Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

And, pray tell ProfessorRoush, what have we here?  Which of these many seeds is the next KnockOut, the rose that will take the world by storm?  Which will become a favorite fragrant friend, pink and demure and beautiful like no other rose?   Which will become simply a thorny thicket, barely worthy of being called Rose?   White, yellow, red, or pink; will the color be drab or vibrant, pure or muted?   Will there be fragrance and later hips, or will each underwhelming blossom fade away to brown paper?   Disease-free and hardy, or mildewed, black-spotted, and dying?  Rugose, matte, or glossy?  Such promise in a pile of seeds, such anticipation for that first pair of leaves. 

ProfessorRoush is trying again, this time with Science instead of blind faith.   Every year for a number of years I've collected rose hips, like these, waited until spring, and planted them, hoping to grow a rose of my very own, with the result of failure, mostly, over and over.   I've kept the hips in the garage, in the barn, and refrigerated but always left the seeds in the hips over winter, growing one or two roses of my own through the years, with those that survived the damp and fungus being less than inspiring when they actually made it to bloom.   I've nursed a non-remonant pink rose that finally succumbed to Rose Rosette, and I have another in the garden right now, a two-year old, whose blooms appear sporadically and resemble 'Heritage', but whose bush struggles.

But, this year, I put about 50 hips, from 'Fru Dagmar Hastrup', 'Morden Sunrise', 'Snow Pavement', 'Heritage', 'Therese Bugnet', and many other shrubs into the refrigerator, Rugosa-Hybrids and Canadian roses, and Old Garden roses all into one bag.  This weekend, caught up from other work over the past six weeks, I found time to consult Dr. Internet and looked up what I should really be doing with them.   I learned about stratification in the "proper" manner, and vermiculite, and proper moisture, and, finally, what to watch for to know when to plant them.  I learned about how to transplant the seedlings, how to fight mildew and rot, and how to introduce light in the proper way.

In about 3 months, when the first seed germinates, I'll begin again; first downstairs in a lighted window with extra grow lights, and then, as spring arrives, transplanted outside.   I have hope, you see, hope that the honey bees and bumble bees have selected genes far better than I ever could, and hope that "internet experts" actually know what they talking about.  Hope that somewhere in this pile of seeds is a rugosa that will rule the world.  "Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never is, but always to be blest" said Alexander Pope in An Essay on Man.  Who am I to disagree?  

(Bonus points for those who can put the title together with the last sentence and name the group and song starting with those lyrics!)

(And, oh  yes, the words "do not discard" are for Mrs. ProfessorRoush's attention.  One season's hips mysteriously disappeared from the refrigerator a few years back.)

Weed of the Week

If ProfessorRoush can endorse the prairie's choice of a "Plant of the Week," he can also surely endorse a "Weed of the Week," although this one was selected not through the collective wisdom and brutal natural selection processes of the prairie, but at the hand of the less-demanding and less-discerning Mrs. ProfessorRoush.  Isn't it just wonderful how these blog entries sometimes seem to write themselves?

You see, Mrs. ProfessorRoush texted me with a picture of this plant last Saturday afternoon while I was on the lawn-mower, busily engaged in my weekly Saturday work chores.  She had found it while taking Bella for a walk down the road and although it takes an exceptional floral display to attract her attention, this plant had "understood the instructions," as the "fly" youngsters say.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush wanted me to identify the plant for her and although her "snap" was a less focused and composed photo than the photograph above, I was happy to immediately fulfill her expectation of my omniscience in regards to plant identification and simply texted back this weblink:  https://kswildflower.org/flower_details.php?flowerID=90, thus temporarily meeting her minimal expectations of my usefulness.   As women in general, and especially Mrs. ProfessorRoush, are often left less-than-impressed by my prowess in this and many other areas, I then said a quick prayer of thanks to the benevolent floral gods before resuming mowing.

