ALWAYS WHERE UNDER WHERE

Oh, you would be looking for 'dicentra spectabilis' she smiles and walks me down an aisle of perennials.  Just past the 'leucanthemum maximum' and 'thunbergia alata' up here, she directs, hands sweeping towards row upon row of unidentifiable green sprouts.

The what?  I quietly groan? An arrow inscribed with Perennials is the only sign I have thus far understood.  Have I been beamed into a foreign country? I wonder.  New to serious gardening, this is all Greek ( or should I say, Latin ) to me.  Thoughts of fleeing to our local Canadian Tire Gardening Centre and buying up pots of geraniums and impatiens, simply labeled as such, crosses my mind. Only my determination to finally learn this "gardening thing" in my retirement years, pushes me forward.

Unable to control my mouth ( no comments here, please ) and totally incapable of keeping the whine out of my tone, I utter, Why all this Latin?  What about common botanical names?

Latin describes both genus and species of plants for us.

Did I just sense some condescension here? my full blown insecurity now cries. I see, I say. Not really,  I think.  With my shopping list of perennials, this morning nursery visit will likely now be a day long affair.

In large, black felt-penned letters, semper ubi sub ubi adorned the majority of Latin texts in my Grade 9 Latin class. Literally translated always where under where, the phrase sounded phonetically like always wear underwear. A huge, laughter-inducing joke with my Latin-learning confreres.  Such was the sorry state of Grade 9 humour in my era.

Through five years of high school (yes, we once had Grade 13), I endured Latin Literature and Grammar, actually passing my two Grade 13 Latin courses with honours.  Sure doesn't help me now! What's that old adage about you have to use a language to remember it.  Funny thing, I never met anyone whose primary language was Latin! I believed wholeheartedly in the truth of the old ditty that also decorated our texts:

Latin is a language,

As dead as dead can be.

It killed the ancient Romans

And now it's killing me.

At this moment in time and in this very serious nursery, I discover that Latin is a language as alive as alive can be. Now where is my high school Latin teacher when I really need him?

FOR THE BIRDS...

Few would argue with Jim and I when we say that the home we purchased in Uxbridge in 2012 was in sensational structural shape. But the lawns? Well, that was another matter.  Dire is a word that immediately comes to mind.

The Dandelion Wars of 2013 will no doubt be found in Canadian history books; they were epic in scope. Warrior Jim was a madman, racing in a frenzy onto our lawn, jagged-edged knife in hand, at the pop-up of any little yellow blossom. Madame Guillotine had nothing on my husband in his full weed- kill mode.  I should have taken up knitting.  Nervous neighbours observed from the safety of their yards.  I confess to moments of indecision - continue with the seemingly endless battle on the yellow blanket or admit defeat and open Uxbridge's first winery.....for dandelion wine, that is! I can picture the cute little bottles even now.

Thankfully, those dreaded little yellow flower faces ultimately dwindled in number. I like to imagine that word of a crazed dandelion murderer at #21 spread amongst the dandelion population.  The end of our lawn wars?  Hardly....hostilities simply moved!

The new theatre for war?  Our rear yard. With attention focused on the front theatre, another menacing enemy, unnoticed, invaded our back lawn.  Ever heard of "Creeping Charlie"?  Yup!  That would be enemy #2. This pesky, stubborn creeper, as rapidly as reproducing rabbits, sent out runners spreading with alacrity, strangling our grass and heading for our flower beds.  

Knife abandoned, Jim's new weapon of choice became our steel lawn rake.  Where is DDT when you need it?  Endless hours of aggressive raking, mangled steel tines and bulging biceps eventually saw the end of Charlie. 

Another victory!  Exhausted, but relieved, we entered this past winter gleefully anticipating golf course worthy green lawns this spring.

Did I tell you that my husband loves to feed the birds in winter?  Forget skiing; this is his winter passion. Nothing gives Jim more pleasure than to spot pinesiskins, cardinals, house finches and blue jays, beautiful against the winter backdrop. 

A plethora of photos are taken.  Word has it that Jim, single-handedly, kept H. H. Goode & Son in business this winter with his massive seed purchases!  

But herein lies our new problem.  The best feed for the winter bird population are black oil sunflower seeds, extremely nutritious and a source of high quality protein for our feathered friends.  Do the birds feed on our deck?  Sometimes.  However, they are far more likely to carry seeds to their nest.  And that means....you got it!  

No Creeping Charlie this year.  We now enjoy sparse grass interspersed with thousands of sunflower sprouts.

And so I now ask myself, do we engage in the Sunflower Wars of 2014?  Or should we simply allow the sunflowers to overtake our rear yard?  I envision a wood-fired outdoor oven, a glass of wine and fields of sunflowers.  Who needs Tuscany? Pizza anyone?

