An Insider's Garden

Winter has gone and done it. We're rising above zero for our lengthening daylight hours, but descending to negative teens deep into the long night. The sun is low, brilliant reflected off the snow, and surprisingly warm at your back.  

Brought on by a concern for agave and prickly pear cactus we were given while visiting New Mexico last April, I've chosen to be a better house plant care giver. As a gardener, most people are surprised to hear I don't care much for houseplants. I prefer plants that take care of themselves and felt fairly confident that the desert succulents would survive outside as long as they were protected from moisture and cool temperatures, in essence -the damp. With all that has been going on, our gardens were not quite ready for such attention to detail, so we brought the potted agave and opuntia in, situating them under the south-facing windows, where only the tree trunks get in the way of their much needed light.

With our extended summer and then autumn, I was able to pot up parsley and cilantro well after a hard freeze. These herbs are tough, out of doors, but inside they have become languid. There isn't a window in the house that could give them all they want.

Betsy had potted Lantana out in the yard, and brought it in. I balked as it dried to a crisp, and then, in utter darkness, new leaves sprouted. Me and my balking. Afterward I recollected all the weedy Lantana growing street side and hill side in Florida during the dry winter.

Rosemary came in, growing as it's snipped, and preferring more sun. The Norfolk pine, Araucaria, somehow, can hardly believe it, survived a move from a sunny-ish window in humid Brooklyn to a dry, very dry west-facing window in our house with only some crispy golden needles as casualty. The purple Oxalis, reaching for the window, has been with me for nearly 20 years. It's been dead several times, or so I thought -a little water brings it back to life. Asparagus fern is in there too, came in from the cold, and is as carefree as the one I had in a pot on a landing in New Mexico. Finally, I should recuse myself from speaking about the Cyclamen because a) this is not my favorite kind (I prefer the gloriously scented variety) and b) I bought it at the Home Depot (never buy plants at the box store). Almost immediately its leaves began yellowing, although flower production kept up. Undoubtedly due to atmospheric conditions in the dry home but maybe light and let's just call it seasonal affective disorder. I think it is unsure what season it is, or not, however we can agree that the Cyclamen is pretty but moody.

We cure ourselves of that kind of difficult with this kind of easy -a hanging planter filled with spider and pothos, Epipremnum aureum. The pothos was ripped from the painted wall of our apartment in Brooklyn, wrapped in damp paper towel. stuffed into a small water bottle, and forgotten in the cab of a truck somewhere in Illinois, overnight, nearly snuffed out from freezing temperatures, then left in a bottle of water for 9 months, until planting it in this hanging basket. The pothos is one tough plant.

All that is required now is to build a proper shelf to support our collection of tough and finicky. Like many things these days, I will think it, and several months later it will happen.

The Chorus

I would be lying if I said that I was perfectly at home in our new environment. It took nearly four months for me to use the word 'home' to describe where we return to. It's not that the land isn't beautiful, clearly it is, or that I am not grateful for the house inherited by us, because I am. I think that it's largely the overwhelming change: leaving our home of nearly fifteen years, all of our ritualized attractions, each place taken in to distract from problems or ourselves, to quiet the disquieting internal dialogue. We've left friends and family (although some family is here) and the reassuring comfort they bring. We've removed ourselves from the network of artist acquaintances that, at the very least, give us the sense we are part of an art "world." Finally, we left our university positions -my wife, adjunct professor at several universities, and myself, university adjunct professor and staff. Like nearly all artists we know, we also must work to pay life's expenses and do the things we want to do. About our move to Minnesota, work is the great, looming question.

At times it feels that it may be easier to land a position as CEO of a corporation than a university professorship. Despite the odds, my wife, with great fortitude, luck, and experience has made it to the final four in a local university faculty search. I acknowledge my bias, but it is well known across a spectrum of university administrators, students, faculty and artists that she is a great professor, artist and role model. She'll be interviewing with several people and giving demonstrations next week. There will be dinners with faculty, lunches with students, campus walk and talks. The whole process is an interview. Although one candidate of four, she may just have a fifty fifty shot at getting the call. If selected, we can move forward here with greater confidence.

If you pray, put in a word for her, us. If you cross fingers for luck, now's a good time to cross 'em. After next week, the months worth of work she has put into this application will be done and we wait. By May, possibly sooner, we'll know.

In the lull I offer the male Western Chorus Frog*, Pseudacris triseriata. singing their greatest hit, "Looking for love in all the wet places..." and the chuckling quack of the Wood Frog, Lithobates sylvaticus, who can hardly take it.

*The species may be the Boreal Chorus Frog, Pseudacris maculata. There are minor physical differences, like slightly shorter legs, that account for differences in species or subspecies nomenclature of North American Chorus Frogs. They are easy to hear and hard to find, and I'm perfectly okay with being mostly right on this one.