While it can put on an impressive floral display in June and July, Crownvetch or Purple Crown Vetch (classified as Coronilla varia or Securigera varia, as there is some current dispute over the taxonomy) is certainly an invasive foreign species here on the Kansas prairie and my placement of it into the "weed" category is not just a literary liberty.   This leguminous vine, a native of Africa, Asia and Europe, is planted for erosion control and roadside plantings due to its aggressive nature, deep interwoven root system and drought-resistant leaves, and it has now naturalized in most of these continental US states.  As a veterinarian, I'm also aware that while it provides a valuable protein-rich feed source for ruminants, its high nitroglycoside content makes it toxic for horses and other non-ruminants, so its invasive nature is a threat to more than just neighboring plants struggling to compete for light, space and water.

For the time-being, clumps of Crownvetch are blooming nearly everywhere on the prairie in my vicinity, pleasing less-discriminating plant connoisseurs such as Mrs. ProfessorRoush and vexing those like me whose sense of natural balance is disturbed by nonnative plant species in our landscapes.   I must concede that it provides a colorful and pleasing display, although the hue, while predominantly light pink, is just a little too purple for my unequivocal liking.   Happily, although Crownvetch loves disturbed soil, this is not a weed that requires considerable time to keep out of my garden beds, so I can stay silent and allow Mrs. ProfessorRoush her appreciation and enjoyment of it along the roadsides and cow pastures of our local prairie, all while I bask in her justified admiration of me as her personal plant encyclopedia. 

My Old Friends

My old friend, I recall
The times we had, hanging on my wall
I wouldn't trade them for gold
'Cause they laugh and they cry me
Somehow sanctify me
They're woven in the stories I have told

                                My Old Friend; Tim McGraw

This 2004 Tim McGraw release, from the album Live Like You Were Dying, has been stuck in my head all afternoon, a so-called "ear worm" placed there by Mrs. ProfessorRoush after she had the utter audacity this morning to suggest that I trash my gardening shoes "because they stink up the closet."   

Setting aside the fact that the afore-mentioned closet is by the door to the garage, and that this is only one of two sets of my shoes in the closet, how could she possibly determine that they smell sufficiently bad as to be singled out to smell worse than the 45 pairs of her sandals, running shoes, exercise shoes, winter boots, and various others that share the closet?   Okay, okay, if you pick them up and smell  closely, there's a faint smell of mold or rot, but you practically have to be nose deep in them to detect it.  C'mon man, if you haven't been washed since the summer of '20, you might smell a little gamey too.

Mrs. ProfessorRoush isn't counting the emotional tie we (the shoes and I) have from the shared miles, the complete support of each other through rain and prairie fire, and the tons of earth and stone shoveled, nor does she value the ways a good shoe eventually mirror and mold the feet they protect.   These shoes started out identical to the 4 other pairs waiting in the wings (they're my go-to Amazon order for shoes), but the latter can never replace the memories.   Every torn stitch is a story told, and every scuff a battle fought and won.  They simply can't be replaced, not by newer, shinier shoes and not by the 2nd pair of my shoes in the closet, these made-for-the-garden waterproof clogs purchased 10 years ago on a whim and which hurt my heels if I wear them more than 5 minutes.

There are some topics, and some totems, that the wife of a gardener should just know to leave alone.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush should recognize that she has no more say over the condition of my garden shoes than over my choice of hoe or whether or not I'm going to spray weeds this weekend.   Silence and tolerance are called for here, not aspersion or defamation of a defenseless pair of beloved shoes.  With patience, eventually, they'll disintegrate, molecule by molecule, just like her gardening husband.  In the meantime, both shoes and ProfessorRoush can be washed, and although neither will look new, they won't look or smell any worse than this old set of Mrs. PR's sandals, will they now?  Birkenstocks, Smirkenstocks.

What will she go on to next, if I were to give in and replace these old friends?  My favorite gardening jeans with the hole in one knee?  My gardening cap? Tread lightly wife, for some bonds are simply stronger than marital ties.  The old sneakers fit me so well I don't even have to untie and retie them, I just slip into them now.  And this hat, well, it's just the perfect tightness to not fly away in the Kansas wind.  In the end, nothing should be feared more than a gardener with a good farm hat, comfortable shoes, and a shovel. 

