More Than One Way to Wear a Tie

Tossing tie over the shoulder keeps it stainless.

Neckties have never suited me. During my years of working in offices, I wore them if employers ruled that I had to, but I stopped wearing them as soon as I could get away with it. (I did keep some ties for a while, wrapping them around computer cables as techno-style.) I haven't worn a tie for decades and don't own any, favoring bolas or ascots as occasional fashion statements.

Nevertheless, I've enjoyed the trends surrounding these strips of cloth – the power ties in neon colors beloved by politicians and British television anchors, the skinny ties worn loosely by self-conscious hipsters, the outrageously expensive numbers around the necks of the richies.

Like women's skirts, ties have been wide, and they've been narrow; they've gone long, and they've gone short, but they never go away. Nor does the habit of throwing them across the shoulder, like the man I photographed in a finger-licking good sandwich shop recently. Protecting ties from spilled food is ironic, as men used to wear ties to protect their shirts from food stains.

I must say the over-the-shoulder look could be interesting on the street, not just in restaurants. If I wore a tie, I'd pin it to to the shoulder of my jacket or shirt, creating a dashing look. Literally.

Blowdown

In a parallel universe of technology and nature yesterday evening, I was watching radar of a storm packing winds up to 80 miles per hour moving through Marietta, Georgia. At the same time that storm was ripping off a huge chunk of tree and flinging it onto my shed. 

Soon after the quick-hitting storm passed, Lyn and I walked around the back of the house, inhaling the fresh scent of raw pine, knowing that, amid the long slog through a hard move, combined with the excitement of new beginnings, the last thing we needed was this.

On this morning after, the sky is blue, the air breezy and cool, wet earth heavy and rich-smelling. If you closed your eyes, you'd swear you were in a Southern paradise, unspoiled, untroubled. Buuut . . . .

. . . there it is.

During disheartening times like these all of us always tell ourselves that it could have been worse; the storm could have blown the entire massive pine down, crushing the house, our two cars. Us. "What's amazing is what it didn't do," said Lyn. 

The pine that lost a limb. So lovely, so impressive, so threatening.

At the same time we remind ourselves that living among big trees always is a mix of shade, beauty and danger. Lyn and I know this. In our earlier Georgia time, when we lived in Atlanta in 2001, half a split-trunk oak that pre-dated the Civil War fell onto our property, destroying the wrought-iron fence and damaging the front of our Victorian home. The for-sale sign peeking out from the massive fallen limbs was a vivid reminder that we needed to repair, sell and move to Connecticut. 

Today, as then, action takes over. Quickly comes the urgency of figuring out how to clear away the massive limb, remove the crushed shed, salvage its contents and move on.

There is no silver lining to having this much heavy wood fall into your space. Searching for a sliver of anything positive, I note to myself that while I have been furiously tearing out foundation plants in front of the house, then planting trees, shrubs, perennials, grasses, I did much less planting in the back; instead, I've been using it to stash plants, garden doodads, supplies and equipment – as I planned to have a second shed built.

Start of the front garden.

The mess out back.

In short, I saw that space as a controlled mess. Looking at it now, I realize I hadn't seen anything; that mess was a thing of beauty. 

Up and At 'Em; It's Digging Time

Early in the shadowy morning, my first big buy arrives by delivery truck. Before the temperatures rocket toward the predicted '90s, I line up the trees, grasses and shrubs, soldiers ready to dig in. Sedge grasses and dwarf mondo, front right, reporting for duty. Middle row: 'Little Gem' magnolia, black-stemmed hydrangea, camellias. Rear, Japanese maples 'Acontifolium', 'Butterfly' and 'Koto no ito', the latter also known as the dancing monkey tree because its thin, narrow leaves dance in breezes.

By afternoon, the breezes are down, and so are the three trees, taking a rest as the temperature rises to a soggy 90.

Meanwhile, 'Little Gem', leader of trees, stands tall, ramrod straight. "Plant me now; I can take it," the raspy voice demands, a strange counterpoint to the sweet, lemony fragrance floating from a lone creamy blossom.

"Too hot," I say. "Wait for sundown. Or tomorrow."

Big Shopping, Then a Pond Visit

More than two long weeks of unpacking and clearing debris from the tear-out had left me with a serious craving for a nursery visit. So, I dropped into the nearest Pike, which was my go-to garden center when I lived in Georgia before.

