I am drinking coffee from my Finnish cup. Espresso really, with a thick mound of foamed half and half crowning the hot, strong brew. Just one cup. This is not an indication of any resolute self-discipline, it’s just that the double shot satisfies me for the day. This cup of morning routine is prepared only after Bob Kilgore eats his morning treats. First, he sits and extends his paw in a high-five, with the only, almost obedient look he will express all day. Then the treats are proffered. This morning my hand scooped five from the bin. One fishie-shaped and four small rectangles, they look like tiny, shredded wheat, but burnt. He crunches his way through, as I crack open the can of tuna pate that he favors and plop it into the Peter Rabbit bowl. Only then dare I turn to the cabinet for a small glass to use for a swig of juice. Nearly every day I think “I ought look for smaller juice glasses” as I rarely drink a full glass. These French workingman glasses are ones I purchased twenty-eight years ago. They are familiar to me, and I still like them. My brain seems to think I could use a change in the drinking container department, but thus far, I am not moved to enact on that change.
We’ve come to the patio, and I have unrolled the bamboo shade that blocks morning sun from blazing onto the covered area. The shade and the ceiling fan spinning in the rafters extend the amount of time I can sit here on this old wrought iron chair and watch Bob prowling his domain. He pads over the garden pathways, disappearing behind tall stands of Phlox and blooming Abelia. Into the far corners, peering out under the brick garden wall, down each side of the house, his kitty feet silent on crunchy granite and flagstones. Sometimes he will sit down close to one gate or the other, staring at it, or staring back at the yard. Bob meanders and pauses his way through the morning routine, much as I do. Soon he will be in one of three spots; on his back on the inner patio, paws in the air; curled up, in deep snooze on one of the cushioned chairs near the door, the chairs that we purchased in haste a few years ago. I regret the purchase as they do not sit well with my aesthetic, but Bob really likes a nap in one or the other, or out here on the open patio with me, on a gray, gingham cushion that pad the seats of the wooden Adirondack chairs. The Adirondacks once sat on our front lawn, in the shade of large trees, creating a cool oasis for a glass of tea or evening martini. The other patio chairs are these three wrought irons with one ottoman, once my parents’ patio chairs, now ours. They are nearly fifty years old, and we’ve had them long enough that the replacement cushions we had made years ago, are now sunk a bit in the center, the covers fading softly. I seem less than inclined to replace them either. I’m a little worn around the edges too, probably a little outdated. I’m hoping not to be replaced.
The birds come in pairs, sometimes a trio. Not in flocks as they did when the bird feeders were kept filled. The feeders came down when a rat began to enjoy the fast-food lanes here in The Mildscape, and decided to become a squatter in an area of the fence where the pickets are doubled. I could not abide with a rat and spent weeks creeping through the garden in dread, shrieking one evening when something jumped and leapt away - it was a bunny. Funny, I can spot a snake curled up round the Coreopsis, or lying in the cool under the Crape Myrtle, and carry on calmly. But one glimpse of a rodent, and a total of six visible pellets of poop, and walking out the back door turned from my comfort zone to a state of unease for a good month. The feeders came down and before long all signs diminished, and I have carried on. The Finches still occasionally arrive in numbers atop the wall exclaiming loudly and with fervor, I’m certain voicing their disappointment in me. They must search for their food in the garden these days, no more silver platter. Still, the others come too, the Cardinals, a Blue Jay, Chickadees. I keep the birdbaths filled for their refreshment and splashing.
As I backtracked to add to a paragraph above, a most pleasant treat played itself out in the garden. I heard the morning chip chip cheep of the male Cardinal. He swooped from his perch on the wall, pausing atop the hook that holds the hummingbird feeder, to the rail of the tall, obelisk that allows a Clematis to climb. Stating his intention firmly, he landed in the small rock basin grounded just in front of a clump of Society Garlic and tipped his beak to the water several times before splashing thoroughly in the small pool. I will need to add more water before I go in so there will be enough through this hot day for other creatures. We have a large bath also, though it is tall, and the toads cannot reach that one. At the same time of the extended splashy bathing, a hummingbird swooped in. In the quiet of this morning, I hear the birds before they are sighted, even the Hummingbirds with the tiniest little chitter, and if they are close enough, the whirring buzz of wings. The little guy stopped at that same clump of Society Garlic, before dashing over to a Skullcap to test its diminutive blooms, then spotting the deep fuchsia bracts of the Bougainvillea; hovering at the center of each. He is as enchanted as I at the delicate, brightly colored leaves that surround the tiniest flower.