McGraw's song lyrics, by the way, always leave me a little sad and angry anyway, so the continual replay of them in my head isn't helping the wounds heal today.  This song has always reminded me of a childhood friend, one who ran over the woods and farm with me from first grade through high school, and who died in his 40's due to complications from the Crohn's Disease he fought his whole life, shortly after this song was released.  I'm sorry, my friend, that I didn't see you as often as we aged, nor did I try enough to help carry your pain.  I pray now your pains have been washed away like the dirt from these shoes.  "From dirt, to dirt," is not as comforting to a old gardener, as it might seem, particularly when his shoes have been questioned.

Minor Miracles

It is, in fact, still a world where miracles can occur, as Spring has finally begun here in the Kansas Flint Hills.   A very late, dry, and windy spring, but still, I'll take it.   Yesterday, ProfessorRoush inhaled his first ever-so-faint fragrance of this Star Magnolia (Magnolia stellata), which finally began to bloom only 3 days ago and which is not wasting a moment of our temporary warm spell.   No redbuds, no forsythia, no other life out there in the garden yet, but where there are magnolias, there is spring.  

How late is it?  Well, this Magnolia stellata is two weeks behind 2015 and 2010, and almost a month behind 2016. On the other hand, it's about 4 days ahead of last  year so I suppose I should count it as a blessing.  At this point however, I don't care that its behind, I just want warm days this week to draw out that deep musky fragrance so that I can overdose while I putter in the garden proper.  And warm days to bring on the rest of spring. 

The Puschkinia have joined in at last.  The short white and blue flowers are one of Mrs. ProfessorRoush's favorites, so I'm adding this picture to send some love her way.   The poor woman is on extended grandmother duty this month, in Alaska, tending to our 1 and 5 year old grandsons and feeding chickens through 2 feet of snow and the under threat from moose that frequents my son and daughter-in-laws backyard.  Pray for her since she will miss spring in the Flint Hills completely this year.  Heck, perhaps pray for Alaska, which may never again be the same.

I witnessed a second miracle yesterday, as I shopped the local Home Depot to see what poor decrepit boxed roses they had shipped in.   No April Fool joke, I was surprised to find these badly-paraffined and undoubtedly rootless shrubs in stock there, terrible specimens, but important genetic varieties if I can nurse them into health.   Among all the doomed hybrid teas and floribundas were a few precious (to me) Canadian roses, 'Rugelda' and, low and behold, a 'Roseraie de l'Hay rugosa'!   Commercial big-box rose offerings are so strange in these days of post-Knock Out hysteria!    So I left with the rugosa, two 'Hope for Humanity', two of the aforementioned 'Rugelda', a 'John Cabot', a 'Morden Sunrise', and a 'Zephirine Drouhin', ten roses all destined to fill in some spots from my Rose Rosette losses.   I also spotted, for those interested, 'Morden Blush' and a Buck rose, 'Prairie Princess'.   So if you run quickly to your local Home Depot and if you know what you are looking for, you may get lucky.  Leave the hybrid teas and junk for the unwashed masses, but grab up those Canadian roses while you can!

P.S. Almost forgot, Home Depot also had 'Therese Bugnet'!!!   I left them for you since I have plenty!

Winter Haze

Winter.  Frost and fog outside.  Warmth and fire inside.  The calendar and the movement of the planets falsely claim the season is fall, but ProfessorRoush says it's winter.

Winter.   What is it good for? Pictures, perhaps, like the one above, the sun captured, weakened by distance and the inclination of this orb, unable to penetrate the haze of humid air the night has frozen into submission.   No breeze, not a creature stirring here, all waiting for the sun to penetrate and soften the icy knives of frost.  

