Each of our lives became quite closely entwined
While even beyond - there are still ties that bind
Now yet in my mind - each one's image prevails
I can imagine I see - them all wagging their tails...

--C.G. Mack

These stories are in the words of Charles Aloysius Cathcart, known to ‘most everyone here in Coltrane as Grampa Charlie Loy. Most evenings except Sundays, he occupied a wobbly old straight-back chair in spitting distance of the squat, rusty pot-bellied stove in Homer Henderson’s dry-goods store. They were collected by Mr. Cathcart’s grand-nephew Ernest, who took to hiding in the back room on Thursdays and listenin’. Thursday was only night that his mother left the house after supper. She did her visiting on Thursdays.

I’m goin’ to let Lucius, here, tell you how it was he got into his present line of work. Don’t think you’ll be inclined to doubt him too much, considerin’ his standin’ in the community. You be sure to tell it how it happened, Lucius. It don’t take much embroiderin’ on a story to make folks entirely skeptical.

“Wal,” (says Lucius), “me fallin’ off the roof of the livery stable into Doc’s car was purely accidental. An’ me tryin’ to argue with that wooden Indian in front of the drug store wasn’ nothin’ more’n mistaken identity. It might be true I make empty bottles out of full ones in not much more time than it takes to open ‘em, but you never did see what that tornado did to me an’ my farm an’ I’m workin’ on forgettin’.

“When it got high summer the coolest place was in the hog shed, so I generally slept there. Hogs didn’t mind as long as I kept still and didn’t keep ‘em awake.

‘Long about twelve-thirty one night I woke up. It had got real quiet but I could hear a roarin’ far off, so I stepped outside. Couldn’t see much so I clumb the highest tree in my yard. Wind started t’ blow and there came a flash of lightnin’. I could see fine then. What I could see was my neighbor’s hangin’ laundry, his back porch, an’ his propeller off his windmill, all headin’ toward me in a whirlin’ cloud of dust. I wasn’ much inclined to stay an’ watch but before I could get down outa that tree I got jerked loose an’ then scooped up by his back porch. Lucky the door was open. I would’a just as soon do that as t’ fight off his windmill propeller.

The porch an’ me went around once or twice, then that tornado blew the roof off my silo and dropped me in it. About the time I got ready t’ splat on the bottom, it was about empty, the tornado sucked me back up and squashed that silo flat like you was stompin’ on a rotten log.

“I was feelin’ pretty good in view of the circumstances until my neighbor’s hangin’ laundry an’ rope came around an’ I got wound up in it, so when I got pulled through a big ol’ pine tree I couldn’ grab hold of it, just got to eat some needles and part of a cone. Came another flash then, and I could just make out my house had been twisted half around and turned up on its end. Guess if I’d’a been sleepin’ there I might’a had some things to worry about.”

“All this served to distress me some, but the hardest part was how the wind unwound that laundry rope an’ then it got my hat, then my boots, then my overhauls an’ shirt and THEN my long-handles, an’ right after, it dropped me upside down in the swamp out back of where those three old maids live, down by the end of town. Wasn’ much I could do to improve my appearance an’ by this time I was right confused, an’ knockin’ on their back door didn’ seem all that strange to do but THEY thought so. Two of ‘em fainted and the third set their hound on me. I managed to stay ahead of that dog clear to Abner Fosgate’s still-house, an’ once I got inside I put on Abner’s stiff old smelly leather coat an’ opened a jar to calm my nerves.”

“Abner says he was three days gettin’ out to check on his still-house, after the tornado. He had been bein’ a guest at the county bar hotel, somethin’ about him shootin’ the weathervane off the schoolhouse one night, an’ he says there I still was, smilin’ a lot but not sayin’ much. Now any more, seein’ as I’m his best customer he’s stopped bein’ mad about all the empty jars.”

“What’re you grinnin’ about, Charlie Loy? And you too, Homer Henderson. Ain’t nothin’ all THAT strange about sleepin’ in a hog shed.”

About Scott: Scott Bogue lives and works in Greensboro, North Carolina. Five days a week he’s a freelance technical editor and writer who specializes in manufacturing and industry—but he vacations in the small town of Coltrane, somewhere in America, and the year is perhaps 1915. It might be 1912, or it might be 1925, he doesn’t know. Grampa Charlie never says.

Placing surface parking lots in your downtown is like placing a toilet in your living room

-- unknown author

Courthouse could have become a parking lot

I'd read about about it.  Wondered about it.  Saw how many enjoyed it.  But not until I put my own feet on Hendersonville's Main Street, did I experience it for my own.

And you know something?  It was wonderful

I was in Vibrant Village heaven.  Hendersonville's Main Street was all I'd hoped for, all I'd dreamt about. For you see, as Enrique Peñalosa (an expert on designing world-class cities and former Mayor of Bogotá), has said, “God made us walking animals—pedestrians. As a fish needs to swim, a bird to fly, a deer to run, we need to walk, not in order to survive, but to be happy. ”

Hendersonville 1890

Maybe that's why Hendersonville's Main Street felt so pleasing.  I could walk; I didn't feel threatened by speeding traffic. Here on Main Street, I got to experience the principles of traffic calming. It worked, and it worked well.  Gentle serpentine curves, bump-outs, planters and wide sidewalks slowed car traffic. As a  pedestrian, I found traffic calming had created a peaceful co-existence with cars as they made their way down the street.  A torrent of traffic was now a trickle. Four lanes of traffic had been reduced to two. Drivers needing to get places in a hurry tended to choose other streets.

