Please sorry writing. Laptop broken. Fat fingers swipe tiny screen instead; Inferior! Type like caveman/telegraph now. Stop (??? Unsure telegraph syntax.)
Lesson in brevity (time 4 twitter? No. Never time 4 twitter.) Must garden blog! Stop. Ok
Garden update. Haiku? Try haiku:
A garden update
But I already said that
So much 4 haiku
/$\&$#\% $'@ GARDEN! JUNETIME. 2 MANY PEAS! wateringwateringwatering. Plant witchhazel. Wrong spot. REPLant @-$##/* withhazel. Replant $//@-'* everything! More peas. Weedingweedingweeding. MOW THE LAWN AGAIN. Daisy "pets" a bee. OMG APHIDS!!!!!! SQUIRRELS!!!! And
Stop. (Anyone want some peas???)
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Just some useful info about a common garden pest.
...The Accursed Serpent, by which I am, of course, referring to that most petty, subversive and vile of outdoor beasts: Contortus aquatica, better known as the common garden hose.
C. auatica is not a native species, but has been routinely introduced into backyard habitats the world over. It's presence can usually be inferred by tell-tale signs such as broken plants, toppled statuary, and persistent foul language, either shouted or muttered under the breath, by any nearby humans, a natural enemy with whom it has struck an uneasy symbiosis (tending toward parasitism). Gardeners, a peculiar subspecies of human, in particular seem vulnerable to hoses, and may, in fact, be largely responsible for their introduction into the cultivated ecosystems upon which they wreak so much havoc.
Once a garden hose takes up residence in a given garden, a human will normally initiate contact in order to (hopefully) take advantage of the hose's unique ability to move large quantities of water to any desired location. The hose clearly resents such manipulation, and although it relies on the human's utilities as a source of water for its nest (indicated by all manner of poorly constructed hose reels, cradles and racks), it will stop at nothing to sabotage his plans.
The chief mode of defensive action employed by the Contortus is the kink (from which its generic name is derived), although it can just as easily resort to the tangle, the leak, or, as previously mentioned, violently lashing out at or snarling nearby plants and objects in hopes of visiting destruction upon some target of value to the human host (the garden hose cares not for collateral damage; once again, it is a petty, cruel creature). Any one of these tactics can be sufficient to incite anger in the average human, but the gardener subspecies, with its labyrinthine garden beds, full of vulnerable pet plants and precarious, sentimental garden art is an easy target. A successful attack by the garden hose on a gardener can result in apoplexy, for which the most commonly prescribed treatment is going inside and watching TV. Obscene muttering under the breath, however, can continue for hours after the attack.
Contortus aquatica is officially listed as a noxious, invasive serpentine species and should be eradicated wherever encountered. Gardeners are encouraged to employ watering cans or just wait for rain as safer solutions to their irrigation needs.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
If it seems to you that FPG's progress has stalled, allow me to explain. My assistant, Daisy, and I have reached an impasse. While we are both taken with the idea of edible landscaping as a central theme for Fencebroke's plantings, our individual interpretations of what “edible” means are simply irreconcilable. This has unfortunately created tension in the office and on the grounds and has delayed what would otherwise be a smooth roll-out of my singular vision. For the most part, our disagreements remain civil, as she has proven remarkably mature for one so young, but I must admit to some occasional raised voices, senseless babbling and unhinged sobbing—all on my part, sadly.
Daisy was tolerant of, if unimpressed by, my use of plants like German chamomile, quinoa, and heirloom French leeks to create unexpected edible accents in our central ornamental bed (yes, the paisley one). But her own vision tends more towards things like small rocks, bits of trash and lawn clippings—anything, really that she can easily choke on and terrify her supervisors. It's not that I don't understand her view, it's just a philosophical difference: to her, my idea of “edible” as something safely consumable by humans is too restricting. She prefers to take the broader stance of “edible” being anything that, wholly or partially, can fit into her mouth. And I respect that. I just disagree.
So it is that our gardening sessions together start out peaceably enough, but tend to lapse into a common refrain, shouted by myself across the yard in five second intervals: “Daisy! No! Not Food!” Followed by a mad wind-sprint as I attempt to reach her and fish out whatever bit of debris she has most recently decided to consider “edible” landscaping.
We'll get it straightened out, but until then it may be slow-going at Fencebroke.