Or pictures, perhaps of happier thoughts and colorful moments, the annual home Christmas tree shining glorious even in the morning light.   Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I decided this year to leave the tree unburdened by ornaments, the plain lights a symbol, perhaps, of our innate desire for simple quiet and peaceful stars, a holiday of joy and rest.  We've left off the hundred collected ornaments, some homemade, others a treasured gift or purchase.  It may be a fake tree of metal and plastic, but it serves the purpose, lit each night in the front window as a beacon to faraway children and friends; "Here is home."

Odd?  Or not, perhaps, for a gardener to prefer artificial trappings for Christmas rather than a collected and distantly transported tree.  This year I won the annual tug-of-war between Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who prefers the dying, pine-scented, needle-dropping "natural" tree, and myself, who prefers my negative environmental impact displayed through the manufacture of plastic and LED's.  This tree may be phony, it may be fabricated, but at least it isn't singing the song of death in the house as it slowly dries and dies, snatched from a forest of others to perish alone.

Ten o'clock, and the sun seems to be losing the battle against winter today, rather than gaining.  The predicted high for today has already been cut by 4ºF and I fear it will soon cede more to the fog.  My planned trek to clean out bluebird houses may have to wait, wait for a warmer day and a braver caretaker.   I feel the weight of responsibility for my bluebird trail, but not at the expense of stiff fingers and frostbit toes.  There is time enough to wait on the sun to lead me out, to beckon me from a clear horizon and warm the air.   Time enough for winter to come and be gone, away like the fog and the frost, if the sun gets its way.

Please Don't Eat the Pretty Things

Sorry everyone, ProfessorRoush has been absent from the blog a couple of weeks.  I was deserted by Mrs. ProfessorRoush for the first week after she made some weak excuse about needing to hold grandchildren and then promptly left Bella and I to fend for ourselves.  Last week, missing both her cooking and mere presence, and tired of Bella moping around the house, I tracked Mrs. PR down in the wilds of Alaska, spent a few brief days myself holding the grandchildren while being sick alongside everyone else in the family, and then I dragged her back to Kansas.   

No, we didn't get COVID during 19 hours of travel getting there and another 23 hours returning (and yes, all of us tested negative for the virus), but we did catch what seemed to be a plain old common cold from our germ-growing grandchildren, the traditional route to pneumonia and demise for old folks.  Such is the cycle of life, but my little microbe-factory descendants didn't count on grandpa having a robust immune system bolstered by plenty of sunlight and clean living and I survived to garden again.  

'Scabrosa'

Unfortunately, we spent most of our time in the Alaskan territory either in airplanes or cuddling indoors, my journeys outside limited to one short hike, during which we came across the showy specimen of Amanita muscaria pictured at top, delicious in appearance and full of hallucinogens and toxins too numerous to name.   Potentially deadly but beautiful, the internet tells me that this species is likely safe to nibble on if I wanted a different type of trip, but I'm not tempted in the slightest.  Near the Amanita, I was able to capture the more typical Alaskan lakeshore scene above, just to prove to naysayers that I was certainly out of Kansas.   I was, in fact, hiking in the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, on a short trail near the visitor's center. 

In another brief venture outside the plague house, I was quite happy to find a neglected Rugosa growing by the front steps, pictured above, here, and below, undoubtedly 'Scabrosa' and if it wasn't that variety, it's surely a Rugosa worthy of cultivation.  Those deep magenta single blooms are nearly the size of my hand and look at all the healthy deep-green foliage!  Here near a coastline, in cool temperatures, nearly daily rain, and partial shade and a USDA 4A climate, this rose is completely defiant to the elements.   Hardy is as hardy does, or so an Alaskan Forest Gump might say.

Not even the weird insects crawling all over this bloom seem to disturb it, merely, seemingly, just present to carry pollen from flower to flower.  Drawn here, certainly, by the heavy scent of this rugosa or by the enticing color, they are a bit disturbing at first encounter, somewhat revolting to find amid the golden stamens, but they are likely harmless sycophants of the glorious flower.   Heck, I don't blame them a bit for I'm a Rugosa syncophant as well and one that could, shrunk down to the right size, easily get lost in the majesty of a cluster of these blooms.

