Why is first important?

According to the book of Luke, chapter 2:23, the first born male shall be called holy to the Lord.  There may be a host of reasons why the first male was given such importance.  Women did not hold a high place of importance in that culture, and often were considered chattel.  Men however could hold property, reach places of power and could be relied upon to support the parents at some point in the future.   Being first was on my mind yesterday. We are studying the book of Luke in our adult Bible class at my church.  Our teacher asked for a volunteer to read the Bible passage in Luke, I raised my hand first so I was the first reader.

Thinking of all things first, I got a glimpse of a firefly a week ago.  That first of the season always gives me a lift in spirits as it signals that summer is indeed here, the fact that it appeared before the 21st seems in line with the other things I see around me.  Just a day or so after seeing the fire fly I saw that my big Gardenia bush had one bloom opened.  I had feared it was a goner but nope, it is alive and well and smelling good.

I was looking out my window and saw a spot of yellow in a patch of tall Stone Mountain Daisies.  it seems way too soon for them to be blooming.  I went out to inspect and yes, one bloom had opened and more are forthcoming.  On this same outing as I went to my compost bin, I saw red blackberries and craning my head to see more I found two ripe berries.  Of course I picked them for later.  This blackberry bush had escaped destruction, and just showed me that accidental gardening can be fun too.

Some other accidental gardening which is proving to be rewarding is the Magnolia tree which was caught between two felled trees, when it was about two feet tall.  Now it is around twenty feet tall.  It seemed to flourish after the felled trees were cut, and removed to give it room to expand.  I sighted a first bud just threatening to open,  I was watching it but apparently not close enough to see it open.  All I did see was the pod of seeds left where it had been.  I saw no other blooms, so this must have been a trial run!

Another first for this year came from  the blueberries under the netting, where around nine bushes are growing.  They looked huge and dark blue.  When I brought them inside (around 1/2 cup) their taste was disappointing.  They were tart.  Thinking it must be my taste buds not working well, I asked my son-in-law to taste them.  He too, said they were tart.  I was speculating as to why such a fine looking berry could be tart, then decided the answer was not in my head but perhaps I could find it online.  I searched  and got some help from other gardeners who had the same experience.  Most said the berries had been picked too soon.  The advise was to let them sit for a couple of days on the kitchen counter or just wait longer to pick them.  I did let them sit 24 hours and then tasted again.  This time they lived up to my expectations, and were mighty fine in my cereal.

 My thoughts went back to the first fruits of childbearing, about why the first male is so important.  The survival rate for newborns in the past was not very high.  Perhaps parents prized that first male child so highly as they were not assured that the next one would survive.  For whatever reason it is exciting to see the first new baby in a family, or the first bloom on the stately Stone Mountain Daisy, and even the blueberry which holds so much promise, as time goes by.

Garden Surprise

     Intending to ride my golf cart up to the mail box, I started down the driveway but  was stymied by a huge electric company truck blocking my way.  I turned around and headed back up to the house but stopped by the plants in the curve of my road.  I saw yellow lilies which I KNOW I did not plant.  What I had planted there were white lilies (Lilium longiflorum).  My family has been generous over the years to present me with  Easter Lilies which made their way into my garden, after the bloom had faded.  I have other bulbs planted there, a pink and white striped Amaryllis,  along with the white lilies and double orange day lilies.  Other perennials are there also.  Never did I plant yellow lilies.

     So, I had to know how they happened to be there.  Across the road I have yellow, scented day lilies which bloom later in the summer, but the only yellow lilies I have are some distance up the road, behind my house.  I had to know more.  Thus I went looking for information and found a great source of information on the Easter Lily.  It is the Aggie Horticulture web site.  Here is the easy way to access it:  http://aggie-horticulture.tamu.edu/archives/parsons/publications/lily/lily.html 

     It has  some fascinating information about the beautiful Easter Lily which is the fourth largest crop in wholesale value in the U.S. pot plant market, behind poinsettias, mums and azaleas.  That is a direct quote from the web site.  I have a renewed respect for the perfect white lily which I have enjoyed all these years.  One fact is that the white cultivar (Nellie White) is named for a grower's wife, Nellie White.  A very specific area between California and Oregon has the perfect climate, soil and conditions for producing the bulbs for this joyful Easter plant.