FIRE OVER THE DESERT

Were it not for the complete absence of choking black smoke, so blazing are the Arizona sunset colours as they consume the vast canopy of Sonoran Desert sky, that one could mistakenly fear they are witness to a conflagration, a firestorm destroying all in its path.

Justifiably, Arizona sunsets are renowned for their spectacular beauty.  Never have they failed to leave me breathless and eager for an encore.  I have watched diners stop mid-meal, friends cease to speak mid-conversation and evening strollers halt mid-step to gaze mesmerized at the glowing panorama.  Each evening's brilliant colour storm is quite simply awe- inspiring and like snowflakes, no two shows are the same.  Meteorologists claim that the intensely clear, dry desert air crystallizes and saturates the vibrant magentas, corals and ambers.  Wispy clouds floating by high in the atmosphere apparently act to reflect and amplify the changing colours of each burning sunset.

For me, a glass of wine, caressing desert breezes and a comfortable perch by the pool offer the best way to enjoy this magic Arizona kaleidoscope.  Nightly, I take my seat and instantly become lost in the powerful beauty of this evening spectacle.  Like a finger painter's rosy smudge on the horizon, sunset first exposes her blushing beauty.  Wasting no time in revealing the true drama of her personality, she quickly alters her palette to one of smouldering reds, yellows and oranges, setting the horizon ablaze.  The once turquoise swimming pool turns into liquid fire.  I wonder if when the surface is touched it will shatter into shards of shimmering glass.  As if needing to admire her own appearance in a mirror, sunset casts her hues on the casa windows, reflecting her own grandeur.  Now a pulsating, flaming orb, the sun begins its graceful descent beyond the horizon until all that remains are lava-like glowing embers.  Light dusky purples and deep blues link day and night until night's black curtain, studded with millions of shimmering stars, descends in a hushed silence broken only by the occasional lonely howl of a coyote.  Giant saguaros, now dark imposing spectres set against the moonlight and blue black ink of the sky cast strong shadows, majestically standing as our nighttime sentinels.

The show over for another night, I am once again reminded that I am but a speck in this incomprehensibly vast and beautiful desert.

AND IF YOU BELIEVE THIS ONE.......

It is well past midnight in the darkened control room when the bank of computers flicker to life. In nervous anticipation, she closely studies the central screen awaiting the results of weeks of tireless efforts. Three white dots, in a painstakingly slow dance, move at first randomly around the screen and then ultimately towards each other.  When they merge, she bows her head in relief.  Another saguaro family successfully united. The team has done it again.

The historic plight of the saguaro cactus, in their chaotic flight from Mexico, was first discovered by Dr. Jose Welstud.  Scoffed at and ridiculed by the scientific community, Jose spent countless nights in the desert.  With night vision goggles, time lapse photography and probably a few bottles of his favourite red wine, he was able to catch the nighttime movement and migration of these mighty sentinels. 

From Santa Pedro, a wizened aged saguaro in his final years, the sordid tale of desperate saguaro families fleeing first the Mexican Revolution and then the emergence of dangerous drug cartels came to light.

Forced to flee to Arizona at nighttime and encumbered by their snail-like, lumbering pace, saguaro familes became separated.  Locating lost relatives and children from the thousands in saguaro refugee forests was akin to finding a needle in a hay stack.

Tales of younger saguaro who lacked loving parental guidance succumbing to local drug dealers with devastating, deforming results, plus...

....evidence of distraught, suicidal cacti, unable to locate beloved family members ...

... inspired Dr. Welstud to form Team SOS (Save Our Saguaros).  Joining him in his efforts were Cacti Cathy, an intrepid desert hiker, and Jimmie Lensfeld, photographer and famous computer guru.

Team SOS were first tasked with providing medical assistance to saguaro injured during flight.  Only after health issues were dealt with, could they hope to reunite families.  Sorting the large number of wounded, plagued with broken limbs, frayed roots, and bodies gashed while flipping over border fences, was the task of Dr. Jose Welstud who set up highly efficient "tree-auge" units and care facilities.

Charged with the next, and definitely most difficult, step was Cacti Cathy.  Working closely with Dr. Welstud ( some rumoured that they worked too closely), Cathy analyzed for DNA, fruit donated by saguaros in search of family members.

The intrepid hiker then headed into the desert, far too frequently with Jose and his red wine supply in tow ( that's for another blog ), following saguaro spoor, analyzing tracks, scents, and scat...

... in search of unique family signatures.

Renowned and self- proclaimed computer genius (?), Jimmie Lensfield, developed a homing device with which identified saguaro family members could be tagged.  

Each honing device emitted a distinct signal that allowed tagged family members to slowly journey at nighttime towards each other. Team SOS members could follow the heartwarming movements of families on the bank of computer screens in their headquarters.

