around the rosary

Before "rosary" was applied figuratively to a group of prayers, it meant, literally, a rose garden, or the part of the garden where most of the roses are. Nyah. My rosary is still in its dream stage, with the very great help of Peter Beales's books Classic Roses and Modern Roses, mostly the former. So, herewith a game of ring around the dream rosary.

First up is the Alba rose Mme. Legras de St. Germain, a very long and easily misspelled name for a delightful lady. The flowers are white with just a hint of yellow at the very center, and very fragrant. No thorns! In my dream rosary, she's at the western edge of the bed, just where the postal carrier may brush by her in passing. No catching on his (or her) clothes, she's too much of a lady, but a nice little waft of fragrance s/he won't be able to ignore.

Her handmaid is Dainty Bess, the only Hybrid Tea I'll tolerate. She's a single, i.e. has only 5 petals, a very pretty soft pink, with unusual maroon stamens. Peter Beales says "golden brown", but his books are of England and English weather. In the AARS garden in Milwaukee, WI, her stamens were definitely dark red. I've never grown Dainty Bess, but I'd like to! A tad awkward as all Hybrid Teas, but anyone would be awkward between Mme. above and ...

Tuscany Superb, whom I envision as a very dashing, sexy Italian gentleman. He's a Gallica, with very dark red semi-double blooms that turn purple, real black-violet, as they age and fall. Very fragrant as anyone nicknamed Old Velvet should be. T.S. breaks very late, the latest I've ever had the experience of, but he's well worth waiting for.

Celsiana is a Damask, which Peter Beales believes to be a subset of the Gallicas. Now, I must say I adore the gallica flower forms, and I find the damasks to be a bit untidy, or a lot untidy, in comparison. But I did grow Celsiana once, and she was lovely. Light pink, lots of fragrance of course, and in one flower one summer a second bud grew right out of the middle of the first blossom. There's a name for it, and rosarians dither between calling it a fault or a virtue. I say, the more the merrier, especially if both are lovely, as it was those many years ago.

La Belle Sultane is another Gallica, with 5 very large purplish red petals. Not a lady at all, she sprawls and throws her arms -- er, canes -- all over any of the gentlemen within reach. Hot stuff! Her blossoms can be so big and purple (like T.S., they empurple with age) they can be mistaken for Clematis Jackmanii. Fending her off to the east is ...

Baronne Prevost, a Hybrid Perpetual who would be new to me. He's ranked as the most fragrant rose in cultivation nowadays. The pix show his blossoms to be very large, full, and pink, well able to bear up under the Sultane's enthusiasm.

And nearest the street, I save the best for last, the Gallica rose Charles de Mills. I must admit that for me Tuscany Superb is like an exciting lover, but Charles is like the ideal husband, utterly reliable, faithful, and really fantastic -- a prince among roses. His blossoms are quite fragrant, as you can expect by now, and not very large but very, very full of petals -- classically quartered. A medium-dark rose with silver reverse. It balls in the rain, but oh, how delightful to stand in it afterwards and gently stroke each blossom until the outer, glued petals split apart and the blossom opens up in its fragrance and utter rose-ness. Who says gardening is all dirt?

There are other roses I'd love to grow, but there's only so much space and money. If one of these 7 fails, there's Leda, a Damask rose that opens a very untidy white with reddish tips; Salet, a very pretty pink moss rose; Rosa Mundi, Rosa gallica versicolor, striped red and white; just for starters. In this rosary there's no room for climbers, but there is room elsewhere for Alchymist, the color of whipped honey and remontant in my experience although not in Beales's; Dr. Eckener, a hybrid rugosa bicolor of yellow and pink, fragrant and with extraordinarily vicious thorns; Dortmund, Kordes's masterpiece, a single rose of fire-engine red with a white eye and glossy, utterly pest-free foliage; Applejack, an eglanteria hybrid with semi-double pink flowers and soft green apple-scented leaves; Zephirine Drouhin, a Bourbon that enjoys shade, with double rose-red flowers and a fine scent (and for some reason very available this year); I could go on for hours.