I had a few plants in mind, starting with the 'Little Gem' Southern magnolia – and with the expert help of Travis, a Pike Nurseries employee, I found a fine 'Little Gem' and, true to my excess, a number of other gems she unearthed, including a couple of Japanese maples I've never grown.

Travis strikes a pose with 'Little Gem' and others headed my way.

Not able to resist the power of plants whose prices had been cut, I bought too many to fit in the Prius or the Soul, so they'll be delivered in a few days.

Heading home, Lyn and I stopped a few blocks from our place in what has become a calming ritual: discovering what animal life is afoot on any given day.

Funny thing is I don't know who's more entertained – the people or the un-people.

Whole Lotta Digging Going On

In the half dozen gardens I've made, my first act has been the tear-out. And so it is here in Marietta, Georgia. I don't know if everyone does this when inheriting gardens or just assorted plants from previous owners, but with me it's a given: First, strip it down. Then build it up.

This clearing has to do with the need and desire to put my own stamp on the land, of course. Just as moving furniture and furnishings into another house allows us to make the home our own. It's easier to just move in and carry on, but to me that would be caretaking instead of creating.

A good many shrubs with deep roots had been planted in the front, so I hired men with machines. Let's go to the start of the tear-out by a man on a Bobcat that roars mightily.

Crape myrtle stays. A tree I love, it wasn't hardy in my Connecticut garden. 

Next comes a line of liriope, also called monkey grass, dubbed by Southern Living magazine as "the South's favorite ground cover." But it's not mine. Out!

The tear-out man left the pansies in case I wanted a pop of color. I did not. The lantern, along with a few other other objects and plants amount to advance elements in my becoming-garden, transported to Marietta from my former place in Connecticut.

After hours of wrangling in hot sun the removal was done. In addition to tearing out plants, the Bobcat also uncovered several baby copperhead snakes, which can be lethal if they bite you, according to Chad, the project manager. "And if you see babies, you know Momma must be around somewhere," he added.

Chad went on to say that moth balls have been known to drive the snakes away, so I immediately bought some (mothballs) at a nearby drugstore. To my surprise, the package boasted that the mothballs cum snake deterrent did not have that familiar moth ball smell. Which raised a question: Will the copperheads know they're supposed to be repelled by this stuff?

Ahhh, our over-sanitized world, where any old-time smell is thought to need of a change.

I busted into the box and did a smell test and asked Lyn and daughter Leslie to join me. The three of us agreed that these moth balls do smell different but bad different. More . . . chemically, we said in unison. I don't know if this is a good thing, but it seemed to open up my sinuses. 






The tear-out was a two-day job. When it was over the front looked like this:

It's a start.

Slowly Begins the Garden

The move is done, and that first, tentative rush of new-garden energy has bubbled up, battling the challenges of starting over and the fatigue that comes from a big move and a 1000-mile drive from Connecticut to Marietta, Georgia.

Controlled chaos reigns, and it's a family affair, as daughter Leslie and grandson Henri, with whom Lyn and I are staying temporarily, join us in the work to unpack and clean and run errands and figure out how to make the transition as smooth as possible.

Dozens of boxes have been opened, with dozens still to go, and traveling plants wait patiently to go into their new places indoors and out. Thinking about how to begin gardening in this new place, I walk around the emptiness and marvel that less than an acre looms so large.

Tall Georgia pine stands in big space waiting for other plants (Photo by Lyn).

Speaking of large, during one of my walkabouts, a hawk did a flyover, then, surprising, landed in the dogwood in the front of the house, pausing for a few seconds before taking off. It was a fine counterpoint to the chaos, as were several welcomings from neighbors.

Indoors, plants are stashed in big clumps on a holding shelf, on window sills, randomly placed on tables and floors, looking far more numerous than they did when they were spread out in all the rooms of our former home.

Seeking a combination of the familiar and some semblance of order, I focus on one plant in one corner and remind myself that it represents the way this home will be when all the boxes have been emptied, furniture placed and plants recovered from the move and acclimated to the new space.

The aralia bonsai indoors inspired me to try a similar focus outside; I gathered part of my bonsai collection, watered the little plants well and displayed them in an area behind the house.

