Archive for October, 2008

Visiting the Anna Whitcomb Conservatory, Detroit

If you are a plant lover and you’re near the city of Detroit, you’re missing out if you don’t make the trek to Belle Isle (near downtown Detroit) to visit the Anna Whitcomb Conservatory. We go several times a year, and every time we go, I get so caught up in gawking at the plants that I forget to take photos! This time, I was determined to capture at least some of it. I didn’t get any plant names, mostly because I didn’t take the time to search for the plant labels.

About the Conservatory

The Anna Whitcomb Conservatory was founded in 1904, and contains several unique rooms, including the desert habitat, the jungle habitat, a fern grotto and a display garden that changes seasonally. The exterior of the conservatory boasts a newly-restored water lily pond as well as extensive perennial gardens. The conservatory and its gardens are largely maintained by volunteers–and they do an amazing job. I can honestly say I’ve never gone to the conservatory and thought “wow, this looks a little rough.” It is absolute heaven once the weather turns cold.

Entering the Conservatory

The first (and largest) room of the conservatory is the tropical plant habitat. The palm trees here are magnificent—in fact, they’re a little too magnificent. The conservatory just finished an extensive period of repairs and upgrades, including replacing several broken or cracked panes of glass. These palms are in danger of breaking right through the conservatory roof. This will be their final year, and then they’ll be taken out and replaced with younger, smaller specimens.

There are several large banana trees in this area. Besides the luxurious foliage, we saw several bunches of green bananas as well as a couple of flower buds.

The Fern Grotto

The fern grotto is one of my favorite rooms in the conservatory. It is serene and cool. Everywhere you look, you are rewarded with another play of texture against texture. I could honestly spend hours just sitting on the little cast iron bench in this room.

The fern grotto from another angle. You used to be able to walk down a short flight of steps to meander down among the ferns, but they ended up gating off the stairs due to concerns over lawsuits (the moist air in this room is perfect for growing moss—pretty to look at, not so great when you slip on it!).

The Orchids

If I had to choose one spot to visit in the conservatory, it would be the orchid room. The Whitcomb Conservatory (which is owned by the city of Detroit) has a huge orchid collection. In fact, the orchid collection in the Whitcomb is considered to be the largest municipally-owned collection of orchids in the country. I didn’t check names again (too awed to bother reading…) so I’ll just let you enjoy the orchids. All I did was stand there staring. The kids and husband had to move me along

I hope you enjoyed this tour of the Whitcomb! To learn more, check out their website.

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For Your Musical Pleasure…

Even though I work at home now, I still love Fridays. It means the family’s all together for a couple days, and we can either kick back or get a bunch of stuff knocked off of the household “to-do” list. I’m finishing up some work this morning, and thought I’d share a couple favorites from my playlist with you: (Note: if you’re not a rock fan, or object to potty-mouth lyrics, you won’t want to click these )

I love me some Green Day. This is my favorite, and hopefully I can retire it after the election:

Not sure if I like the White Stripes or the Raconteurs better, but today I’m in a Raconteurs kind of mood:

And an oldie (God it’s pathetic to have to say that) but my favorite song of all-time from Nirvana:

Hope you enjoyed it. Have a great weekend, all!

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Eulogy for a Garden Shovel

During better days.

Old friend, we’ve been together a long time, haven’t we? Why, before I even had a yard to garden in, I had you! I still remember the first time I saw you, ash handle gleaming, hanging there in the clearance section at English Gardens. A sixty dollar shovel (well, technically you’re a spade….let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?) on clearance for twenty—I had to have you. I bought you and stored you. You were too strong, overkill for the tiny plot I gardened in back then. If I’d known then what I know now….let’s just say you and I have not had nearly enough time together.

You were perfection. Your short, strong handle matched my stature perfectly. Your blade sank into clay soil as if it were nothing more substantive than butter-cream frosting. Maple roots were no match for you. You had those perfect spots for me to rest my feet while digging—not too big, just right so that I never had sore arches after digging with you. You were my constant garden companion; first tool I reached for whether the day’s task was edging a bed, busting sod, digging holes, or turning compost. You were amazing when it came to spreading compost and mulch, too. Why, every inch of sod that’s been removed from this place is thanks to you!

The result of a gardener’s carelessness.

If only I’d been more careful. If only I’d remembered to give you the care you gave me. When I remember how many times I left you out in the blazing sun, the soaking rain, and (forgive me!) even the snow—well, I’ll never forgive myself. If only I’d oiled your handle more often. If only I’d set you aside and grabbed the garden fork (he’s expendable!) when battling those Siberian irises last weekend.

I can’t tell you, dear one, how sick it made me to hear that final crack, to feel your handle give way and snap in my grip. My first thought was that I could fix you. I could bring you back. One look told me that you were made solidly: ash handle perfectly fitted into steel blade shank, a single strong rivet ensuring that your handle would stay put. You had broken right where the shank began; part of your handle still snuggled securely in its steel shell. There was no fixing you-you had been made to last forever just as you were.