We returned yesterday, my reluctant empty-armed bride and I, transported from the 60's of Alaska to a 101ºF day of early August in Kansas and, arriving home, were immediately greeted by this spectacular clump of Naked Ladies Surprise Lilies right out front in their full bare-stemmed glory.   It was so hot that I was afraid that Mrs. ProfessorRoush might want to join in their carefree display so I ushered her into the house before she created any kind of neighborhood gossip.  Anyway, now you know what I've been doing these past two weeks, busy from sunup to sundown, from sneezes and sniffles to nose-wipes to naked ladies.   It's been a good two weeks here in my world.

Turnabout Transgression

Turnabout IS fair play, isn't it folks? "Any eye for an eye?" Or is it "all is fair in love and war?"   Whichever the case may be, my post today is a sweet and long-awaited revenge on Mrs. ProfessorRoush, who regularly steals my photos from this blog for her Facebook page and whom, I might add, seldom gives credit for the artful photography she pilfers.  I'm, as you might say, "returning the favor" with my photo-heavy blog today.  Today's words are mine, but the pictures are all from HER Facebook.  Ha!

In my own defense, I couldn't help but download these beauties from Mrs. ProfessorRoush's Facebook because she's really upped her photo game.  Many of these photos are not merely the pictures of pretty flowers that she usually captures, they were COMPOSED, artfully arranged according to classic principles such as placing the subject by the "rule of thirds" and using depth of field.  

Look at the beautifully photographed white Columbine above.  Mrs. PR got it perfectly right, with the most focused bloom precisely placed in the upper left third.   But then, as in the second photo, she incorporated depth of field with the same subject, placing the columbine in perspective against the house and cloudy sky behind it.

A few steps back, a shift of a few degrees, and yet another view echoing the first, but a different subject, this time the 'Batik' irises filling the foreground, framed between the evergreen to the right and the distant River Birch to the left.   She resisted posting the 'Batik' head-on, but instead showed off its abundance, its proliferative nature at bloom time.  I was impressed as well by the framing between the evergreen to the right and the distant River Birch to the left

Here, another example of photographic value of thirds, this nice double-flowered purple columbine, it's unblemished foliage in the lower left third balanced by the out-of-focused green foliage in the upper right and contrasted against the bright flowers on the left of center.   The grounding weight of the columbine foliage at the base of the photo is almost palpable.
  

Mrs. PR has even evoked emotion with her photos!   Can't you just feel here the loneliness of the single native Baptisia australis (Blue Wild Indigo)  among the new prairie grasses, my garden shade house far in the background?   Hear it calling "here I am, here I stand, fragile yet defiant."   What a nice composition and what a vivid message.

 

And what of the contrast of the rustic look of the old trellis that stands attached to my gazebo, here with the newly blooming 'Ramona' clematis?   That trellis is a decade old, weathered, splintered, and, in truth, probably held up only by the young, beautiful and vigorous clematis.  Somehow here, in the back of Mrs. PR's mind, there may be some semblance to the old weathered ProfessorRoush and his eternally young and beautiful bride.  Or is the similarity sitting in the back of my mind?

Gaze for a moment on the perfect pinkness of this 'Scarlett O'Hara' peony in silhouette, all life and color among the healthy green foliage.  Since 'Scarlett O'Hara blooms early and brazenly, I refer to her as Scarlett the Harlot and so I might title this "Silhouette of the Harlot".    Titles are fleeting, but beauty eternal.

We might have had to admonish Mrs. ProfessorRoush this lapse into  the "Oh, Wow" centered composition of my massive and spreading 'Harison's Yellow.'   In her defense it is difficult to ignore the sheer floriferousness and vivid yellow of this Hybrid Spinosissima when she's in full bloom.   But even here, as you can see in the photo below, Mrs. ProfessorRoush suddenly redeemed her artwork, stepping back to use the 'Harison's Yellow' as a mere color spot in the line of the bed connecting with the Cottonwood of the background, framed within the confines of the nearer Purple Smoke Tree to the left and the American Elm to the right.  Bravo! Belisima! Magnifica! Mrs. ProfessorRoush!  