     Since I did not find any answers from a professional standpoint, I did find other gardeners, like myself, who have been puzzled by the same thing.  Some had the Easter lily come back up as orange and some had come back as yellow.  No one seems to know exactly why.  If an Iris can revert to the original color, then I suppose it is possible for the Easter lily to do the same thing.  I once had fifty white Iris plants, given to me by a friend.  They all reverted to their original color which was mostly purple.  The yellow lily which showed up this year was not robust like the original plant, this year there was only one bloom.

     I shall enjoy it as it is, where it is, and not complain.  It is a miracle to me, that a bulb which looks much like an onion when placed in the ground, can come up each year and present a lovely perfect bloom to delight the beholder.

Camellias in Winter

Thirty years ago my friend gave me a
Camellia bush.  It was small and slow
growing.  I put it in the ground and
waited for the blooms.  None were
forthcoming.  Then I began to read up on where the Camellia liked to be planted and how to care for it.  I had some experience with this southern bush but had not actually grown one from start.  In fact the first time I saw one was when I was twenty years old and was in college in Richmond, Ky.  My boy friend came to see me around Easter and had a gift for me.  It was a beautiful corsage of two pink, symmetrical camellias.  I was overwhelmed by their delicate shape and color.  We pinned it on my dress and I had never felt so elegant as that day.

Living in Kentucky I was not likely to see this flower growing in someones yard, as it is a southern plant.  So, when I moved to Georgia and found one growing in my yard I was overjoyed.  I was able to enjoy the deep pink blooms in the winter and watch the Cardinal raise her young there in that bush.  I had a perfect view of it all from my window on the side of my house.  It was food for my soul.

Some years later when I moved to north Georgia, was when my friend presented me with this Camellia.  After reading up on the culture of this plant, I moved it to a new spot on the east side of my house where the soil was richer and the sun just right.  Then it rewarded me by growing into a ten foot bush with hundreds of blooms.  It did not happen overnight, but when it reached maturity I was rewarded over and over again.

The picture shows a lighter pink bloom surrounded by the deeper pink blooms.  The lighter pink comes from a bush I planted three years ago.  It only had two big buds this year.  I could not resist cutting one to bring indoors to cheer me on this cold rainy day.

The end result of successful gardening is how you feel when you finally harvest the fruit.  To get this buzz on a cold rainy day, it is all the sweeter for the waiting.  If you live in the north and cannot grow the beautiful Camellia, perhaps you can find Japonica, a cousin to the Camellia.  My sister Frances had one by her kitchen window and I loved seeing it there when I would visit.  The bloom is not as large as its cousin but it is a cheerful sight on any day.

Memorable Picnics

     My earliest memories of picnics goes back to my early childhood when our family would join forces with friends of my parents, for a picnic on the banks of the Cumberland River, in eastern Kentucky.  Our favorite place to go was where large, room sized rocks made a  perfect table for laying out the fried chicken, and everything that went with it.  I do not remember swimming in the river.  As I recall the rocks were up too high from the river, and we had the surrounding woods to run around in and explore.  My mother's best friend was named Estelle Smith, and she was usually there with her husband and one son.

     The pastor of our church played a big part in the other memories of early childhood picnics.  His name was Dr. Mark Andrews, and he must have enjoyed picnics too.  Each year when our whole church held our annual picnic at the Boy Scout Camp, Camp Blanton, he supplied the drinks for everyone.  That in itself was quite a project.  He brought a new, galvanized tub filled with lemonade and ice.  In those days to make lemonade you had to buy fresh lemons and get the juice out the old fashioned way.  As a child I did  not appreciate all the work that went into doing that, but now I realize it was a monumental task.

     My sister Frances, who was twelve years older than me, made picnics so much fun.  She always made pimento cheese sandwiches.  That involved a lot of work, as she grated the cheese by hand.  When we reached our destination, which was quite often the banks of Norris Lake in Tennessee, she set up a portable cooking affair and proceeded to make peanut butter fudge.  She could whip up the fudge while all the kids, her three, and her younger siblings who tagged along, jumped in the lake to swim.  It just did not get any better than that.