From there, I unpotted a few cuttings, seedlings and pieces of my old garden,  planted and watered them in. After what had seemed like a mighty long time, I was digging in the dirt again, beginning to cover another piece of ground, helped along with teachings from the bonsai: Think big, start small. Garden on.

Japanese maple, tired but ready to thrive. 

  

On the Road

The moving van, filled with our belongings, symbolizes almost 12 years of incomparable memories and beautiful relationships made in East Haddam, Connecticut. 

The big rig left Thursday. On Friday Lyn and I passed along our house keys to the new owners, a fine young couple who we believe will appreciate the home and garden as much as we have. By Friday night we'd driven the Soul to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, bound for Marietta, Georgia, where we will start a new life.

As I make the transition, I thank you all for your good wishes and caring comments. Stay tuned.

In the Magazine

When the talented gardener and writer Tovah Martin and photo artist Kindra Clineff visited my garden last year to gather words and images, I never would have predicted that the resulting profile would be published as Lyn and I prepare to leave the garden I built and loved for almost a dozen years. Well, that profile is in the Summer issue of Country Gardens magazine, standing as a strong and beautiful tribute to the acre that gave and taught me so much.

Tovah (left), and Kindra: On the job.

A Moving Lesson

Gardeners, homeowners, apartment dwellers: Hear me, now. From time to time, get rid of some of that stuff you've been hoarding in the basement and the garage. In those closets, shelves and drawers. You know what I'm talking about. Those clay pots you bought over time just in case you needed backups. That shiny new slow-cooker you thought you'd use so often. Those pants you haven't fit in for three years. That seriously colorful sweater that takes you back to the '80s; they're not coming back.

So, start clearing out your excess now, unless you think you'll never move. We have friends who have lived in the same place for decades, and they know they can't move; the pain of getting rid of layers and layers of belongings would just be too great.

Even after a mere 11 years, the combination of attachment and volume makes packing and tossing a huge challenge for Lyn and me.

(An example: Hundreds of books amounting to a walk through our reading lives had to be culled, comparable to writers' having to cut words from stories.) But, knowing we'll be moving to Marietta, Georgia, in about a week, we've almost gotten the job done; empty shelves now share space with full boxes.

We divided the labor. Lyn's tackling the basement, while I work the garage/potting shed. I must say she's done better than I. Moreover, she's not only doing the basement; she's packing much of the rest of the house too.

Motivated by her organized progress, I kicked up my game, filling a lot of boxes and emptying a lot of garage shelves in the last few days.

Way overstocked, I'm keeping enough pots (below) to satisfy . . .

. . . and getting rid of enough to make me feel righteous about sparing down. 

Years ago, I would have taken these pots just in case I had a plant-buying binge at my next garden. But, I've learned my lesson, and I've learned it well. I'm done with hoarding. And fortunately, our next home has no basement and no garage.

Prelude to a Leaving

In step with the calendar's turning another page, change is in the air; Lyn and I are selling our Connecticut home and garden – and preparing to buy a home and start a garden in Georgia before May turns to June.

As we were exploring the whethers, ifs and hows over the last few months, we gradually got used to the once unthinkable prospect of leaving such a carefully built garden and a home fitted and furnished just as we wanted; both would nurture us for the rest of our lives, we had thought.

But, we have always known, and now we affirm again, that the only constant in life is change.

To be sure, we will miss friends and other Nutmeggers who've so warmly welcomed us to East Haddam, this scenic town of about 10,000 hard by the Connecticut River, whose natural beauty and bountiful greenspace are protected with contagious civic zeal.

I was on Land Trust Board.

While we hold dear our times and friends here, we also know this is a good move – the right one at the right time.

Our Georgia daughter Leslie and her 8-year-old son Henri can use our help, and we'll benefit from giving it, as they both are truly fine and delightful humans. Moreover, if we should ever grow old, they could help us too.

We do not go as strangers; Georgia is a place we've always loved.

To be sure, I, a native of Alabama who also lived for years in Mississippi, just keep on going back to Georgia; this will be my third move to the Peach State, Lyn's second. Previously, we lived in a neighborhood of Victorian homes in Atlanta's West End.