My garden, through another's eyes, through a lover's eyes, is new again.

Sad Houses

 ProfessorRoush has had quite the week;  a week that seems to be continuing even as I write.  

It all started last Sunday.   My intention that day was to get a number of things done around home, but most of the afternoon got delayed when Mrs. ProfessorRoush's car got two flat tires, one of which disintegrated before we could get to an air pump.   But I did get out for my main goal and cleaned out all the bluebird boxes while the weather was good.   One bad surprise; this bluebird box with 3 sweet little light blue eggs present.   These weren't a new brood out of season, these were very light, dried out, old eggs that didn't make it to hatch.  I'm guessing Mama Bluebird had an accident and never returned to care for them.   So sad.  And my bluebird houses didn't seem to do as well this year.   Eight bluebird nests for over 20 boxes is way under normal.  

Even sadder, one of the first year DVM students was killed last weekend, hit by a vehicle after she witnessed a rollover accident and tried to help; a true Good Samaritan lost to the world.   I got the call of hospital personnel looking for emergency numbers for her parents shortly after I finished the Bluebird Trail.   There are some things that happen in this life that I can't explain or understand and never will.  What a loss to her family and to her classmates and to all the pets she would have helped.

Things were looking up today as we put the house back in order this morning after our kitchen and sunroom were painted.   Mrs. ProfessorRoush is in the kitchen making caramels as we speak and I'm anticipating running out into the sunshine soon on this warm, breezy afternoon.   But then, as I started to write, I got a text that a young child of the host of our work Christmas party started a fever this morning and tested COVID positive.   Our entire surgery service was there for three hours last night, huddled in a small kitchen together.  Lots of COVID boosters are about to get tested for efficacy!

So, if I'm gloomy today and not my usual positive gardening influence, I'd like to make a formal apology and leave you with this picture of the ProfessorRoush home abode from the far end of the pasture; a view of the dry and brown back garden and prairie and of the back of the house from a vantage that I seldom get to see.   Those hills are too much to walk regularly without the excuse to tend to the BlueBird Trail.  

Mrs. PR and the Bumblebees

Friends, ProfessorRoush failed you miserably today, too weak in a critical moment to do what really needed to be done.  I failed to capture and share with you the video of a lifetime, a sure bet to spread like a virus across the globe, making ProfessorRoush a household name in the process.  

My Sunday began in a completely innocent fashion with no clue of the drama to unfold.   As I was preparing to mow the lawn, Mrs. ProfessorRoush mentioned that she was going to slip down to pick any remaining tomatoes in the garden before she showered and began her day.   Ever the helpful and attentive husband, I followed her down to the garden, where we picked a few tomatoes, snared a few deliciously ripe blackberries from the thorny canes, and then ambled over to the grapes, which were past ripe, sweet and juicy, and needed picking.

Let me set the scene for you.  As it happened, Mrs. ProfessorRoush had ambled down to the garden in a mid-thigh length pink cotton nightgown and slippers, her tanned legs bare and well-toned, a beauty among the brambles.   She was picking grapes off one vine while I, ten feet away, was distracted from her heavenly presence in the garden by the discovery that bumblebees were feasting heavily on the grapes (see the photo above and to the left).  

I was contemplating that astounding new bit of knowledge and engrossed in photographing one of the bees eating the grapes when Mrs. ProfesssorRoush began to complain that the bees were bothering her; complaints that turned quickly to excited chatter and then hysteria as the bees decided that the exposed hair and flesh of Mrs. PR seemed to be even more delicious than the bountiful grapes all around.   Perhaps it was her hair spray, perhaps it was her perfume, or perhaps it was just the delicious sweetness that is Mrs. ProfessorRoush, but those bees were dead set on either driving her away from their sweet grapes, or feasting on her, or both.

