to all my family members when I was in college, Betty wrote this of the first time she met Frank: "Frank and I met at a drive-in restaurant named Cecil's in Ypsilanti, Michigan in November of 1956.  I was with my sister and a girlfriend in a car my sister and I owned; we were parked next to Frank and his friend.  My first impression of Frank was that he was on the wild side, outgoing, and liked to have fun."  I'm guessing that serious, soft-spoken Betty was reluctant at first to date such a jokester, but his outgoing ways (and no doubt his good character too) eventually won her over.  They married two years later and had one daughter, Tracy, before Frank was injured at Ford.

Frank and Betty (I think on their wedding day)

I only met Uncle Frank a handful of times.  The first time was when my mother took me and my grandmother to Michigan to see him.  We rode on the Greyhound bus. I was about Thomas's age, so I don't remember much of the trip.  The memories I do have, though, are very specific.  I remember a crotchety old man who kept yelling at me to "shut up,"and the bus driver who bought me a "Chicken Little" book to help keep me occupied on the long journey, and a passenger who looked like Ray Bolger (the scarecrow in "The Wizard of Oz") who bought two cartons of chocolate milk when we stopped at a gas station for a break. The seemingly endless ride must have been torture for my mother who had to chaperone her elderly mother and keep her three-year old still.  (Surely, I wasn't as squirmy as Thomas!)  When we got to Michigan, we stayed with Uncle Frank for several days and also visited Mom's other brother, Robert, who lived nearby (another product of the Great Migration).  I remember the layout of Uncle Frank's house and peeing in the bed (I was still recovering from kidney surgery.)  I also remember eating minestrone soup at Uncle Robert's.  Such is the mind of a child--honing in on soup rather than the joy my grandmother must have felt in seeing her sons or the relief my mother must have felt after getting us there safely.

Uncle Frank and Uncle Thomas with a recently hunted Canada goose

When I was in eighth grade, Mom and I again traveled to Michigan--this time with my Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Betty in a car rather than a bus, thank goodness--to see Tracy get married.  Again, I have few, but vivid memories of the trip.  A few weeks earlier, while mowing the grass, I had been bitten by a pack-saddle (a spiny little caterpillar with a nasty sting).  Of course, I chose a sleeveless dress to wear to the wedding to show off my swollen arm--who knows why. I also remember reading "Gone with the Wind" in the car. Again, it was no easy trip, for on the way back we couldn't find a motel room anywhere on our route through Ohio because of the Dayton Airshow.  Mom decided to power through and drive all the way home.  The best moment of the trip, though, was seeing Uncle Frank walk Tracy down the isle.  He had been doing therapy for years to regain the use of his legs, and his daughter's marriage was no doubt a potent motivation.

The last time I saw him was at our wedding back in 2003.  No need to recount the details of that day--but I was honored that Uncle Frank (and Betty and Tracy and Tracy's husband, Pat) all came to see the "I do's."  Tracy told my mother that a couple of days before Frank died, he asked to see the pictures from the wedding, especially the one of all our families gathered on the front porch.  "What a wedding!" he exclaimed.  Looks like he had a few good memories of coming to see us too--hopefully a little "minestrone soup for the soul" before he passed on.

Our wedding photo (with Uncle Frank, Betty, and Tracy in the back)