     During my college years, one picnic I remember came about from an invitation by a young man who later became my husband.  The picnic was held at Boonesboro Beach, in Kentucky.  He belonged to the World Affairs Club and what I remember was all of us sitting in a circle and someone passing around a bottle, everyone took a sip except you know who!  My mother preached against alcoholic drinks and it had its effect on me.  I avoided it like the plague.  Unfortunately, my date did not avoid it and he did not avoid it big time!!  Fortunately, he was not driving as we had hitched a ride with someone else.  He fell asleep in the car on the way home.  If he had not  apologized the next day, that would have been the end of our friendship.

     When our family was young we would take off for a picnic at the drop of a hat.  I could whip up a  picnic at a moments notice.   Even in winter we were not deterred.  Somewhere in my box of old photographs is one of us in the dead of winter in coats and hats sitting around a picnic table on the banks of the Potomac River, outside Washington, D.C.  Once I wrote a letter home to my family which gave them all a good laugh - though it was not funny to me.  I told them what I had taken on a picnic and mentioned two chicken legs.  They, who cooked up whole chickens for a picnic, just laughed  about that.  For us it was not so much the food as the event.

     Picnics occurred almost weekly when my husband was free from work.  It was fun to take the children out and fun for all of us to be together.  On one picnic I took along a chocolate meringue pie.  After we finished our meal we put the uneaten part of the pie in our basket, and all went for a walk, leaving our lunch behind.  As we walked back  to where we had left our pie, we were all  looking forward to finishing it, and sat down in great anticipation.  However, someone had wandered by and found it  first.  It was gone, no doubt about it.  Someone suggested that maybe it was Yogi Bear who had done this dastardly deed.  We were pretty miffed about it, but what can you do?  We know that the thieves  had a good dessert that day!

     Sometimes when things go wrong you can only blame yourself.  One fourth of July we joined in with some family members for a sailing picnic.  The guests brought along a huge bowl of fruit salad.  Oh, if only it had been Tupperware with a lid, but it was not and did not.  Someone put it in the bottom of our sailboat.  It was not all smooth sailing that day as we learned later.   That bowl of fruit salad had tipped over and the wonderful fruit spilled all over the floor of the boat.  All the regrets in the world could not bring it back!

     So, as you plan your picnics this summer (and I hope you do plan some )  think about tight fitting lids and securing your food left unattended.  Think about inviting someone along who might not have a family to go picnicking with.  It will be like Wrigley's gum, it will double your pleasure. They will enjoy it and you will earn a feather in your cap for being such a nice fellow!!

Do you knock it, slap it, or cut it with a knife?

The answer is - act according to what you find more effective.  It seems we all have a different method of how to choose the perfect watermelon.  In the  produce section I was leaning over the huge cardboard carton filled to the top with watermelons and I was not alone.  Another lady was doing the same thing.  She was knocking on the watermelons with her knuckles while I was slapping them with my open hand.  I began to chat with her re: selecting the ripe one, as the knocking does not tell me anything, whereas the slapping will create a thud which tells me it is more open inside, less dense and thus more likely to be ripe.  She said "I grew up in Moultrie, Georgia and I know my watermelons".  So, I invited her to knock on the one I had chosen and tell me if she thought it was ripe.  She did rap and said yes, it was ready.  So, I thanked her and put it in my buggy.  In parting I said when I eat this watermelon I will remember you and if it is good, I will remember you fondly.  She smiled knowingly as I walked away.  Neither of us had mentioned that there are other ways to make the right choice.  Walter Reeves our Georgia guru of gardening says you can tell by the creamy color of the side where the watermelon touched the ground while growing.  I suppose you could use all three methods just to be sure.

Sitting on top of the pile of watermelons were two long boxes with red knives in them.  Someone passing by said "I don't need to buy a knife to cut a watermelon".  Then I remembered my father's method of choosing the perfect one.  He would stop by a roadside market where he was well known, and choose one he thought would be ready.   He then would take out his pocket knife and  deftly carve out a triangle chunk to see how red it was.  I did not hear of him being reprimanded for doing this so he must have been very accurate in his choices thus buying the one he cut!!