This time around, we'll live some 20 miles north of the city, in Marietta, whose bustling square is a gathering place for many of the town's 57,000 residents. When I first lived in Atlanta and worked at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution in the 1970s, many Georgians pronounced the town's name May-retta. Whether many still use that pronunciation is in some ways my gauge of how much a place may change amid an influx of people from far-flung places, where language all sounds the same.

Lyn was an official at the 1996 Games.

For now, there is the goodbye and the preparation for it. Including the process of discarding long-forgotten, unused items stored for years in the basement or garage. And closets, chests, kitchen drawers. Everything from excessive t-shirts and clay pots, potting soil to multiple bottle openers and gallon jugs and books. It's cathartic discarding all this; it brings a feeling of lightness and happy righteousness.

But how does one say goodbye to the home and garden of a lifetime?

One room, plant, stone at a time. Right there is the best room ever for reading and for getting orchids to bloom. Here's the Japanese maple I bought for its height. Over there – the lilac I planted as a baby; look at it now. That boulder? I remember how long it took for the man with the backhoe to get it in juuust the right place. "You're close!" I'd shouted. "Six inches to your left!"

Now, as leaving time nears, I focus more and more on the next canvas, about as blank as this one was back in 2001. For inspiration, I go back to the two images that show this space in front of the house in 2001, and in 2010.

Along with these images, I'll take a few reminders of this garden – a chunk of moss here, a cutting from a prize shrub there. A little piece of the passalong perennial. A stone, naturally.

And as a bridge between here and there, I'll return to Georgia some of my traveling plants, including the queen of the travelers, Sarah Frond, the Boston fern that was the first plant I bought when Lyn and I began living together in Washington, D.C. From the nation's capital, Sarah went with us to Atlanta.

Like Sarah, a couple of pieces of lava rock are going back to Georgia. The little red rock was a gift from a gardening friend who left it on our Atlanta porch one Christmas Eve. The maple planted in it is a gift, too, from a Connecticut gardening friend.

I bought the gray stone at a grocery store in Atlanta. It's been home to various plants over the years and now is growing a lilac; this'll be interesting, as that shrub is not "supposed" to grow in Georgia. I hope it can't read.

Always, timing's everything. We're leaving after the hardest winter I've ever seen, and I've done time in Cleveland. Moreover, if I had to choose between all hot and all cold, I'd take all cold. So, it ain't the winter what done it; that said, I will certainly enjoy a longer growing season down South.

As timing would have it, spring has only just begun in earnest here in my acre of gardens. All the beautiful bloomers and leafers are beginning to lively up, promising the rebirth that we all welcome in gardening and life.

Heading South to home to start again, I take it as a sign.

Where Has Work Pride Gone?

One of the more memorable magazine covers I recall from many years ago was headlined: "Why is Service So Bad?"

That question came back to me as we three men stood in my friend Harry's kitchen telling stories about car-repair wars. Mine involved a Prius battery – not the big battery powering the hybrid engine. This was the smaller "auxiliary" battery that runs the lights, radio, computer and such.

Lyn enjoys a contemplative moment before the battery dies.

On the day the battery died, Lyn, the primary Prius driver, came in and said those words nobody wants to hear: "I don't know what's wrong, but it won't start." 

Suffering through the hard cold days of winter, the little battery conked out last month. Yes, I could have tested and changed it before it checked out on us, but, silly me, I thought the Toyota service people would have done that, as the car is a 2006 model, and as I had the car gone over thoroughly, replacing various parts in November, 2012 to the tune of $1336.85. And, then routinely serviced in February, a month before the battery failed, at a cost of $176.91. All at a dealership in Westbrook, Connecticut.

Thinking the battery could not possibly be shot, I tried over and over to start the car, finally accepting the astonishing truth: Somebody failed to check the battery. When I telephoned the Westbrook service department and said that, the answer was a verbal shrug, as the service adviser noted that she couldn't know whether the mechanic had tested it, but if so, and determining it was dying, "we would have been happy to sell you a battery."

Not believing I'd be in good hands at that dealer, I had the car towed to the Toyota dealer in Colchester, Connecticut, where service people echoed my disbelief, then set about changing the battery in a routine job, quick and fairly priced.

My experience led to Harry's telling about a similar episode with his family's Chevy SUV, whose brakes screeched like they needed work – an easily identifiable sound. Harry said the dealer checked and pronounced the brakes fine.