The small moments satisfy me, though I experience them nearly every day. There is no replacing the peace of the quiet scene. In this summer heat that makes garden chores onerous, these points in time keep my heart glad that the garden endures.
24 July 2024
Reprinted from The Blue Ribbon News
The B.O.B. and I were at a local garden center to get a bag of rock last evening. A woman was perusing the multitudes of varying types of bags of soil, with dazed confusion in her eyes. She approached us and asked my husband, “Sir, can you give me some advice on soil?” Of course, my husband said “You need to talk to my wife. She’s the pro.” He wandered off to locate a flatbed cart and she and I talked soil. I looked at the bags she had piled into a cart, asked a few questions to determine what she was going to use it for; and advised that it should work just fine and some Bermuda seed on top would resolve her snafu in no time. I’m ever open to sharing whatever bit of gardening experience I have with others.
This morning, I was thinking about the garden. Well, yes. I think about the garden every morning. Rephrase: This morning, I was pondering about where my gardening passion roots from.
My style comes from my mom. The way I dress myself and my home, are reflections of Mom. While I did not develop an exact replica of her particular panache, my style sense is Mom with variations. Her home always had elegance that was perfectly comfortable.
My ways of housekeeping are straight from Mom’s handbook. It’s evident in small things - hand towels hung nicely. A wastebasket is fine on its own no plastic grocery bag for a liner. The kitchen trash can is tucked away in a cupboard (for this, a paper grocery bag was acceptable for lining; I have converted to a plastic kitchen bag.) Mom did not have a good sense of organization or maybe she was savvy and pretended; because from my preteen years, I was the kitchen cupboards organizer. Even after I married, she would ask me to come organize her pantry.
Couch pillows are plumped up after sitting, not left squashed and flattened. Coasters are used under drinks. Beds are made. Period. I make the bed every day. (Except occasionally on a Sunday we will have “half make” day; meaning the sheets and blanket are pulled up and smoothed, pillows plumped, and coverlet or quilt folded at the bottom. Just in case I decide to indulge in a Sunday nap.) There is no point in creating a pretty bedroom with inviting bedding, if what you see when entering a room is a big ol’ mess of sheets and blanket on the bed.
When windexing (the word Windex was used in our house as a verb) the windows, wash up and down, no swirling. However, looking at the state of my unwashed windows, perhaps we ought to skip over appropriate stroke methods and discuss regularity.
Throw rugs must be shaken, not vacuumed. I sneakily fought against this rule as the child-cleaning helper, and it always came back to bite me when the inspector walked through. Now I’ll admit, this one is true; excepting my Persian type rugs which are quite large. I could easily suffocate attempting to shake one, much less picking one up. Those get a gentle vacuuming.
Draperies hanging correctly is a biggie. Ensure when purchasing or making curtains to allow enough fabric for gathering across, never pulled flat across a window. That’s tacky.
Mom loved to read, and when spare time allowed, would rather hole up somewhere with a book than be out in a garden. I remember whiling away hot summer afternoons in Michigan lolling on the couch together, reading books while my baby sisters napped. This pastime often included a homegrown tomato, eaten like an apple with a side of salt shaker. For my older sister, it would be a spoon of peanut butter with an apple (consumed with loud crunching to annoy her younger sister.) Library trips were a weekly event, I never left the library without with my arms piled high. In fact, I came home today with six books, window washing be damned! I still love to read and can easily spend a morning or afternoon ignoring my to do list (which can be quite liquid) immersed in a book. And re-reading favorite books. Mom did, and I do too. I love revisiting a favorite tale and familiar characters fondly.
I see Mom’s influence in the places I shop and the products I purchase. But Mom was not the gardener in our house.
My dad most assuredly passed on gardening to me. Not purposefully but certainly by osmosis.
Dad loved fishing and lake life; my youngest son inherited his passion for fishing. Dad was a builder - not as a career, but on weekends and vacations. He built my parents’ retirement cottage, with help from family and friends.