So many roses! So little space!

a charitable act

One summer many years ago, I was feeling a little pinched for cash, so I signed up to deliver phone books. By this innocent act I learned what a truly selfless act was. The day was stifling. The phone books were heavy. No maps were provided, and the one I had on hand was hopelessly obsolete, I'd guess a good half of the addresses weren't on it at all. We were required to not talk to the householders, just drop off the books and go. And we were paid considerably less than minimum wage. So I achieved none of the satisfactions one might reasonably expect to attain on doing any kind of work.
- Exertion was unbearable in the hot, humid, still air, so there was no satisfaction from the physical exercise.
- Contact with other people was forbidden, so there was no chance for the satisfaction of being thanked, or even of achieving a simple "Hello".
- As I never found something like half the addresses I was to deliver to, the satisfaction of having completed a job was absent.
- The act was done on behalf of a major corporation, so there was no satisfaction in working for someone who needed the charity.
- The pay was incredibly low, so there was no satisfaction in collecting it.

Now, I authorize Oxfam to charge a small amount to my credit card every month, first to help with tsunami victims, eventually to help with some other disaster in the world. It requires no exertion on my part, except to email them to say yes, please continue. They thank me every month. They may even send a tax statement! As I need more pumping up in my self-esteem during the year, I write another little check to one or two other organizations. They get my money, and in return I have the satisfaction, with greater or less failure in humility, of obeying my religion's recommendations on almsgiving and the hope of a seat in the nosebleed section of heaven some day.

Which is the greater act of charity? The first, an exercise in futility on behalf of a corporation that neither needed nor appreciated my labor, to accommodate people who took that labor for granted, done neither for a greater good nor, as it turned out, for my own? The second, help given to the truly needy, and the warm fuzzies for the giver? For the second, I get paid in psychological and emotional coin. That's the bottom line for me: I get paid. If a miracle occurs and I get paid enough wages to donate enough money in charity every year, even the government will reward me, with a tax break.

I work for my church now; that is, I labor in return for a paycheck. My take-home pay is less this year than it was last year: my raise, the same percentage increase that everyone at work got, was not enough to cover the increase in medical insurance. The raise was figured as a percentage; the medical insurance increase was a flat amount, thereby hammering the more poorly paid. "To those who have nothing, even that little shall be taken away." Is my church striving to make my work a true act of charity? Will I work for inadequate pay for an organization that does not value my contribution? It's leaning in that direction. Will I be more holy? I will be colder in the winter, as I set my thermostat lower. If you see smoke coming out of my (nonfunctional) fireplace, you will know I'm burning my living room floor to stay warm. (Just call me Cratchit.) Not this winter, fortunately. But -- stay tuned!

who's flying this plane, anyway?

Let's face it: for most people, even -- or maybe especially -- the ones who claim to put God at the center of their lives, God isn't even on the plane, let alone a member of the crew. But what exactly does this "God is my co-pilot" cliche mean?

Well, to put it baldly, the co-pilot doesn't fly the plane: the pilot does. What the co-pilot does is help the pilot fly the plane. He or she does what the pilot tells him/her, and once the plane's at cruising altitude and on auto-pilot, if the pilot wants to take a nap, the co-pilot keeps an eye on the instruments. If the plane flies into trouble, the co-pilot's job is to (wake and) tell the pilot. The pilot is the one who decides what to do and then he/she tells the co-pilot what part of that the co-pilot is to do. The co-pilot obeys or he/she starts reading the employment ads. The only time the co-pilot's actually in charge is if the pilot's incapacitated.

Which is, admittedly, a very accurate description of the relationship most of us have with God, assuming God's on the plane at all, like I said. But is it something to boast about, to say to the world, "I tell God how I want god to improve my life, and by God, god'd better obey because I'm the pilot here"?

If pilot and co-pilot fly together frequently, they may, and I hope do, develop a close working relationship and the pilot may give the co-pilot greater responsibilities. But if the worst happens and they drill a hole in the ground, you'll never hear the FAA talking about "co-pilot error": no, it's the pilot's responsibility entirely to keep the plane in one piece.

Of course what other people plaster to their bumpers, what they mean by it, and whether they pay any attention to it, is their own business. I can take advantage of that cliche and reflect on God's and my relationships with my plane. Is God on my plane? Is god on my planet, for that matter? Do I insist on hogging the pilot's seat, or am I God's co-pilot? Am I on the crew or just a passenger in my own life, and is God merely my stewardess?

