First of all, I am not a gardener of lovely florals, roses, cacti, perennials. Give me some radish seeds, tomatoes, green beans---and I feel at home. Then we moved to here, our new house, where older people families had lived for about a eighteen years. Some one, some really dedicated person, filled the narrow side yard with roses, cacti, some geraniums, and more cacti. The last owner ignored it all. He didn't water them or pull weeds. When we moved in, the narrow garden was nearly dying. Twisted and brown, the rose bushes were barely hanging on. The geraniums were a scattered bunch of leaves, with no blooms. Well then. Such lack of care infuriated me. We gave them all a good amount of care, water, and hovering over them. Please, Please, don't die. I did pruning, pulling, and praying. Finally, after six months, there were results. This gardening played havoc on my arthritis and migraines. So, we hired a gardener, Efren Delgado, who is one of the head gardeners in this huge place. He walked through our floral kingdom, hmmmed, and said I will fix this. The photos below show how my "yard" looks. I have no idea what the types, genres, whatever they are. Since I never post photos like this (because) I am ignorant.
These are inherited from our folks.
This is about 50+ years old.
We got this from a rock hound's estate.
This is from the Idyllwild fire.
Quapla: Kah Plah and Engage, Make it so.
The previous owners who nearly killed these have moved on. These are ours now. Radishes may yet be planted, but I wouldn't bet on it.
A John Deere combine sits at the end of harvest. It's been cleaned up and is ready for next year.
My father spent a lot of time at this place. Retired farmers don't really retire.
The Methodist Church is surrounded by golden trees in the fall.
Log cabins are never allowed to crumble into pieces. They are reworked, added to, and made into a home for the next generations.
These homes are down by the railroad tracks, next to broad fields. Harvest is done, so it is much quieter, and has less corn-dust.
This lovely home always, always has a seasonal display with an American flag. I have seen this home for more years than I care to confess, and every year it is lovely.
I wish I owned this trike.
These owners are such talented gardeners. From Spring to Winter, their yard has color.
Migraines have robbed me of several days. So I will instead share some autumn photos of my mother's hometown. It is a 'pictures and a thousand words' sort of thing.
Spring is officially here, and everyone is talking about it, as if it were a personal triumph. There are indicators everywhere. They are classical ones: daffodils, budding trees, a mild wind scented with pollen. People have more lilt in their step, as if they know that the winter coats are close to being retired. I know that spring is almost truly here, or coming, and it is my own peculiar and subtle way.
I do not support this product. I just like the photo.
Subtle? Perhaps I would write “stubble”, for that is my indicator. When I sense that spring is coming, I actually want to shave my legs.
Oh, there is a big difference between having to or needing to and wanting to shave my legs. All through the long winter, I wear jeans, heavy socks, and sweaters all the time. Flannel pajamas are the lingerie of my life. Moisturizer is a popular product on the bedside table. No one sees my legs, so why should I shave them? I am not 21 any more, as my mother is known to tell me frequently when I complain about my weight or arthritis. No one, including my husband, is interested in my legs.
But with Spring, things change. The capri pants and long shorts are looking more and more like they will be dug out of the drawers in the bureau. Therefore, the legs must be shaved, and I will do this willingly.