Remarkably, Team SOS seek no financial gain from their herculian efforts.  In an effort to remind the public of this historic saguaro migration to Arizona, Jose Welstud continues to speak around the country ...

.... but freely admits that it is the joy exhibited by united family members, ...

...the nighttime smiles on their grateful faces, ...

... and the birth of new family members ...

... that has made his lifetime passion worthwhile.

This reporter would like to sincerely thank Team SOS for their compassion, tireless efforts, and for making a difference!

OF FEAR AND POWER

For Michelle, Morgan and Jim who will know why:

Winter's chill has at long last released its unwelcome hold on the terrain.  The smooth rocks, gravel and wind-blown sand of the Sonoran Desert floor absorb spring's strengthening solar rays and like a radiator, disperse their warmth.  Too long in his dreary winter home, he tentatively emerges, lured by the season's inviting temperatures.  Needing to avoid others, he apprehensively moves into the sunny open desert and gratefully rests his heavy, winter-weary body on a time eroded rock.  Surrounded by columnar cacti and giant saguaros, who, like sentinels, guard his privacy, he allows himself the luxury of basking in the welcome Arizona sunshine.

Ever alert, he first senses a subtle change in the air.  Vibrations from deep below shatter his peace.  Predators trespassing on his land.  Danger?  Killers?  Not waiting to find out, he reluctantly vacates his sunny perch shrinking back into the murky shadows, camouflaging and concealing himself in the shade of a prickly pear.  On the intruders advance.  In fear he braces himself.

Continuing to encroach on his territory, the trespassers move bodily into view.  Fear evaporates, replaced by a resolute determination to survive, to protect himself.  His threatening rattle amplifies on the dry desert air as he coils his powerfully muscled length and prepares his venomous strike.

MY SECRET ADDICTION

Clean!  Unbelievably, I have been clean since Christmas.  Showing immense personal control I have successfully avoided any situations that would set me off or compromise my promise to myself.  No stash has been secretly stored in our home.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, has been permitted within my immediate vicinity that would lead this compulsive craving of mine to require immediate gratification. Remarkably, my resolve has remained steadfast.

As the months passed, cravings decreased.  Moments when I was unable to think of anything else all but disappeared.  Hallelujah!  Talk about a success story!  Without the need for rehab, I had personally wrestled my insidious monster to the ground.  My recovery was complete.  Or so I thought.  Of late, my monster has been calling to me.  You can never escape me, he gleefully boasts.  Suddenly he is everywhere; his lure, relentless.  I struggle to avoid a devastating relapse.  

My name is Daphne Lockett and ......... I am a chocoholic.  Now where did I hide those damn Easter eggs?!?!?!

BEAUTIFUL UGLIES

Buried deep in the furthest corner of my shoe closet are my beloved walking shoes.  They huddle in their corner uncertain as to whether they belong.  I must admit how out of place they appear amongst my dress and casual shoes.  I smile.  Definitely not a fashion statement, these shoes are butt ugly, old brown clunkers.  The soles could easily have been cut from snow tires.  The leather ties were frayed and threatened to fall apart, but stubbornly hung on until recently when I caved and replaced them.  Sentimental, I know, but I have saved those old leather ties. The shoe tops are water stained; the toes badly scuffed. But I love my walking shoes and they know it.   Minnie Mouse has her oversize pumps; I can have my big brown clunkers.  For over twenty years, these clunkers have been my partners in travel, my tour guides, and my harbinger of adventures and excitement to come.

Beauty, wise men say, is in the eye of the beholder.  The memories stored in these shoes make them beautiful to this beholder.  Imbedded in the stitching are traces of dried muck, a reminder of sinking in a  Scottish bog.  Faded, water- stained tops remind me of numerous housings to wash away caked sand dust from hiking in the Sonoran Desert.  Anchored firmly between two treads are two pebbles from the top of Mount Vesuvius.  I refuse to remove them; they are my badges for reaching the summit.  Green stains along the shoes' sides speak of west coast forest moss.  Aggressive scuffing on the toes reminds me of Newfoundland's rocky shoes.  With each turn in my hands, memories surface.

Although my aching legs would beg to differ, my beautiful uglies have guided me painlessly and accident-free over terrains ranging from pebbled beaches to pulverized lava to cobblestoned streets, from rocky shore trails to desert terrain to rain forest.  The one time I wore running shoes and not my beautiful uglies, I badly injured my left knee in a fall.  Am I now superstitious.  You bet!   My walking shoes and I - we are a great team.  Where I go, they go.

Shoes now in hand, I can feel excitement and anticipation gurgle up inside me.  And so I ask, Where to now, my faithful friends? They whisper their answer.