Note on pronouns: As they say, God isn't a great big invisible man: god is beyond gender. However, English doesn't have a pronoun that can denote a person who is beyond gender. "It" denies personhood. "He" and "him" are the traditional pronouns, but in actuality they are no more or less correct than "she" and "her"; and there are folks out there who feel desperately threatened by the use of the feminine pronouns to refer to ordinary people, let alone to God! There is the Gullah "shem", but that properly means "he or she, I can't tell from here"; i.e., the person does have gender, the speaker just can't specify at this point. So "shem" would have to undergo an expansion of meaning. So, and I'm not the first, I've started using "god" (note: lower case!) as the only useable pronoun for God. You might have seen other people use "godself" when referring to God, instead of "himself" or "herself". A little back-formation results in "god" substituting for the incorrect "he" and "she", and also substituting for the incorrect "him" and "her".

You don't like it? That's okay with me: you're welcome to come up with your own pronouns. And, of course, to reflect on who's flying your plane.

a pair of young ladies

Blossom is my dearie dear, who took care of me when I needed it most. Her official birthday is Oct. 4, and by that reckoning she's a bit over 5 years old. She's a most lovely tortie-siamese mix, with the tortie fur coloration muted by that creamy siamese coat color. She also has slightly scrambled points: they are cut diamond-wise across her face, in a sort of harlequin design. She's multiple shades of gray and cream, with touches of peach-pink. With a house set at 60 F for the winter, she has grown a very thick, fluffy coat, longer than the typical siamese and very plush. She's small (8.5 lbs) with extremely large dark blue eyes, the round "apple" head of the old-style siamese, well-placed ears, and the short, chunky body of a true tortie. I call her my teddy-bear cat because she's so extraordinarily cuddly. Oh, yes, gray nose, pink toes. Blossom's full name, and she's earned every one of them, is Princess Molly Apple Blossom Mombiter. Her favorite toys involve feathers. She's good at being a slug: her two favorite activities are sleeping and rolling around rumpling up sheets and quilts. She has sheepdog genes and practices the craft on my ankles.

Pixillia N. Sillia Mischief Sunshine Wavingtail, aka Pixie, is just under two years old (official birthday: Apr. 4). She's an American Shorthair, i.e. a commoner, as Blossom takes care to remind us. Very soft white fur with islands of coarser black, gray, and reddish striped fur. She's a star on kittenwars.com: just type in "Pixie" and scroll down until you see 2 identical thumbnails: they're both her! I don't know who put the first photo in. She has very long, thin bones, and enough tail for two cats, but she's only 8.2 lbs so officially smaller than Blossom. When she joined the household as a kitten, her eyes were a rather nasty yellowish green, but as she's matured they've changed to a very clear sparkling peridot. Pink nose, gray toes! As you may guess from her name, she's a very friendly, cheerful, perky little girl, always ready for a nose rub and enjoys being carried around. Nicknames include Imp-fant and Get Away From That! Pixie loves all toys but especially ones that jingle or that move by themselves, like bugs and mom's feet. All grown up now physically, she's still pretty near 100% kitten on the inside. Her two favorite activities include exploring cupboards and leaping up onto high shelves that hold fragile objects.

Pixie also likes to pounce on things and people, and Her Royal Highness seriously disapproves of that sort of thing, but just last night I spotted them curled up, snoozing, almost within touching distance. HRH woke up and glared at Pixie for a moment before removing herself from the contagion, but I have hopes that they'll end up being buds, especially once Pixie enters slugdom.

into the garden

My little bit of property is a 50x150' lot. The house and carport take up about 30x40' of it, which leaves a front yard about 45x50' and a back yard about 65x50'. The back yard also has a little bit of a slope partway down, with flat areas right behind the house and at the back end of the property. Alongside the house, on the N side, there's only about 5' off the boundary, and 15' on the S side, much taken up with paths. The back yard is fenced.

Yesterday being sunny (sunny garden, rainy quilt, ya know), I raked some leaves away from the house. I should point out that gardening mavens are saying that one needn't rake all the leaves off the grass in the fall, or rather, it depends what your leaves are. Most of mine have been maple leaves, which will decompose over the winter. Therefore it's good for the lawn to leave the leaves on it. As I raked yesterday I saw some leaves with little pinholes all over, spaced with machine-like precision. So I'm happy to take the mavens' word for it. Oak, btw, takes a lot longer to decompose, so if you have oak leaves, you'd better rake. My neighbors have oak leaves, which mean there are oak leaves among my maples, so it's really inertia and not obedience that keeps the leaves on the lawn most of the winter.