Gardening is so much harder without you. I’ve been working with that yellow shovel (you know the one), but it’s just not the same. It’s been suggested that I run up to Lowe’s and buy a replacement for you, but there’s nothing there that is your equal. You had that perfect combination of beauty and strength that just isn’t found in your local big box.

You’ll still be here in spirit, old friend. We’ll glue your handle back together, and hang you in a place of honor on the side of the garage. After all, you made this garden; it’s only right that you should still be a part of it.

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Wordy Wednesday–The Importance of Pretending

jeltorvski/morguefile

I wrote my first novel when I was fifteen. I sat up all night every night during summer vacation, listening to crickets chirp through the screen in my bedroom window, scribbling furiously on some of the leftover spiral notebooks I’d used during the school year. It was bad. Very bad. Even for a fifteen year old. But something important happened during those three muggy months: I fell in love with writing. It didn’t matter to me so much at the time that the crappy little book I was writing was terrible and full of cliches. What mattered was that I had created a world full of people that existed no where but in my own imagination. Terrified of anyone else finding and reading the thing, I spent a night before school started ripping the pages to shreds. The physical evidence was gone, but the addiction remained. I think the only one that knew what I was up to was my cat.

Love of novels evolved into love of poetry. Maya Angelou, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost. I spent my high school years writing poems about all of those teenage dramas that seem so important at the time. I kept them to myself. I didn’t try any kind of public writing until I signed up for Yearbook in my senior year. I was named Editor, and a spark was lit. I’ve never thanked Ms. Zanni for what she did, the confidence she gave me in that one simple act. Other than Ms. Zanni, the only other person who knew about my love of writing was my future husband, who pushed me to do more and maybe try getting published.

I dabbled. I started college, got married, started working full-time. When I found the time or motivation, I wrote. Then I decided to try a novel again. It was heaven. All of the passion I’d had for writing roared back, and nights found me happily tapping away at my iMac. The novel was better than the first. Still not good, but better. The difference was that I never stopped writing again. I’ve written three novels, and actually went as far as sending one around to agents. No takers, but it was okay. I was writing, and I was getting better.

Something happened during the writing of that novel, which I titled “The Keeper.” I stopped being a dabbler in words and started being a writer. Was I a paid writer? No. Was I a widely published writer? No. I’d been published in a few literary mags and a small gardening magazine. Yet I went to the keyboard or the page every day, acting like there was a deadline, setting word count goals and article submission goals every week.

Fake It ‘Til You Make It

And this is what I’m trying to tell you: you have to believe it first. You have to be the one to say “I’m a writer.” Even if you have to put in eight hours in a factory or office every day. Even if you only manage to write in ten minute bursts when the kids are semi-quiet. Even if you aren’t making a dime or getting any recognition at all from your writing. You have to be the one to stand up and say “I’m a writer.” Take yourself seriously. Don’t waste time waiting for someone to validate your writing. Do it! No one gets published until they’ve put in a hell of a lot of time, written at least a few hundred thousand shitty words, and asked themselves over and over again why they were doing this. This is where the importance of pretending comes in. Pretend you’re a successful writer, in whatever genre you’re interested in, whether it be garden writing, fantasy fiction or political analysis. How would you expect that person to act? How much time would you expect that person to put in. What standards do you think that person would set for the quality of their work? Live by the same standards, and eventually you won’t be pretending.

That was how I got started in garden writing. I wrote several articles kind of as practice, which became the initial offering of articles for In the Garden Online. No one was reading them. I wasn’t anybody. But I wanted to write about the gardening I was addicted to. I made myself put in the time, do the work, and, eventually, put it out there. For well over a year, it sat there, pretty much unread. But I kept doing it, and I kept putting myself out there, and I looked for other avenues (at first unpaid, then paid, then pretty damn well paid) in which to publish my work.

When someone asks now what I do, I have no problem saying “I’m a writer.” And I love it that everyone who knows me introduces me as “This is Colleen. She’s a writer!” You have to keep at it, you have to spend a lot of time pretending you’re something you’re not. You have to take yourself seriously well before anyone else will. It starts with you.

What are your writing dreams? What will it take to accomplish them? Are you willing to do what it takes? Do it!

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it. Begin it now.—Goethe

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Oh, Tiny Farmer’s Market, I Barely Knew Ye….

Allow me to interrupt this slovenly stretch of non-gardenblogging with a political rant, which will probably happen a few times between now and November 4th. If politics don’t do it for you, come back another day!

There’s this little farmer’s market a few miles away from my house. We can find Michigan-grown produce, annuals and herbs there during the growing season, along with plenty of Michigan-produced baked goods, jellies, and sauces. In December, they offer Michigan-grown Christmas trees. In October, Michigan-grown pumpkins. We’ve been shopping there frequently, because it is close and affords us an opportunity to shop and eat locally. The owner is the same person who rings you up when you’ve finished shopping, complete with plenty of pleasant chit-chat while you wait.

