I have mud on my knees and dirt in my hair, but I also have a rose bed-in-progress in the back garden. Oddly enough, those three things are related.
Perhaps you have heard me speak of how
cold and
long this past winter was in my neck of the woods. Yes, my jaunt to London/Brussels/Reims offered a delightful taste of Spring in
March but upon returning home I was thrust back into veritable Hibernation. It was in these days that I developed the fiercest of loves for
roses. It was not long thereafter that I Promised Me A Rose Garden.
Fast forward a month-and-a-half to the present and you will find me with no less than five of the rosy little darlings (three Floribundas and two precious David Austins) snuggled up in the sunroom but longing to stretch their roots out in a proper garden -- that doesn't exist yet. Oh, it exists
in potentia, it's just that at present it's covered by sod. This is where the digging comes in.
This is the part of the show that finds me on my hands and knees hacking cathartically (read:
viciously) at the turf with my beloved
Ho-Mi -- a smallish handplow of Bronze Age Korean origin that can move mountains (eventually, I suppose.) "No, thank you," I say to the nice lady from the building out back who stops by to offer me a better shovel, "I'm fine." And I am. Back to it --
Hack, hack, hack.
With each stroke the Ho-Mi bites into the turf. Slowly -- and with effort -- the top layer of sod rolls up like a carpet and peels away from the yellow-grey clay beneath. Right now I could kick whoever decided to put SW Ontario on top of this clumpy, clammy, unforgiving stuff. I silently curse both geology and the settlers of New France. Living on the bottom of an ancient ocean is nowhere near as cool as it sounds.
The work grows easier with time. In the process I forget myself and lapse into all those (I like to think
charming, but I could be wrong) habits that I have -- talking to insects, apologizing to plants, chatting up the kitties that wander down the walk. I half-wonder what the neighbours must think, and then quickly forget all about it.
I always lose track of time when working out here. When I pop back in the house for a glass of water I am always shocked at how much time has gone by. I don't mind too much -- it feels wonderful to get my hands dirty.
Back outside, back to work. I begin to sing. I can't help this as much as I can't help telling the worms I meet how much they're going to like living in my vegetable bed. Over time I've noticed that two songs in particular float to the surface while I'm gardening:
Snowbird's
Where Foxes Hide and
The Real Tuesday Weld's
Daisies. I'm sure the neighbours are
terribly impressed now.
It doesn't matter, really -- they don't have to be madly in love with me. I just hope that they enjoy the garden as much as I do.
Some of you might like to know that this is my fourth TRTW-inspired sock pattern -- some of you may have lost track. I'm not even sure why I'm still keeping track any more, myself. Old habits die hard.
Once again assorted bits of fingering-weight yarn come together to create a riotous -- but still masculine -- sock. In fact, these are probably the most (only?) masculine socks you'll ever see with hot pink angora/merino in.
In the hopes of hastening them on their journey into the afterlife and eventual rebirth - I have marigolds waiting to occupy the very same real estate - I snipped their fading blossoms off. While doing so I caught myself singing some of the mopier bits from The Smiths' classic The Queen is Dead. How's that for a memento mori -- or should that be a memento Morrissey?
"...FULL..."
...of Malabrigo.
The blue faience hippo (aka. William) socks will be out very, very soon. You will be notified.
These delightful slippers are none other than the Hopsalots by Stephanie Dosen (aka. tiny owl knits.) They are adorable -- both as bunnies and as footwear. Clearly, she's outdone herself this time!
After chasing the bunnies around the back garden for some time, I bundled them into a shoebox (with air holes poked in) and gave them a carrot to share while they made the five-minute trip chez Anna.
I think I frightened her a little when I handed her the box, told her that I found "them" out back and to open it -- slowly and carefully.
You do remember William, yes? And his eponymous mittens? Well they're about to be joined by coordinating footwear -- convenient for those of you who live in places where one doesn't need mittens -- or for those who just love hippos.
At present I'm scratching that itch by spending time with the denizens of my newly-planted Rose Garden.
Will this current infatuation come out in my work? That remains to be seen. You will forgive me if it does, yes?
I do hope so.
Perhaps you have heard me speak of how cold and long this past winter was in my neck of the woods. Yes, my jaunt to London/Brussels/Reims offered a delightful taste of Spring in March but upon returning home I was thrust back into veritable Hibernation. It was in these days that I developed the fiercest of loves for roses. It was not long thereafter that I Promised Me A Rose Garden.
Fast forward a month-and-a-half to the present and you will find me with no less than five of the rosy little darlings (three Floribundas and two precious David Austins) snuggled up in the sunroom but longing to stretch their roots out in a proper garden -- that doesn't exist yet. Oh, it exists in potentia, it's just that at present it's covered by sod. This is where the digging comes in.
This is the part of the show that finds me on my hands and knees hacking cathartically (read: viciously) at the turf with my beloved Ho-Mi -- a smallish handplow of Bronze Age Korean origin that can move mountains (eventually, I suppose.) "No, thank you," I say to the nice lady from the building out back who stops by to offer me a better shovel, "I'm fine." And I am. Back to it -- Hack, hack, hack.
With each stroke the Ho-Mi bites into the turf. Slowly -- and with effort -- the top layer of sod rolls up like a carpet and peels away from the yellow-grey clay beneath. Right now I could kick whoever decided to put SW Ontario on top of this clumpy, clammy, unforgiving stuff. I silently curse both geology and the settlers of New France. Living on the bottom of an ancient ocean is nowhere near as cool as it sounds.
The work grows easier with time. In the process I forget myself and lapse into all those (I like to think charming, but I could be wrong) habits that I have -- talking to insects, apologizing to plants, chatting up the kitties that wander down the walk. I half-wonder what the neighbours must think, and then quickly forget all about it.
I always lose track of time when working out here. When I pop back in the house for a glass of water I am always shocked at how much time has gone by. I don't mind too much -- it feels wonderful to get my hands dirty.
Back outside, back to work. I begin to sing. I can't help this as much as I can't help telling the worms I meet how much they're going to like living in my vegetable bed. Over time I've noticed that two songs in particular float to the surface while I'm gardening: Snowbird's Where Foxes Hide and The Real Tuesday Weld's Daisies. I'm sure the neighbours are terribly impressed now.
It doesn't matter, really -- they don't have to be madly in love with me. I just hope that they enjoy the garden as much as I do.