I raked the leaves off the flower bed nearest the house, in the front, plus a 4-foot space from the front door to the driveway, in order to lay pavers for a sidewalk. Now, I already have a sidewalk. It runs from the front door straight toward the street -- but it stops cold about 10' away from the street. That is, it goes nowhere. I had all kinds of elaborate plans for it, but they all take money, which I don't have. Yesterday's, and today's, plan is that I lay a new sidewalk myself from the front door to the driveway, and that I use the old sidewalk as a border for my future rose bed, and scatter attractive pots along it and plant annuals & maybe a veg or two, in a most artfully casual and fetching way. Now, to paraphrase the song "There Was an Old Lady", I raked the leaves to expose the grass, I exposed the grass to lay the pavers, I laid the pavers to make the sidewalk -- along which the postman can walk. So I laid 20 pavers, but I didn't dig out the sod like I was supposed to: I just laid the pavers right on top of the grass. So? I have moles. They'll cause the pavers to subside into the lawn very nicely. You should see what they did to the patio in the back yard! My next task is to buy more pavers, 58 in all, to make a 20x3.5' walk, a herringbone basketweave sidewalk with little triangular edges in which I can grow thyme, creeping jenny, clover, and suchlike. And next winter I can shovel this sidewalk instead of the grass, so the postman doesn't slip and break something and the USPS collects alot more from me than 39c per letter.

The maple tree, btw, is toast: it was badly damaged in a snow storm in Nov. 2004, and rather than pay big bucks to prune out the damage then, and then big bucks in a few years to cut it down altogether in pursuit of my 30-year garden plan, I paid the big bucks to cut it down this fall. Not soon enough to keep the leaves from piling up. Next year I'll have only oak leaves and then I'll have to get off the couch and rake them up. Meanwhile, I plan to put a Cladrastis kentukea (American yellowwood, native to NW Missouri) in the middle of the front yard, clear of power lines, sidewalks, and maple roots; and a witch hazel, a spring-blooming variety, right next to the front door in front of the chimney bricks that go all the way down to the ground. IMO that'll make a pretty picture, golden-yellow and/or orangey flowers blooming against all that red brick. The bed already has daylilies & irises and I plan to put in more, plus roses (Alchymist and Applejack, if you must know), asters, and crawlies like the creeping jenny, wild violets, thyme, etc. But this spring it's only the 2 trees, and annual seeds broadcast with wild abandon, to duke it out with weeds.

quilt idea percolating

The current idea is a bargello quilt, with an island dotted with fussy-cut stars. The island is a mottled white fabric. Fabrics north of the island are 6 yellow, orange, and red fabrics, from v dark red calico to white with orange and purple thread-like squiggles. Includes a neon-bright yellow/red floral batik, a v pretty pink/sage/cream/white v busy rose floral, and a mottled pink/yellow. Fabrics south of the island are 6 green/tan/blue fabrics, from v dark blue batik with dime-sized golden blobs to an art deco pale pink poppy floral, with blue-sage leaves and off-white bkdg. Includes a gorgeous cobalt, turquoise, nile green, and goldy tan print of, of all things, grasshoppers, butterflies, moths, scorpions, leaves, and wheat ears; a blue/orange v busy butterfly print; and a v ugly acid green & acid pink batik. Truly blech but if I leave it out the fabric sequence is seriously blah. So it's in. Just don't ask me to wear it.

Stranded in the island will be, I hope, fussy-cut stars. At least one will overlap onto the border somewhere. All the conventionally patterned fabrics would make interesting f-c stars, esp the bug fabric focussing on the wheat ears.

The whole package sounds like it'll have a lot of zing, but if I use pastels for the f-c stars, it'll be more restful. The f-c stars will pull most of the attention away from the brighter fabrics.

The border's a problem. Bargello's a busy pattern, f-c stars ditto, but I do not want to slap some strips around it and call it done. Ricky Tim's style (Convergence whatsit) looks like a possibility, but I don't want to buy his book to find out how he does it and then create my own version. (No money.) Also whatever I choose should, at this stage, go nicely with f-c stars crossing the boundary btw the medallion and the border. And if I go f-c crazy, the border should be compatible with more f-c stars scattered here & there.

Today's title for this quilt is "Doppler Shift," which should be obvious, but not as obvious as "Milky Way," which I blush to admit I considered for all of about 18 seconds.

And -- I'll get started on it right away! I mean, as soon as the quilt back for "Refractions" is done, and I've got exchange blocks to make, not to mention laying a sidewalk and feeding the cats. Oh, and work, too.