Sounds pretty nice, huh?

Anyway, my husband and I packed the girls into the car yesterday and headed over to this little market to get our pumpkins for Halloween. It was mostly empty, and the girls had fun running through the rows of pumpkins and selecting a few to take home with us. They were both a little grumpy (not having slept well the night before) and we figured that having them wait in line to pay for the pumpkins would be annoying for all involved. So I stayed out in the pumpkin area with the girls running around and Elizabeth in her carrier, and my husband went in to pay. A few minutes later, he came out carrying a gallon of apple cider, shaking his head. And not in an “I just heard the funniest joke” type of way.

“What?” I asked as he rejoined us and grabbed a pumpkin.

He glanced at me and shook his head. “It’s a good thing you didn’t come in there with me.”

“Why? How much was it?” I have this reputation for being continually shocked at the price of everything from potatoes to computer components. Even though I go shopping every week. I blame it on my Polish immigrant grandparents, this desire to haggle where there is no room to haggle.

“It wasn’t bad…it wasn’t that.” He started heading toward the minivan. I grabbed one of the pumpkins and Elizabeth, and we all paraded across the parking lot to the minivan. We loaded them in, and once we got in the car, he started to tell me:

“The owner was wearing a McCain-Palin button,” he said. I rolled my eyes. Not surprising, yet not exactly smart either, considering that hippie liberals make up a decent part of this person’s customer base. Surely, he didn’t think I’d blow a gasket over that?

No. But I would have blown a gasket over the owner saying to another customer that even the idea of an Obama presidency is “so scary!” If you aren’t from around here (or you live in a cave) that’s code for “we can’t have one of those people running the country.” The words don’t sound so bad, I suppose. It’s the delivery that gives it away—hard to explain unless you see it often.

My husband also recounted an argument that I’ve never heard before: “Health care isn’t that important.”

I kid you not.

The customer who was so gleefully agreeing with the “scariness” of an Obama presidency had her son with her–who happened to be confined to a wheelchair. According to my husband (who said he couldn’t believe what he was hearing) the owner stated that health care wasn’t that important—she didn’t have health care, and it was just fine with her. The customer said her family didn’t have it either, and waved toward her disabled son “he’s covered by Social Security,” she said.

Sigh.

Where to begin. Possibly with the fact that health care is one of those things that is unimportant until it becomes real important. Possibly with the fact that going without health care should not be a point of pride in this, the most prosperous nation in the world. Possibly with the fact that relying on Social Security while supporting the same people who want to privatize it (hence making it susceptible to the same horrors so many have seen wrought upon their 401 Ks recently) is, maybe, not the smartest thing in the world.

But maybe that’s just me.

What got my husband was not so much what they said, which was misguided enough, but the sheer vitriol in the way they said it. He said he was amazed by how angry they both seemed. We’ve both seen it before in our day-to-day lives—the anger that so many on the right seem to have toward Obama is nonsensical and a bit frightening. He’s right. It’s a good thing I wasn’t there. While he knows that it’s impossible to reason with some people, I will inevitably spend hours banging my head against the proverbial wall, debating, in the belief that some things are so obvious, it’s impossible to see them any other way. He also knows that I am not generally known for my sweet and sunny disposition, at least when it comes to dealing with the bigoted among us.

He said he was out the door, deciding not to spend another dime there, but he ended up paying for the pumpkins and cider. The girls had picked them out, and if you’ve dealt with three and four year olds (especially when it comes to picking out potential jack-o-lanterns) you know they are not a force to be messed with. But we agreed, on the way home, that we will not spend another Vanderlinden cent in that market. Let me be clear—it is not the fact that the owners support McCain and Palin. That doesn’t bother me. Each of us supports the one we believe to be best for this country. But I do not need to support hatred and ignorance.

I can’t explain fully how I feel. I feel sad, and disappointed, and a little helpless. I’m depressed that in this, the 21st century in the United States of America, we still have people who believe that the color of someone’s skin makes them somehow “other” and scary–not like us. We still have the type of ignorance that allows idiots at McCain-Palin rallies to bring a stuffed monkey labeled “Obama” and show it off proudly in public.

Yet, I’m hopeful, too. My children have no sense of “other,” having been raised in an Irish-Polish-German-Puerto Rican-Black family. The teenagers I know have none of the racial hangups my own classmates had, and I graduated high school in the mid 90’s. By all accounts, this country is about to elect a bi-racial man with a funny name President. Bigotry will always exist, but the winds of change are blowing strongly now. Our children will make this world a better place. All we have to do is give them the opportunity to do so.

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From the Archives

Archive for October, 2008

Visiting the Anna Whitcomb Conservatory, Detroit

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For Your Musical Pleasure…

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Eulogy for a Garden Shovel

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Wordy Wednesday–The Importance of Pretending

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Oh, Tiny Farmer’s Market, I Barely Knew Ye….

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