Dad liked to cook, and I did not inherit that gift. I cook, but I don’t really like to. There was a period when he owned an industrial plumbing supply, and he had the warehouse built out with a small kitchen. The grill in the warehouse was burning nearly every day, grilling up pork chops, steaks, burgers, sides in the kitchen. He fed the staff lunch several days a week. I worked there for a year or so, while my kids were in school. The boys loved to spend sick days or after school time at the office with me. Or rather - in the warehouse where dad kept a go-kart for them to ride.
Dad discovered Sam’s Club and shopped with gusto. In the days when they were business only accounts, he kept the kitchens at work, lake-house and home, and sometimes my home, stocked up with cases of fizzy seltzer drinks, huge pots of jam, and mega sized jars of spaghetti sauce that would be doctored up for quick suppers.
Dad had a penchant for landscaping, trimming trees, spacing and planting shrubs and bedding areas. I remember in two homes, one in Michigan one in Texas, he laid beautiful brick patios. I’d give anything to have one. Certainly, this is where my eye for flagstone pads and paths is derived. I much prefer a stone or brick patio to concrete. Dad grew a beautiful Pyracantha vine that he worked with patience, training it to grow against the house. I have a visual of dad coming in the house after a morning of yard work, hot and sweaty. Like Dad, I pour with sweat while working outdoors. I am not a pretty, Martha Stewart gardener by any means.
For a number of years, before retiring out to the lake, my folks lived in a zero-lot line home, and yard areas were quite small. In the backyard was a huge oak, and Dad built a tree house within the branches for my two boys and their cousin. In the long, narrow side yard, banked with glass doors, he created an oasis with dwarf bushes, ground covers and vines espaliered along the fence. Cushioned patio chairs were a comfy place for a cool drink in the evenings. Those chairs are still in use, on my patio. Dad dug a small, sweet garden in an outdoor nook at his final home at the lake, surrounded with stone and with small boulders scattered between perennials and bushes. I have several of those boulders in my garden.
Though I never had to help my dad work in the yard, somehow, I must have attained my gardening madness him. My workhorse tendencies certainly came from Dad.
Auntie Ree, Mom’s sister, was a gardener. I did not recall this until one of my last visits with her, at her home in Upper Michigan. Her flower beds were plentiful and colorful, and though it was October, I could see her work, and her joy reflected in them. Our very last visit was at my previous home, here in Texas. She viewed my gardens and we talked and talked about the plants.
Some years ago, I had a floral design business, the other side of gardening; flower arranging. My workdays were spent flowering weddings, memorial and event flowers, creating daily arrangements and for special occasions. Auntie Ree shared with me that, as a young woman, she was often called upon to “flower the weddings” in her small town, using blooms from her own yard, gardens of friends, and foraged on Michigan roadsides, where they are plentiful in summer. It seems much of my floral and garden sense must have come from Auntie Ree too, or some shared gene.
I did not know my grandparents well but am told by cousins that my paternal grandmother was creatively wordy. I have memories of letters from her and regret that the boxful I’d kept was lost somewhere along the way. Perhaps my writing gift may be from Grandma. I have a recollection of my paternal grandfather when I was a young child; in his backyard near the grape trellis, whistling to the birds and holding out his hand - they would fly over and perch there. I recall a sense of whimsy that passed to me.
It’s interesting how even aunties and uncles can come through in our personas, as do mothers, fathers, and grandparents. Where did my gardening passion stem from? A little here a little there.
I had contact with several fledgling gardeners this week, as I was giving away perennials dug from my garden to go into their gardens, allowing my garden a little breathing space. My best advice on starting a garden is: start small. You can always expand. My constant refrain when talking gardening is Texas is: amend your soil; and take wisdom from old gardeners!
Happy Summer Solstice!
20 June, 2024
Reprinted from Blue Ribbon News
Reprinted from Kukka in the Blue Ribbon News
April 25, 2024
I can see no way that we will get through the season without me writing about the garden, so let’s do this now. The Mildscape is in glorious full bloom in the third week of April. How can I neglect mentioning vibrant Roses, sweet Dianthus, Cat Mint tipped in a purple haze, Lemon Thyme round, mounded, and beginning to bloom the tiniest flowers. Summer Phlox are just about to burst into bloom and heavenly daze – that Peggy Martin Rose is a beauty! So many perennials and roses are blooming, that while walking through the garden, the sweetest, delicate scent wafts round. Bob Kilgore is already spending a good deal of time pawing, rubbing on, and just lying underneath his Abelias, with somewhat of a drunken demeanor about him. Their aura drives him mad. (I feel I must remind y’all that Bob Kilgore is our kitty, not my husband, for good measure.)
The garden is not without work unless you have a gardener. Around here the title is all mine. It’s nearly impossible for me to sit outdoors and just enjoy the lovely surround without leaping up to grab clippers or acquiring dirty hands from pulling an errant runner of grass or a weed. Still, this spring has been the least laborious in the three-year history of The Mildscape. Planting perennials amidst Drift Roses, flowering bushes, evergreen bushes, and trees, is key for the ambience to stretch through the seasons; with layers of texture and colors, and a few annuals popped in each year for extra splash!
Ironically, after starting to write about this year of least effort, the fates (make that the pests) have stepped into the garden. The other morning, I wandered out for a close check, after being challenged to produce photos of flaws in the garden. Believe me, The Mildscape is not perfect, but I’m puffed up enough to post photos of the pretty things, not the ugly. To my dismay, I discovered the lower innards of two roses being chewed bare, I feared the bagworms I battled last summer were back to chow down. I grabbed a bottle of garden pesticide and plunged into the fray, in my flannel robe, spraying. Thank heavens I did not make the discovery in the front beds, as some of the neighbors already question my sanity. I foolishly believed I had eradicated them last year. I’d made my way through every bush, tree, and bloom in the garden last July, plucking each bagworm (ugh) I discovered, dropping them in soapy water, and spraying to get rid of them. But here they are again. Fortunately, I’d had some forethought that I ought to do some preventative spraying and had just ordered more of the potion to keep the nasty boogers away. Hopefully I’ve contained the problem. I was bemoaning the temporary reduction in coral roses and reminded myself to look at the big picture. The big picture is lovely, and those two rose bushes will soon bounce back for blooming through the fall. Whenever I feel too heady about the loveliness in The Mildscape, I am brought to my knees by a pest or malady to keep me humble.
Though The Mildscape might appear an established garden, my twiddling with “infrastructure,” i.e. stones for pathways and borders, and trellises, etc., is never-ending. In early spring I try to do the bulk of transplanting and moving perennials, though there is an abundant Coreopsis crowding a spot now, that will be moved as soon as she has finished her first bloom. I have a space waiting just for her.
My planting is complete for the season - before the beginning of May. I have declared my statement of No More Plants (this season - an important caveat.) I’ve been to the nursery and other garden centers for gardening plunder, at least four times since, and have not purchased one new plant. That is unprecedented behavior, and I should be commended. Except, I stumbled across a forgotten, large terra cotta pot in the side yard yesterday, and now I’d like to fill it with a mix of plants for the front porch. Perhaps I could be granted just a small forbearance from my declaration. I was doing so well abstaining but there’s only so long a gardener can do it. (And I still have that five dollar off coupon for May. There’s no point in wasting that.)
When I indicate the work in the garden has been at a minimum, I’m probably making a huge understatement because there is still mulch to put down, deadheading, fertilizing, spraying fungicidal oil, stonework, trimming to keep the jungle at bay. Yesterday I had a pathway project I was chomping to get completed before hot weather sets in. I firmly told myself three hours max (to minimize the likelihood of exhaustion and pain.) When finished with the planned tasks, I sat to rest and looked at the time. Amazing. Done in two and one-half hours. Good call! Until my gardener brain set to spinning and I thought, I might as well use that other allotted half-hour. One hour and fifteen minutes later, I ceased toiling. Three hours later I was popping a couple of OTC tablets from the medicine cabinet to assuage the aches and pains. I do know it’s going to happen. My hubs knows it’s going to happen, and if he knows I’ll be working outdoors, valiantly implores me not to work too hard. I intend to go easy, really, I do.
Not everyone needs be the possessed gardener that I am. A small flowerbed is likely much wiser than my large undertaking. The work though, takes my mind and puts it on relax, thoughts spin away and I am left with simply the garden work. Good for the spirit.
My husband stands at our bedroom window, gazing out at The Mildscape, every morning before he heads off for work. This morning, he said “It’s sure pretty. I don’t know what all I am looking at out there, but it looks good!”
How quickly the seasons have passed in this place. It has been a stellar spring out in The Mildscape. Spring is a time of glory in everyone’s garden. I remain in awe of the flourishing flowers and plants. I was considering taking up needlework again, as it would be easier on the old body. I’d probably just embroider flowers anyway.
23 April 2024
Happiness is a place between too much and too little. - Finnish Proverb
Happiness is continuing to desire what we already have. - Saint Augustine.
The above quotes are favorites of mine. The first, a Finnish Proverb, is one that has rolled around in my spirit for years. Not only because I am a Finnish American, but because of just what the quote reflects. Contentment. Though brief, it says it all, speaks right to who I am and is an enduring tenet in my life. “Happiness is a place between too much and too little.”
The second quote, I just heard recently. We headed out to the movies on a Saturday and enjoyed two hours and sixteen minutes immersed in a sublime, sumptuous, gorgeous movie. The movie ‘The Taste of Things’, is mesmerizing and stunning. I won’t give you a review as you can find plenty of them. I’d sure make a point to see it if I were you!
The quote by Saint Augustine was shared near the end of the movie. Hearing it and reading it often since, fills me with a sense of joy, of holding the life we have in such high regard; of the solid warmth of knowing the good things in our lives, of fires that continue to burn within. When we find we’ve no reason to change much and are happy in our own, unique lives. “Happiness is continuing to desire what we already have.”
I’ve not much else to profess about these quotes, but I wanted to share their beauty with you.
It’s magic time in Texas. Everybody and their sister are writing about wildflowers. The past two weeks have brought a bright smile of spring to life, with more on the way. Displays of wild Daffodils and Jonquils are abundant in fields, pastures and on roadsides. Redbuds are blooming in town and out in the country, creating a purply mauve haze, and a row of Bradford pears, poofing out clouds of white blooms, is pure inspiration.
The bluebonnets should be here anytime now, I hear they are already out in Big Bend, the Hill Country, and popping up here and there, east in Rusk. Wildflowers of every color will bring forth oohs and ahhs.
With the meadows greening and blooms abounding on the sides of roads, in pastures, woods, and gardens, this is a most beautiful time of year, in Texas. We’ll enjoy it now, because in August it’s not gonna be all that great!
I was headed out to Emory the other day, driving across a lake on a glorious, cool morning. Fishermen were standing in their boats casting into the still water. Just up the curving road, views alternated between trees and fields. A bright front pasture filled with wild Daffodils came into view and I kicked myself for not pulling over. The kick was hard enough that I watched for the pasture when heading home, and I did pull over and stop to gaze at the field of green, dotted with patches of yellow Jonquils and Daffodils. They pop up suddenly in the landscape, out of nowhere, arriving when the weather still feels a bit cool, and the days just begin to warm up. When we see them and so many other glories in nature, we know spring is imminent!
Roses, perennials and other flowering shrubs and vines have popped out and are mounding up in The Mildscape (my garden), oh joy! The Carolina Jessamine is waving her sunshine yellow trumpets through the window at me. Everything is awakening after winter and starting anew. The spring feeling is fabulous. Hope is affirmed, whatever the circumstance, we can start fresh.
In the last month in The Mildscape, I’ve watched the Peggy Martin Rose as she began to poke out little bits of green here and there, and then a little more, sort of a green haze. Then the canes started going crazy and now she’s fully covered with green canes that fill out more each day. She’s growing right over the trellis, and I can’t wait till she blooms. Garlic Chives and Society Garlic are poking up spiky grassy foliage, the pungent scent wafts up as you walk by. Lemon Balm is rounding up in the brightest green.
I was once an autumn girl. It’s kind of funny, now I’m here in these autumn years, and I find myself always longing for spring. As spring approaches, I eagerly await the best time of the year. Sunlight and warmth fill the days, the gardens grow, hope is easier to come by. New breath fills us, and we are energized. Life feels good, and all that we have - can be more than enough.
Just two years ago, my first Kukka was published in the Blue Ribbon News, a column about the perils of a February ice storm and the Carolina Jessamine that is the earliest bloomer in my garden. I enjoy sharing my world here with you all. Thanks for reading!
