Nom de Plume

Th heather is galloping over the steps.

Witch hazel in bloom. The fragrant one is in the front, but this still looks lovely.

Bonsai view with flash.

Steve and I (and Harry) have survived Christmas with my mother and Wayne.

No small feat, let me tell you.

Actually, that’s not true. I am typing this for my mother’s benefit; she is sitting right next to me in the doctor’s office where we are waiting for her tetanus shot. She stepped on a rusty nail while trompling through the myrtle in the remnants of the ranch garden. It has been a fun trip, and we are all leaving tomorrow in a mass exodus. Then, two days on the road, stopping to see Steph and Peter on the way up.

Bright, sunny, and cold … perfect long walk weather. Elizabeth and I headed over to Kubota Gardens for a nice Friday midday break. Harry was in heaven. He wants to go back.

I took a couple hours off yesterday and picked up Katie Berry, who was in town. We stopped at Maruta, a Japanese grocery in Georgetown, for sushi and then walked in Kubota Gardens. It was a lovely gray Seattle day, and we gabbed the entire time in the way of women who haven’t seen each other for months. Then back to work.

I think Steve, who refers to my plants as “Zia’s Vegetable Torture Patch,” presented this to me as a way of rubbing salt in the wound. His denigration is justified, but really, it doesn’t matter because sometimes planning something is far more satisfying than actually doing it. The Salad Garden lets me plan–quite happily–for next year with lots of great information, pictures, and rundowns of not-so-common saladings. Recommend.

Imagine Steve’s delight at discovering bamboo poles at the Kubota Garden plant sale. He bought five huge bunches.

And I know I mentioned in my last post that it was pouring. But did I mention that the Jeep is still topless? So we bushwhacked our way home (thank heavens Kubota is only a half mile away), and then into the alley.

Kubota Garden is one of Seattle’s most hidden, underused treasures. A 20-acre Japanese garden, it boasts winding paths, waterfalls, bridges … and a twice-a-year plant sale that is to DIE for.

We went not once, but twice. All in all, we spent the entire morning there, and returned wet (it was pouring the entire time), but triumphant. What a haul.

Steve and the outlaws took off for Vashon Island about an hour ago. I stayed behind because Harry needs to go to the vet. I will spare you the gory details, except to say that pugs get swollen anal sacs. Yeaachh. It’s overcast and cool, with a slight hint of autumn in the air. I would ordinarily be thrilled at the onset of my favorite season–but my tomatoes have not yet ripened. These are the heirloom varieties I started from seed and managed to keep alive, so you can imagine that I want to at least taste the fruits of my labors.

Speaking of gardening matters, our neighbor has just ripped out everything in the yard except the trees. The last owner of the house was a little old lady who had lived there for 40-odd years (we never met her; she passed away right before we moved in) and it was obvious the garden was her pride and joy. Actually, it was the best thing about the house. And now it’s all gone, being replaced with fresh rolls of sod as we speak.

Come to think of it, we seem to be surrounded by garden ripper-outers. Our new neighbors two houses up just pulled out all the organic vegetable beds that came with the house. “We just don’t have time to take care of them,” she explained guiltily. Fair enough. And though the previous owner may disagree, the loss of that garden wasn’t nearly as heartrending as seeing an entire truck bed overflowing with plants collected over nearly half a century.

Funny that I should be posting garden pics today. I just received the pictures I ordered from the city archives.

Here’s the house in 1935:

Again in 1950something:

I tried to get the same angles, but it just doesn’t work. So here it is straight on, as of five minutes ago: