Beauty Pageants

'Marie Bugnet'

ProfessorRoush, at the beginning of a new gardening year, believes he has hit on a new theme that will at least temporarily increase his post frequency and simultaneously provide you with fitting flower pornography to fill your fancy.  As things bloom, I am simply going to run a series of beauty pageants of each grouping, leaving you to judge the winners for yourselves.  I'm optimistic that minstrels will indubitably hereafter sing songs of this season and look back on 2023 as, "The Year of the GardenMusings Beauty Pageants." 

'Marie Bugnet'

This week, as a start, we'll set aside any accusations of color bias and go with a simple "White Rugosa Pageant."   So, you get to look, you get to salivate, and you get to choose;  which one is the "Miss Gardening Universe" of the years' white Hybrid Rugosas?

'Blanc Double de Coubert'

First up this year is, as always, 'Marie Bugnet', she of shy nature and short form, blooming first for me in the annual garden race, nearly 2 weeks ago.  Marie struggles annually a bit, lacking vigor but persistent nonetheless, and I think she's doing better now that I'm pampering her with a little extra water and care each year.  She holds perfect white blooms without a spot of pink or brown on healthy foliage.  Is she your choice to win the double crown this year, the race to be the first to bloom AND the most beautiful?   Just look at that delicate center above, golden pistils held in perfect pristine order surrounded by stately stamens. 

'Blanc Double de Coubert'

Marie was followed quickly a week later by my 'Blanc Double de Coubert', a rather stocky gal of medium height, as round as she is tall.  Blanc has obviously bloomed out of her bloomers, as you can see from all the petals on the ground, although there are plenty of bountiful flowers left to fall.   Gertrude Jekyll, as I've noted before, thought Blanc was the whitest rose in existence and I won't quibble over that title when this rose is blessed by sunshine and heat as she blooms.  Sadly, a little rain and she turns from the purest virginal bride to the browned wilting and damaged unfortunate that fate decrees, turned out and soiled by the fickle weather of spring.  I'm a little biased, but isn't the pistil area in Blanc a little messier than Marie's?   And what a mess she leaves on the ground!

'Sir Thomas Lipton'

Tall and stately 'Sir Thomas Lipton' has recently joined the ball, the perfectly white blooms of the 123-year-old gentleman (introduced to commerce by Conard-Pyle in 1900) held higher than my head atop the lean and thorny canes.   I like Sir Thomas more than most rose aficionados seem to (particularly Suzanne Verrier who called him "ungraceful...with the nastiest thorns imaginable"), but I think he probably does better in my arid Zone 5 climate than elsewhere in the US.   As a gentleman, he perhaps shouldn't be part of the pageant, but I'll choose not, in this moment, to be sexist and deny him an equal chance for pageant glory.  After all, a rose is a rose and their flowers contain both male and female organs, whatever gendered moniker we chose to hang on them.

'Sir Thomas Lipton'

Those are your contestants for the week.   Hybrid Rugosa 'Polareis' has started a few meager blooms but the night chill keeps them more pink than white, so I'm leaving her out.  And some of the Pavement roses that are near-whites are blooming, but I'm holding them for inclusion in a Pavement Rose Pageant.  Of the three presented here, which is your choice, my gardening friend?  Will you stand against the opinions of well-known garden writers and go with 'Marie Bugnet'?  Disdain the Canadian-born and stick with 'Sir Thomas Lipton'?   Or follow the herd supporting the strumpet, 'Blanc Double de Coubert'? 

Grand Opening

Come one, come all, to the 'Prairie Moon' Ball!
White and cream petals closed at each morning,
Exposed golden stamens are shining each noon.

Pistils and purpose are packed in the center,

Surrounded with silk and recalling the moon.
Bumbling bombers target the larder, 
The stored sun on tap each new day of the world.

My hopes and my dreams are caught in its glory,

The promise of love in its petals uncurled.

ProfessorRoush was perfectly pleased to see all these early peony buds survive three days of wind tightly wound and undamaged and was even more thrilled when they all opened together, virginal and coyly greeting the sun this first fine windless morning.  'Prairie Moon' was a whim purchase several years ago, a decision made based on a thought.  "Its named 'Prairie Moon' and was born in 1959, and here I am, ProfessorRoush, and I was born in 1959 and I live on the prairie."   I had to have it, don't you see, since each of us is sixty-three?

Often, this peony blooms sparingly and fall quickly, but oh, this year, those white blooms shine over the prairie like the glow of a lighthouse, drawing man and insect into adoration.  The bumblebees were all over this peony today, collecting precious pollen as fast as the plant can make it, the very air vibrating with their humming admiration of the blossoms.

The pictured peony above left and here at left, was captured around 7:20 a.m., the sun just risen and the peony still cold and closed.  Below, the midday sun has worked its magic, opening 10 or more smaller suns against the shiny, healthy green foliage. The harsher sun at 1:00 p.m. whitewashes the petals, chasing away the earlier blush and creams of their undersides.  Now open, the warmed pistils and warmed bumblebees compete for the pollen, the former fertilized, the latter loaded with food.  These blossoms will last until the rain predicted two days from now, moisture desperately needed and desired in our drought, but temporarily unwelcome to me as long as 'Prairie Moon' blooms.

There is nothing quite so joyful to me as this simple enormous peony; white as pure as a bleached cotton sheet, blooms as big as a hand, petals thick and impervious to the sun.  My impetuous purchase a decade and more hence has paid its value back in splendor a thousand times over, the debt forgiven anew each May when it briefly blooms the flowers of heaven inlaid with gold. 

Magnolias in Mind

'Ann' Magnolia

 ProfessorRoush is trapped indoors once again today, by wind and cold in the boorish 4's; 40 mph wind gusts and 40º temps.  The temperatures are quite a change from the 80º temperatures of the middle of the week, but the wind has been ravaging the countryside all week.  Thank heaven, however, that the cold was accompanied by some welcome rain Friday night and Saturday morning, and the forecast shows more rain coming this week.   Needless to say, it's about time.

'Ann' in the garden

The warm temperatures of the past week, however, made the magnolias suddenly pop.   Feast your eyes on my magnolia harvest for the year, both 'Jane' and 'Ann' going into full bloom almost overnight.  Now if those thick petals can just stand the wind for a few days so I can enjoy them!  'Ann' pictured here first, is the darker pink of the two, while my 'Jane' is a little older, larger, and less vibrant. Particularly in the photos of 'Jane' and 'Yellow Bird', you can appreciate the storms swirling around in the Kansas skies.

'Jane' Magnolia

'Jane' and 'Ann' are two of the so-named "Little Girl" series bred at and released by the National Arboretum.  The vision of Dr. William Kosar and Dr. Francis de Vos, they were were crosses of Magnolia liliiflora and Magnolia stellata cultivars and were released into commerce in 1968.  They are cold-hardy to -30ºF and were flower about 2 weeks after Magnolia stellata, giving northern american gardeners a chance to enjoy some of the fragrance and beauty that the south takes for granted.  They also are said to tolerate "heavy clay soils and dry areas", so they were seemingly tailored for my Kansas environment.    

           

'Jane' in the garden

I first wrote "fragrance and grace" in the sentence above, but upon further thought, "grace" hardly describes the thickness and weight of the magnolia petals.  The fragrance of most cultivars, also, is less than graceful and more like being hit with a sledge; hardly subtle at it's best moments but I am happy to get lost in it every spring, overdosing on the sweetness that is so strong it's like inhaling honey.

'Yellow Bird'

There were actually 8 "Little Girls", but I never see 'Betty', 'Judy', 'Randy', 'Ricki', 'Susan', or 'Pinkie' offered for sale.   As much as I enjoy and appreciate 'Ann' and 'Jane', I should search out the others.  'Betty' seems to be the darkest pink-red, and 'Pinkie' almost white, but the images of the others are almost indistinguishable to me.

'Yellow bird'

And out there in the garden, just beginning to bloom, is my beloved 'Yellow Bird' Magnolia.   Normally about two weeks later than my other magnolias, 'Yellow Bird' is opening at a slower pace, but it also was stirred into action by the warm winds.  It normally opens it's blooms aloneside it's foliage, but this year the flowers seem to be in more of a hurry than their green backdrops.  And the first few are a little frost-damaged or rain-damaged, or something.  Ah well, they are still so perfectly, so lightly, yellow that I can hardly breathe in their presence. 

P.S.  In the "Jane in the garden"  and "Yellow Bird in the garden photos, the blurring of the backdrop was a happy accident, created by placing my iPhone camera in Portrait mode and then selecting "Stage Light" as the lighting filter.   Pretty neat, eh? 

Pack Rat Purgatory

(fair warning;  long and lots of pictures and links to previous blogs)

If there is a Hell, ProfessorRoush is convinced that it is populated primarily by pack rats, and somehow I must have gone on into the afterlife, because I am living right in the midst of it, a pack rat purgatory.  I know, I know, my war on these little furry demons is a recurrent theme on this blog, but this is serious, this is Armageddon with rats riding the 4 horses.   You all know that I nearly lost my farm tractor to the fiends, that I've burned out a juniper and a spruce and eliminated an entire hedge of boxwoods in major tactical moves, that my 'Red Cascade' was overrun by the vermin in one skirmish, that I've created an alliance with local rat predators in a failed attempt at pack rat genocide, and that, at times, the evil hellions even attempt to invade the house and porch.   Heck, I have had to cement the base of every downspout where it meets the drainage tubes because the little monsters were chewing into the plastic drains and ruining the runoff from the house!

A couple of years ago, I even allowed myself to dream that I was winning the war, but I either let my guard down recently or the malignant spirits of my garden have simply outflanked me.  It all started last fall when I noticed that my wire tower of Sweet Autumn Clematis, so beautiful in its youth, was looking, pardon the pun, a little ratty (top right).  It was evident that the pack rats had built a nest in it, hidden by the vining clematis and the wire, and had established a beachhead in my back yard again.   I resolved initially to deal with it this spring, plotting to burn out the nest at the time of our spring burns.

But I had not anticipated the damage they've caused this winter.   Just look, above left, at the damage the little bas@#$ds caused to the Juddii viburnum next door.   And look close, here, at the tunnel leading underneath the clematis tower, doubtless to an underground condominium filled with rat feces and urine and young vermin.

At the same time, last fall and all winter, small piles of rat turds began building up each week just to the right of the front door on the porch. It was definitely an "in your face" move if ever I saw one.  Mrs. ProfessorRoush and I were disgusted and angered. We tried traps and killed several, I have rat poison out everywhere, and I was spraying commercial rodent repellants in the area by the gallon.   And still the turds came, deposited at night, silently and blatantly right near the welcome mat.

As the past two days and one day last weekend were nice enough to work in the garden, I've been outside, clearing and cleaning the garden, planning a nice summer with flowers and calm.  Here, in a gentle scene, is the walkway leading to the front door, flanked by two 'MoonShadow' euonymus that I really adore.  Isn't it lovely, even before the growth flush of spring?

That euonymus on the left?   Here's a closeup.  Another new pack rat condominium, right under my nose and in one of my favorite evergreens!  Now I know where the rats were living!

Worse yet, this hole you see at the left  is just to the left of the last two stairs into the house, just a few feet from the rodent bathroom area and 6 feet the other direction from the euonymus.   You can't see it, but the hole leads right into the drainage tube from the downspout cemented into the stairs.   They not only created a tunnel from their house to mine, they connected the tunnel to the downspout, their own Autobahn in my front garden! 

The last thing I did today was tear apart the rat home in my euonymus, fill the rat hole with a plug and then soil (dumping a few cubes of rat poison in first), and then I doused everything with the rodent repellent and I added a special brew of my own that has been effective in repelling deer.   If they're going to pee on my house, then I believe I have the right to pee on theirs.   I feel that I'll win this round, but I'm reacting defensively and likely losing the war, like the Spartans against the Persians at Thermopylae, or, more recently, Ukraine against Russia.  I need to think about offense.   Miniature intelligent robots, or an army of hyperaggressive terriers, something has to work, doesn't it?

I will never surrender.  This is only a setback.  Keep telling yourself that, ProfessorRoush.....

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!

Good Gracious, Still Winter

Perhaps, if ProfessorRoush teases the elements by stating Winter is never going to end, the gods of War will put down their lightning bolts and thunder, the Weavers will begin weaving their threads, and, in defiance, the world will throw Spring into my face.   Because it is all, in this alternate dimension of Roush-life, done because of, in spite of, or about, me.  Right?   That has to be it, doesn't it?   "Citizens of Roushopolis, do not fear, I will just go find the correct switch and we will begin Spring in short order!"

I ventured out today, a poor lost soul caught in winter, and finally, finally, found my long-awaited Siberian squill boldly blooming on a south-facing slope.   I've seen nothing else before this, no swelling of forsythia or magnolia buds, no cracking of redbud blossoms, no lilacs breaking dormancy.  Prior to this, I had lost hope for Spring and crawled back into Winter, a warm blanket and warmer dog my only solace.

A mere three days ago, on March 16th, the scene outside and the story headlines were still full of cold and wintery weather.  My back yard was a swirl of wind and flurries, imprisoning me within the windows.   I should find a way to enjoy them, these last few dribbles of snow, but I'm not a snow boy.   I dream of a world where the only boots I wear are to wade through a stream or a prairie just burnt, not one where the precipitation of the moment reaches ones hips.

The Scilla pictured above is a week later than last year, two weeks later than 2021 and 2016 and 2012 in the same spot.   Only a week, only two weeks late?   It seems like an eternity.  An eternity compounded by my very, very late and nonexistent to prepare the garden.   For the first time I can remember, I have not yet touched the garden by Spring Break, the latter a milestone on the annual calendar of any professor.  Work, trips, illness, and sloth have left the garden on the outside, off the to-do list and fighting for itself.  Too few moderately-decent Spring days have appeared, a scattering on the weekdays and none on the weekend.   Today, 48ºF, is still too cold for my old bones to lay on the ground, and I wonder if the frost is really gone from just beneath the crust.   Soon, I expect, the race will begin, but this year, I may see daffodils surrounded by brown daylily debris, or fighting through lily stems.  Que sera sera.

Oh, I almost forgot; on my walk, there was this strange flower growing near a clump of daffodils.   A mutant daffodil?   A fungus?   Nope, a styrofoam ball from some discarded Christmas wreath, a poor substitute indeed for the stirring of sap and growth that should be occurring here!

Still Life w/Surprises

There are so many ways to read that title, eh?  "Still Life w/Surprises" merely as the title of a captured moment in art, an assembly of natural things that aren't moving?  Or do we have a "still life" photograph that also has elements that don't belong? Or is the photographer (i.e. ProfessorRoush) trying to say that life still has surprises? Today, it is all of the above.

Take for example the photograph above, a simple iPhone capture last weekend of my back garden bed ringing the house.  In among the debris, the observer can pick out the dried remains of Morning Glory vines, the multiple seed pod remnants from a Baptisia that grows nearby, the rotting pieces of last year's hardwood bulk mulch, and some dried daylily leaves.   All the leftovers of last year's growth desiccated and done, beyond regrowth, it's stored sugars and starches and energy transferred back into root or invested in seed.  And yet, if one looks closely enough, among the shades of brown, gray, black and tan is the green of next year's daffodils, the first sprouts pushing up from the soil in the first week of February, 2023.   Life's promise to go on.

Or, beside this paragraph, the reigning clump of Calamagrostis 'Eldorado', the nicest green and gold form of Feather Reed Grass I can grow.  In a four season climate, every season has its place and value, whether it is the promise of rain with the coming of spring or the sunshine of high summer to provide the energy for food production.   Even winter, at least to a gardener, has value as it exposes the bones of a garden, the structure of a branch or a shrub, yes, but also the interlopers of the garden, vigorous natives and non-natives hell-bent on taking over the space and serenity.   Here, it's the short Eastern Red Cedar, Juniperus virginiana, that grew stealthily last season in front of the grass and right before my eyes, but is de-camouflaged and exposed by the cruel fingers of winter.  I've marked it now, marked it for destruction when I make a first secateur pass during Spring cleanup.

The most exciting display of hidden surprises in my garden, however, is seen in the photograph at the left, a full view of my almost-Jelena Witch Hazel backed up by the massive leavings of a white Crepe Myrtle.  Can you look closely and find it, the surprise jewel among the worn branches?  Look very carefully, look at the base of the Witch Hazel for the surprise here.  Look for red among the brown in the picture at the right and the one below.

Somewhere, somehow, a volunteer rose has sprung up near the Witch Hazel, standing over 7 feet tall and like no other rose in my garden.   This one has the appearance of a short climber at present, nearly thornless, and with delightful red stems.  In my garden, only a few roses, mostly Canadians, have red thorns in winter, foremost among those my multiple bushes of 'Therese Bugnet' but Trashy Therese, who is admittedly prone to sucker, is nowhere near this bed and would have many more thorns.  The canes of Griffith Buck rose 'Iobelle' resemble these in color at the moment, but 'Iobelle' is 40 feet away, only reaches 3 feet tall, and never suckers. 

So, I think I have a seed-derived new rose, planted here by birds as a gift to the gardener, and the excitement is rising in my deep rosarian soul.  Will it survive the remainder of winter, proving its hardiness in this harsh dry and cold climate.  Will it flower this season, white or pink, single or double?   Will it continue to grow, a new climbing rose of my very own?  Will the canes turn red again next season and will it stay nearly thornless or become more thorn-covered as it ages?

These and other questions are why I garden, for the calm of a good life lived with the soil, for the gifts of nature that grow my soul, and for all the surprises out there, in the garden, that keep life interesting.

I Wish I Could...

 ...I wish I could start off my 2023 garden blog with a blog post full of colorful flowers, composed of images taken just today, right from my garden, blooming happily and weed-less-ly as it is already in my imagination.   Alas, however, I am woe, yea woe is me, and I can show you merely the captured sunrise of three days past Christmas, the morning I returned to this garden from faraway family, this image a pitiful substitute, I know, for the glory of waxy petals and errant bees, of life in full exuberance.  Fire in the sky and remnants of snow on the ground are all I can summon from the past week to draw your attention.

...I wish I could entice you into 2023 with the mysteries of new plants and new plantings, of garden beds created from catalogues and prayers, dreams borne into substance with spade and trowel.   Sadly, however, I can show you only the mysteries of another sunrise, two days after the first above, borne in fog and mist, warm ground shunning colder air, my garden isolated and shunning the sun, cloaked and calm and safe for a moment from the greater world.  The growth and glory of 2023's garden is hidden in shadows, lurking in dried stems and promising seed heads, dormant and patient.  What will come first?   A snow crocus?  A daffodil?  A budded magnolia swelling to burst?

...I wish I could show you, at the onset of 2023, more than bland beige landscapes of grasses past, remnants of a once-green and thriving prairie, brought low by cold and drought and time.  From inside the house, the Flint Hills roll on, golden and yet lifeless from seasonal death, the only visible stirring the flash of a hawk as it pounces on its next meal or the gradual lope of a coyote on its scavenging circuit.  It is an act of faith now to see this vista in my mind as it will be in a few mere months, green and tossed with the wind, fed by rain and sunshine in its eternal cycle of birth, growth, fire, and rebirth.

...I wish I could stay each morning in 2023, restful and still, to witness each day the morning turn into afternoon, verdant buds opening and following the sun's path, blue skies and fluffy clouds, through evening until the sun passes the earth on to moon.  To feel the freedom of time unshackled from job and errand, to pass the days alongside the grasses and dream of tomorrow beside them, sunshine and moisture in time and abundance, forever and ever.   This is my garden as it begins 2023, this morning, and at least I am here, today, present in the present and hopeful for the coming year.

Welcome to 2023!  Happy New Year to everyone!

Storm of a Lifetime (Not)

Although all the national media is calling the recent storm "The Storm of a Lifetime" or "The Storm of the Century", it is, in ProfessorRoush's experience, not even close, not even perhaps in the top 10 for such platitudes.   Perhaps I'm just jaded and old and tired of the over-copied refrain of panic the media attempts to produce every morning.   NBC's Today Show seems to have "special editions" every day now, and I'm sick of hearing about the nonexistent "Tripledemic" and good Lord, how much I miss the eternally cheery Robin Meade on Headline News.

But, moving along my digression, I personally remember two storms that hit Purdue University my freshman and sophomore years, heavier snowstorms than this which were accompanied by -50ºF wind chills, massive drifts and the first class cancellations Purdue had seen in 50 years.  And snowstorms in Ohio in '83 and '84 when I was a large animal dairy practitioner that closed roads for days and made me worry I would not make it home from a call; or not recover feeling in my frozen toes after a long day of work.  And half-inch-thick ice storms that destroyed trees and hail storms that flattened my garden.  So, as you can see from these pictures yesterday, a pittance of snow, an icy glaze to the blacktop, and -30ºF wind chills aren't nearly enough to be classified as once-in-a-lifetime.   Yes, they're dangerous, but they're certainly not unprecedented in human history.

Not much happening in the garden, these days, of a plantsman's interest, although life still abounds through the winter.  Checking the game cameras, I was pleased to see this handsome fellow along with several does in other pictures.  They don't seem to be coming as frequently as other years, nor have they caused much in the way of damage.

I was less pleased to see this picture, but at least this skunk was out and about in its normal nocturnal pattern instead of rabidly running around in daylight.  That being said, I'm glad it only appeared once in a season's pictures, numbering in the thousands since the summer.

There also seem to be increased numbers of coyotes frequenting the yard recently, even taking a leisurely rest here and there within gaze of the camera.   These two demonstrate the fact that they are aware of the camera, however, their somewhat creepy eyes staring directly at it and retinas reflecting the infrared light.   I've seen them occasionally out in the daylight, most often at dusk, and I do worry about them because they look a little mangy and thin, even for coyotes.   My concern ends, however, each morning and evening as I let Bella out the door and look closely over the edges of the yard, ever vigilant for her safety.

Well, with that all said, I leave you, this year, with "Merry Christmas!" and wishes for a blessed coming new year for everyone!  I'll be back here in January, always hopeful for a perfect garden and gardening year.

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.