The third man in this conversation was a neighbor, who happens to train mechanics; he checked out Harry's SUV, driven primarily by his wife Sue, confirmed the brakes needed fixing and did the job, making the vehicle safe to drive.

I don't know how common our stories are, but we all agreed there is a general problem that cuts across trades and professions.

Too many "take no pride in their jobs," said Harry, marveling that "people who do have pride are looking for jobs."

The buddy who fixed Harry's Chevy said: "It scares me," that so many take so little pride in their work.

It scares me, too. Whether a lack of pride or run-of-the-mill incompetence, problems like ours could wind up getting somebody stranded by a dead battery or smashed up with dead brakes.

Bonsai Get Sprung, Celebrate Spring

Despite temperatures in the 30s as I write this on a sunny Sunday morning, despite that, I know spring has arrived, officially; the bonsai have left the garage.

Free at last from the longest stay inside the garage.

Normally, my bonsai go in late fall and come out in March. But there's nothing normal about this year's weather. Now, however, all's good. The bonsai will catch up with their recovery from months in low light, their suspended animation.

Already, some bonsai show signs of reflecting the flowering colors of the season.

The rhododendron 'PJM' is budded and blooming for the first time since I dug it out of the ground two years ago after it had grown for about 10 years. I did that to create an "instant" bonsai whose trunk base is much larger and aged-looking than it would have been had I started the bonsai from a small plant.

'PJM' growing big and strong.

Quince will show real fine, once it gets going. After the flowers, fruit will dangle from several branches.

Quince just getting started.

My collection, displayed in a pea-graveled area near the side door, always offers a calming welcome, a transition from the outside world.

Leafing and blooming a couple years ago.

The bonsai don't yet look like the image below, but they've come a mighty long way from where they were. 

Boston, Bombs and America

Bombs in Boston take me all the way back to the times I traveled the world as a correspondent for the Los Angeles Times in the 1980s, looking for news and often finding routine violence, destruction and the fear of getting bombed at any moment. It all became routine.

In Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, for example, my guides kept their semi-automatic weapons on the back seats of their vehicles, covered with blankets. Walking near the Knesset one day, I heard a loud explosion that sent me scurrying for cover, only to discover it was a construction blast, not an incoming rocket launched by Palestinians.

An Israeli I was talking with when the noise hit smiled sadly and never flinched. "It happens all the time," she said.

How sad, I thought, to become inured to ever-present danger. What must it be like to live day to day with the knowledge that at any moment a bomb hidden in a trash can could blow up and kill randomly.

That was then. Before Egypt and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and Libya made bombs and carnage routine fodder for TV news. Still, that was somewhere else.

Now, Boston's bombing recalls so many others, including those of the 1960s and more recently, the one in Oklahoma City in 1995. They remind me that I really don't have to wonder what it feels like to know anything can happen anytime. Nor does anyone else in America; we've been tempered by fire.

Magical, Mysterious Appearances

In order to see, we sometimes have to stop looking.


So it was with clivia. Throughout late winter and early spring, I'd peek between the strappy leaves, looking for signs of blooms. Nothing.

Then, this week, there came a change in the weather; suddenly the outdoors beckoned, taking me out there, diverting my attention from all things indoors, including clivia. While I wasn't looking at it, it had been working hard to produce its first blossom of the season. And what a stunner it promises to be as it continues to push its way up through the leaves to stand atop its sturdy stalk.

Over and over, I experience examples of looking without seeing. Like the time I could not find a ring full of my main keys, including house, car and post office box.

Convinced they were gone for good, I had new keys made. And, I stopped looking. Weeks later, I removed the cover from the compartment holding my car's spare tire, and there, right on top of the spare, was my key ring.

Similarly, who among us hasn't had "refrigerator blindness," looking desperately for mayonnaise to make the perfect sandwich, only to have it go missing until the next day when it shows up.

Blossoms are notorious for magically appearing after gardeners have bird-dogged buds for days on end. Clivia is my latest example. Overnight, when I wasn't looking, a second flower squeezed up through the leaves. 

Together, they produce a mighty pleasing fragrance that decorates the living room, which may be why I was compelled to walk over – and see. With warmth growing and buds on shrubs and trees bursting like fireworks in July, I can hardly wait to get out there and see what I stop looking for.