Now picture this:  a frantic Mrs. ProfessorRoush running up the hill in a mid-thigh pink-nightgown, arms flailing madly, the bowl of tomatoes and grapes cast upon the ground, Bella trotting calmly behind her, wondering at last, I'm sure, if she was going to finally see her rival for my affections dethroned.

And there I was, phone in hand, with it already turned on in camera mode, and I was laughing so hard I could barely stand, let alone thinking clearly enough to capture a photo or a movie for the future entertainment of humankind.  In hindsight, I'm so disappointed in myself.   Perhaps I wouldn't have become famous for a video, but I'm sure the pink blur of Mrs. ProfessorRoush's backside running up the hill would have at least made the nightly national news.  And perhaps distracted and amused, for just a moment, an entire nation bored from the pandemic. 

So, there you have it.  Bumblebees eat ripe grapes, I presume for the sugar and cheap energy.  I had never heard or read of that before.  And I've spent the day outside doing chores and snapping other pictures, like the last two photos of the bees on the light blue caryopteris near the back steps.  I remain hopeful that by nightfall my laughter will have faded from Mrs. ProfessorRoush's memory and she'll unlock the doors.  Surely she'll be able to see the broader humor of the occasion by then, won't she? 

Photo Thiwivery

Effective immediately, ProfessorRoush is instituting a new policy to combat the theft and illicit use of his photos by extremely unscrupulous life partners (alias; Mrs. ProfessorRoush) for the sole purpose of falsely enhancing the perpetrator's Facebook feed. It's not thievery by strangers, it's thievery by wife, hence my coined title "Thiwivery."   From this point on, I will add a watermark to my better photos BEFORE I give in to the puppy eyes of Mrs. ProfessorRoush and send her copies of them.  Spousal privileges are one thing, but posting your husband's garden photos is just a step too far! 

Under normal circumstances, I don't mind at all if others download and use photos from this blog for their own purposes.   I've given explicit permission to some readers for their use of photos in the past, and, frankly, if I find one of my pictures being used elsewhere on the vast internet, I find it flattering rather than infuriating.  I just draw the line at seeing my own photos pop up on my own feed from HER Facebook page before I get a chance to post them myself.  I suppose I could unfriend her so I don't have to see her posts, but that seems a step in the wrong direction for good marital relations. 

Case in point, the gorgeous captures of orangey Morden Sunrise pictured above, the rose in full bloom in the evening sun as at the top, and just opening up in the morning dampness as above left.  I took them.  They are fabulous captures, if merely iPhone quality, are they not?   How maddening to see them first displayed on Facebook above comments from her followers over how wonderful HER garden must be.

In her defense, my larcenous spouse is always quick to respond to these comments and shift all credit to me, although at that point her diversions sound a bit disingenuous.  Since the photos are brazenly displayed on her page and the evidence is clear, those weak excuses are not admissible in court and hardly sway the jury. Verdict delivered, the court finds the defendant guilty of rapacious photo pilfering in the first degree.  The sentence is final and the punishment of being provided watermarked photos will be carried out immediately.

Mrs. ProfessorRoush also begged shamelessly for the luscious photos here of a purple columbine that self-seeded itself years ago into the garden and they have since also found their way onto Facebook.   Hey, lady, I know these photos are second only to your own beauty and grace, but take your own photos!  Mine are for my blog readers.  You can steal them later, just like everyone else!

Super-Sunday-not

 Today is definitely not a Super Sunday.  For a Kansas gardener, it's a Mediocre Sunday, and if the gardener decides to curl up and find a good book, it could possibly become an Okay Sunday, maybe even a Fine Sunday, but at 7ºF outside at 12:00 p.m., it's not going to become a Super Sunday, football frenzy or not.  

