Arachnophobic Angst

On general principles, I'm a "leave-me-alone-and-I'll-leave-you-alone" kind of gardener (except, of course, when it comes to snakes).  Spiders, insects, newts, and crawly things of all kind get a pass in my garden until they cause me bodily harm or inflict horticultural havoc on my plants.  I haven't, as I recall, used a single dose of insecticide, organic or otherwise, in my perennial garden all year (although I'm not quite so innocent when it comes to my vegetable garden).  You can see the evidence for my benevolence frequently in this blog, since many rose photos hide an insect or two visible only for their protruding legs or antennae. 

But truth be told, the situation is different when it comes to the domestic side of the household.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush and her diminutive clone have an irrational fear and hatred of spiders in and around the house.  I've been summoned from as far as a mile away by screams emanating from trapped female humans in showers, laundries, and basements.  Sometimes, I can't even hear them but I see the dog startle at the hypersonic pitch.  Consequently, as free as my outer garden perimeter is from insecticides, inside my house there exists a toxic chemical wasteland of armageddic proportions.  If it scuttles, it gets sprayed.  If it hides in corners or along baseboards or in the ceiling, it gets sprayed.  Sometimes I think the spraying commences at the merest extrasensory wisp of a chitinous thought of invasion.  I'm expecting the EPA to declare my house a SuperFund site at their first examination.

I naively thought, with the development of long-acting insecticides promising "year-long" residual activity, that at least my own fears of neurologic side-effects might be alleviated, but alas, after spraying only a couple of months ago, I was recently informed that the spiders have returned.  Not in live form, mind you, but as crinkled skeletal remains. Evidently, dried carcasses with eight appendages are viewed as evidence of a marauding population and mass genocide is immediately implemented.  My feeble attempts to point out that dead spiders are an indication that the toxins are working are for naught.  The Huns are at the Wall.

That's why I feel sorry for the little fellow pictured on this page.  I'm no entomologist (or is it an arachnologist?) so I can't identify this individual other than lumping him as a "house spider who spins webs," but I doubt he intends any mischief other than catching a few random flies above the barbecue.  Unfortunately for him, he chose to set up shop, as you can see at the right above, in the window above our kitchen sink, where Mrs. ProfessorRoush has to stare at him daily as she tries to appreciate the view of the valley towards town.   If he'd asked me, I could have told him that such "in-your-face" politics were not a wise move when there's a madwoman nearby with her finger on the nuclear trigger.  This guy's days are numbered and I'm sure he's going to disappear soon to rest next to Jimmy Hoffa, with only me to mourn him between my bouts of spastic twitches.

Resilience of Life

A month from the cruelty of summer's scorch, a mere six days after the fall equinox, a small rain or two behind us, a cool night or three to lift our spirits, and life begins again in the garden.  Even while I'm attempting emergency resuscitation of my buffalograss, other floral tough guys are showing their resilience; blooming literally, as it were, amidst the devastation of my stressed landscape.

I know that this photo of a 'Charlotte Brownell' bloom was careless, taken with my cell phone instead of a decent camera, hand-held and under artificial light instead of carefully composed, but it is nonetheless representative of hope for my garden's future.  I quickly plucked the discovered bloom from its thorny cradle and sprinted straight for its presentation to Mrs. ProfessorRoush, an old man made young by rebirth and seeking the approval of love again.

I've never experienced a more perfect bloom of 'Charlotte Brownell', each petal smooth and unblemished by insect or sun, kissed with the mild rain that fell yesterday afternoon.  She has struggled in my garden, this offspring of 'Peace', and in the summer heat she shriveled, opening too fast and fading to white before her true beauty could be appreciated.  Only now, can I see her promise.  A year's growth behind her, now in Fall, she moves from awkward childhood into puberty in the blink of an eye, the temperate weather bringing blush to her cheeks and a healthy glow to her center.

And I am reminded how a garden, once verdant, can be so again, reinvigorated by the passage of seasons; ever green, ever growing, and forever hopeful. 

A Summer Carol

Twas the end times of summer and all through the beds,
Was a sighing of hope that the Dog Days had fled.

The garden was weeded and mulch was all down,
The rains filled the potholes and   joy did abound.

Baby roses were nestled all snug and secured,
In milk jugs aplenty, their safety assured.

Mrs. ProfessorRoush in her afghan, and I with my shovel, preparing for winter to come to our hovel.

Well, I guess the poetry just falls apart at the mere mention of Mrs. ProfessorRoush. 

What you are glimpsing in the picture to the right is the start of a new bed, with some baby Griffth Buck roses spaced out and covered by my usual milk-jug protectors.  This is how I plant all rose bands these days, hard-won knowledge bought at the feet of many, many dead little roses.  The milk jugs are my catchall protection equipment, providing increased humidity and some shade to the roses through the still-hot and sunny days here, and then later, as Fall wears on, giving them some protection from the cold nights and winds.  I'll gradually cut these down a bit as the roses acclimate to provide them some extra sun and air movement, but I keep a tall collar in place to discourage rabbits and rodents from chewing these greenlings down to their base.  As the temperatures approach freezing at night, I'll substitute glass cloches for the milk jugs to give them some extra protection against the worst of Winter. 

I prefer Fall for planting these days, giving the plants time to develop good roots before Winter.  The quick Kansas Springs give way too soon to Summer's heat, leaving spring-planted shrubs gasping for moisture and support.  Planted here are Quietness, Queen Bee, Chorale, Gentle Persuasion, Prairie Clogger, Prairie Lass, September Song, Silver Shadows, Summer Wind, Paloma Blanca, Survivor, and, as usual for me, an unknown band.  The unknown band is from my trial of a new rooting method this summer.  I immediately forgot what variety I took the cuttings from and, of course, it rooted handily.  Hopefully I can identify it in a few years when it reaches mature bloom.  Or not.