Buying that first watermelon of the season is a bit stressful.  You are hungry for cold, red, melon and the chance of choosing an under ripe one is cause for concern.  After you have lugged it home, put it in the fridge for proper cooling, waited patiently, and when the  crowd is there to help eat it, you do not want anything but the best red melon you ever had!!

Some people like to use salt and say it brings out the flavor.  I think there is merit to that claim, but mainly it needs to be very cold, very ripe (but not over ripe).  And there is always the decision of choosing a fork or a spoon, everyone has a favorite.   Then there are those who just want a wedge to chomp into with no spoon, no fork, no salt, just sink your teeth in and enjoy.  Where do you come down on this issue?  I suppose it doesn't matter for there are so many types of these favorite summer melons that everyone should be pleased.  If you happen to buy one with seeds don't forget to save them for the critters out in your landscape.  They will enjoy them even if you do not.

Chester, Where Are You?

This beautiful black cat with the inquiring green eyes, has left me, and I wish I knew why.  Was he trying to tell me something, the day the walked back and forth, mewing as he walked?  I thought he was, so I sat down in the old teak Adirondack chair and petted him, and talked to him.  He rubbed against me and purred and seemed happy.  Then he left me and walked over to his food and water and ate a bit.   So I went back inside and continued with my chores.

Later in the day, I heard a dog barking.  Since I have no dogs and we have a leash law here I went out to investigate.  Chester was lounging under the Leyland Cypress which is on a rise above the driveway.  The barking was coming from a Doberman Pincher who seemed like a domesticated dog.  He was a beautiful chestnut brown color and had no collar.  His bark sounded more like a friendly hello and not an attack kind of bark.  He did  not offer to chase Chester, just was saying hello.  I saw no problem here, so I went back indoors and continued my work there.  I thought he must belong to a neighbor from across the woods.  In hindsight I wish I had called Animal Control as he may have been lost.

Later in the evening after dark, I heard the barking again.  As it was dark outside and I could not  see, I did not go out to investigate.  After a few minutes the barking stopped and I decided it was the Doberman saying hello again.  In hindsight I wish that I had taken a flashlight and gone out to see if the Doberman was back. 

Now, all the speculation in the world cannot remedy the situation I am faced with, as Chester has gone missing.  All the calling and looking does not bring him back.  His former owner says that he was prone to "go missing" for days then come back home.  He has the tip of his left ear missing and a scar along the side of his nose, to show he has had some scrapes.  He knows how to take care of himself, but still I fret that I should have done more.

His former owner brought an elegant house for him, with a mattress and heat pad for cold winter days.  It is waiting for Chester if he decides to come home.  I put his bowl out for him during the day.  But if I do it at night the raccoons will begin to habitat my grounds, and that is not a wise plan.

Years ago when my grandson was around six years old he had a gray cat named Smokey.  He was allowed to go out, and one day he did not return home.  My grandson was hopeful and said he would return.  For a whole year he was hopeful, and into the second year he was hopeful.  And, you know what?  It paid off for after two years had passed, Smokey returned home, a little leaner but otherwise none the worse for his two year absence.

Therefore I will not lose heart, or hope, but just keep putting out his bowl each day, and looking out my back door window to see if Chester is curled up on the mat.  He knows where he can eat, drink, and sleep so if his navigation system is in good order, I will one day see him, or hear him mewing for me to come out and pet him again.

If You Happen to See

 If you happen to see, the most beautiful cat in the world , tell him I love him, tell him I want my baby, I want him back, back here with me.

Tell him I'm sorry, and I miss him.

He just wandered away, maybe it was the big strange dog barking that chased him away.  But that old dog is gone now and I want him to come back where he belongs, here resting on the mat at my back door.  He has been sent a great new house to use this winter, it even has a heating pad inside and plastic doors to go in and out, front and back as he pleases.

His food is waiting for him, but not out at night as the raccoons in the woods come over and wash their paws in the water and eat the little crunchy tidbits in his dish.  We don't want to feed them, just the beautiful cat with the green eyes and the gentle personality.

So, if you happen to see him, just call him Chester and send him back home, back home to me.