I had been wanting one decent snow this winter, enough to make everything clean and smooth and white and I still haven't seen one.  What's on the ground now is just a little dusting, a little frosting on the prairie cake; just enough to need sweeping off the sidewalk but not enough to get out a shovel and struggle.  The primary dampening of my spirits, however are the result of the frigid temperatures.   We've had a mild winter, hardly a Zone 6 climate up until now, but yesterday somebody shut the freezer door and the temperatures plummeted alongside this dry snow.  More pertinently, there are some highs-in-the-teens and lows in the subzero temperatures predicted over the next 10 days, back to a true Zone 5 climate that we haven't seen in several years.  Last year at this time I was already clearing perennial beds on 55ºF afternoons.

For the record, I will watch the football game this evening, although I really don't know or care who I'll be rooting for.  Yes, it would be nice to see the long-suffering and local-to-me Kansas City Chiefs win another behind Mahome's spectacular passing accuracy and their daunting defense, but I also wouldn't mind watching 43 year old Tom Brady show Patrick the difference between how an old bull and a young bull approaches the field.  On the other hand, Brady was born in 1977, the year I graduated high school, so neither one is old enough to really appreciate the old bull and young bull joke genre that I'm alluding to.

Also for the record, yes, I cheated on these beautiful forced tulips that are currently in the middle of our kitchen table.  The local grocery store had these ensembles of glass, greenery, and glory for $9.99 the other day, priced low enough for even my miserly soul to consider worthy of a sawbuck.  Seven tulip bulbs to brighten Mrs. ProfessorRoush's Valentines day and keep me in her good graces, and then later I'll plant them in a pot with good soil and move them to the garden this summer.  I usually force a few bulbs on my own, but this year I just haven't found the urge or the time.  When these fade, however, I'm now inspired to go cut some forsythia and flowering almond branches to bring into the house and force into bloom.  Maybe the spring colors can provide us a Super Sunday later in February.     

Unsettled Skies

This morning, as I was walking from the bedroom to let Bella out, I glanced out the southern windows of the house, seeing dawn slowly bringing the landscape to life, and noticed that the tree branches were swaying.  Pleased that a predicted cool morning would also bring some cool air into the house, I opened the garage door, stepped out, and was greeted with this odd sight of a column of pink blessing the hills to my west amidst a gray sky.

I turned around to look at the rising sun and, of course, it was there shining as always, ready to wake the earth and all its inhabitants in Manhattan, Kansas.  The breeze, however, was still shifting and I could only conclude that a either completely unpredicted but likely gentle rainstorm was upon us from the northwest or that aliens were beaming up my neighbors in a pink column of happiness.




The answer of course, was available on my phone radar app, and just as I downloaded this image, the sky began to growl as well.  Not thunder, not visible lightning, but an audible low growl.  I sedately followed Bella as she bolted for the house from her morning mid-squat stance.  Bella is afraid of thunder, but rain is always welcome to me and I am ever pleased when I don't have to defend against an alien horde before I've had breakfast.

Unsettled skies have been the norm all summer, likely a metaphor for society's woes this year if I were only bright enough to connect it.  Unpredicted showers, winds that sweep across without a storm behind them, clouds come and gone without warning.  I really shouldn't complain because, thankfully, there has been enough rain to keep the grass growing all summer, it has never reached 100ºF in Manhattan yet this year, we haven't had a single tornado warning in the area all season, and fall is clearly on its way.


It unnerves me, however, after years of watching the local radar and weather patterns, to see the skies tossing about in disorder.  The other night, I watched two rainstorms as they split around us from about an hour to the north-west, one gentle moving to the east and south, the other, a nasty little blob of purple, moving forcefully south-west.  I commented to Mrs. ProfessorRoush that, in all these years, I had never seen that happen.  Storms don't move to the south and west here and I watched it with some trepidation until it was obvious it wasn't going to change direction.








I'm not unhappy, however, about the beautiful skies of this summer and I'm thankful for every morning to wake with the sunrise.  The panorama above is my view to the south three mornings ago, sun rising in the east, storm moving in from the west.  The panorama below is my north view just moments later, unsettled skies from the west moving back to the gentle protective light from the east.  Who couldn't feel comforted by skies like these?  Well....me.