Communicating Arts - Main Web Site
Anyone who has the slightest interest in the magical, the impractical, the timeless must grow a garden.
I have all of 5'9"x11'6" of outdoor deck with not much of an overhang this year, but it has a railing on two sides and about two inches of fascia board above, enough length for three planters, so far, half a dozen wind chimes, and three hanging baskets.
In bloom: snapdragon, pansies, and petunias.
Leafy decoration: purple Perilla and, in two of the railing planters and one of the baskets, Dusty Miller.
Many years ago, I lived in an old farmhouse on Muncaster Mill Road that then ran through probably the last exurban fringe left in Rockville, Maryland, and I had a garden 30'x60'. Lettuce, cucumbers, carrots, pole beans came out of the ground, and to dress up the vegetables, Nasturtiums also.
After work somewhere there in midsummer: a quart of cold beer and a garden fork--what one could do with just that for entertainment. However, let's not dwell on the "good old days" of sleeping in a sleeping bag on a camping pad on a hard floor in an upstairs room--no television, no library, nothing like a computer on anyone's horizon.
I believe I read through Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams that summer.
I also sang in a band for a while, one of those with a bug name, but made the fatal mistake of cozying up to the leader's girlfriend. Lesson learned: there's politics everywhere, even down in the basement with a group of guys in Potomac.
Strange life.
Whatever the elements, however, I think it's starting to work, finally, here in my early fifties.
Thank God.
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