Sally Kilgore
05 Mar 24
March 2024 - Reprinted from The Blue Ribbon News
As I began to consider this column, I was sitting in front of the Christmas tree. No, I do not leave the tree up until February! The tree came down during the first week of January. Our tree, as for many of you, is filled with memories. Most years it takes some self-convincing to begin putting the house back to order after the holidays, pack away the tree and ornaments. There is one very special ornament on our Christmas tree. Read on.
The B.O.B. (in case you are new or not paying attention, B.O.B. is my husband, the acronym stands for Big Old Bear) and I met a thousand years ago, at an open house for a motorcycle dealership. This is surprising to some folks who tend to see me as having somewhat of a Doris Day type persona. I was modeling leathers - leather chaps and jacket, boots, riding gear. (Please note I wore a black turtleneck and black jeans beneath the leathers!) I was not a model; I belonged to a bike club sponsored by the dealership and agreed to help with the open house. At any rate, we met, and I recall a spark, though I did not acknowledge it at the time. Chris joined the club, and we became good friends. The friendship was a few years in, when we became aware that a spark was beginning to light into more of a flame, and soon we knew a fire was burning. We would become more than friends.
Key to our successful marriage is that we were friends first. We LIKED each other, we held each other in high regard, with a mutual respect. We still do. This is a great basis for a twenty-seven plus year marriage and an even longer love story.
There was a time when starting a life together was uncertain. We purchased a Christmas ornament that was an enameled replica of a postage stamp and decided it was Our first ornament, commemorating the year we knew the friendship had become more. When we got to our first Christmas as a married couple, we began a tradition that we would always hang the stamp on the tree, together, before anything else. We have kept that tradition since 1996. 2023 was our twenty-seventh year to place the stamp on the tree, and every year I become verklempt. Every time. As I pack the tree away each year, the stamp ornament is carefully folded into tissue and placed on the very top of the box of the best ornaments.
For years, The B.O.B. was that wonderful guy who sent flowers for Valentine’s Day, Anniversary, and sometimes for no occasion at all. A practice I much appreciated. However, over twenty years into our marriage, I opened my own floral business and since, he has been too intimidated to send me flowers from another florist. I have since closed my floral business, but he is still hesitant to send flowers. It is probably just as well; I can be somewhat critical of arrangements from other shops.
We have enjoyed many wonderful dinners at fine places over the years, including The French Room, The Riviera (remember The Riviera?) Adelmos, Café Pacific. Even in the early years when Chris was introducing me to fine dining, I was not big on dinner out on Valentine’s Day. We would typically go before the fourteenth. I love a romantic dinner, but my sensible side kicks in. I hate the crowds and the hurried servings when dining out on Valentine’s Day. These years I am often known to simply prepare a nice supper at home, sometimes with tapioca (The Bear’s favorite) for dessert.
I remember a year we both gave each other the same card. This seemed indicative of our compatibility which was strong and has continued through the years. One copy of that card still resides on the front of our refrigerator.
We find as we grow on, the friendship has deepened, the love is richer. As we’ve grown older, our life has become quieter and ever more comfortable. Birthdays and Christmas have been more significant for recognizing our love and life than Valentine’s Day. Hearts and flowers and pink and red cards are sweet. As we’ve grown to this place with each other, Valentine’s gifts say “I Love You” no more than other days.
In 2022, I told The B.O.B. that I did not want jewelry (he likes to say “a trinket”) or even a dinner out for Valentine’s Day. We had been in our new home close to a year. I wanted to choose more trees for The Mildscape. We headed to our favorite nursery and chose two tall holly trees which put out berries for the chilly winter months. We look from our bedroom window in the morning and those red bits amongst all the green and the birds flitting in and out of the branches, bring us a shared joy.
We lead busy and separate lives. There is no one I would rather come home to and lay my head next to each night, nor anyone I’d rather spend time with. Evidence of our love and friendship.
Whether you are new Valentines, old, settled Valentines, or any status in between, I wish you and your special person a sweet Valentine’s Day. I wish you long, enduring days to share together, memories to hold forever. Celebrate at will!
FEBRUARY 2024 - REPRINTED FROM BLUE RIBBON NEWS
Copyright © 2024 Sally Kilgore - All Rights Reserved.
Cover photo: Jo Stegawski Buchanan of StewgaskI Photography
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