Hendersonville's calm traffic made me feel welcomed

Everything had been done to create a place that made a happy habitat for humans.  And a friendly place, for this Main Street proved an  easy place to strike up a conversation with walkers and shopkeepers.  I'd never found such easy human contact in malls.

Hendersonville in 1916

All ages were found here—dog walkers, young families pushing baby strollers, elders walking hand in hand, young people gathered in groups.  I'd rarely seen such a friendly scene outside of plazas in Mexico and Italy.  It was mighty refreshing.

Hendersonville in 1934

This street evoked so many fond memories. It reminded me of my childhood town's Main Street--one that's since vanished, done in by shopping malls and big box stores.  But not here.  Not in Hendersonville.

Who, I wondered, had been responsible for creating such a wonderful and welcoming downtown?

Main Street Gets Malled

I discovered the picture wasn't quite so rosy back in 1983.  That's the year the Blue Ridge Mall opened.  Main Street's retail business began a real slump. Empty stores appeared. The downtown easily could have faded, its business lost to big box stores and acres of parking.  But no, the townspeople and retailers cared too much.

One solution was the formation of Downtown Hendersonville Inc. (DHI) in 1985.   Among their many achievements were lighting the roof lines, a Christmas wreath program, installation of Colonial light fixtures—and all those blooming flowers and comfy benches for gathering.

One building caught my attention right away--the striking and cheery yellow antique courthouse.  What a sweet classic. Its generous plaza and pretty curved dome invited the eye. The nobility of its design spoke of stability and charm.

But this was a building that almost wasn't.  There had been discussions to tear down the 1904 building and put up a parking lot.

Along came Jones, Dr. George A. Jones

A gentleman named Dr. George A. Jones didn't think tearing down the courthouse was a good idea. Not at all. He said “No sir, we're going to restore it.  We'd found the original architectural drawings, and I was determined our courthouse would be restored back to its original condition—with some necessary improvements—like bathrooms.”

That sounded like a big job. How was this feat accomplished? The question earned a chuckle from Doctor Jones. He replied, “By twisting the county commissioners' arms 'out of shape,' issuing bonds and raising $11 million dollars.”

Thanks to Dr Jones and others who valued the building, the courthouse now stands, gleaming in the sun.  Even better than before with modern bathrooms and elevators.  Within, many town needs are met, including a popular 'community room' that seats 150.  A higher purpose, a better concept than an expanse of oil-stained asphalt for parking  cars.

Came home just in time

A Hendersonville native, Dr. Jones had spent years away from his hometown but returned home 27 years ago at a time when the town needed his wisdom the most. He has high regard for Main Streets and says, “The Main Street of any town represents the heartbeat of that town.  They represent the past, present—and future.  They're visible evidence of former lives and tell you a lot about your ancestors. Strip malls do not have a life of their own.”

Now in his 90th year, Dr. Jones continues to give back to the community he loves.  He now heads the Genealogical Association and recently co-authored a book: A Guide to Historic Henderson County.

Many other people and several organizations played pivotal roles in saving Main Street.  I wish there were space to salute each of them for their vision and dedication. Committees championed  festivals and museums with great success. The hugely popular Apple Festival, for example.  It's grown into the 7th biggest festival in the U.S.

The Mineral and Lapidary Museum is thriving and adding to their collections and exhibits.  This Main Street museum attracts 100,000 annual visitors.  Kids love the minerals that glow in the dark, the  gigantic T-Rex head, and the dinosaur nest with six dinosaur eggs. The museum's housed in a re-purposed old bank building.

A retail mix for everyone

What a lively street is this Main Street of Hendersonville. It offers, among its vibrant retail mix, an old-time soda fountain, a coffee café where people gather and performances are held, a well-stocked music store, several  toy shops, including one that displays antique toys in its windows, and a general store where 'if you don't find it here, you don't need it.'  Clothing stores, antiques, contemporary furniture, art galleries, pubs...so many wonderful possibilities.  A dedicated skateboard shop appeals to young shoppers.

Seems the town offers something for everyone. More than a dozen tempting eateries serve up eclectic dining options. I tried to sample most of them.  I missed a few, will have to return to correct that.

Talking the walk

My personal love affair with Hendersonville began to bud when I discovered a downtown that placed pedestrians above cars. As Lewis Mumford, the American historian and philosopher said, “Forget the damned motor car and build the cities for lovers and friends.”

Hendersonville has done just that. And done it exceedingly well.

Economically vital, attracting newcomers, and growing in smart growth ways, the town truly attracts lovers and friends—and new business. Makes sense.  People spend money.

Cars?

They always demand more expensive infrastructure, give little back, and catering to them solves little.

Glen Hemistra, a futurist and advocate of walkable communities nailed it when he said,  “Adding lanes to solve traffic congestion is like loosening your belt to solve obesity.”

Vibrant Village salutes the town of Hendersonville for putting cars on a reducing diet and putting people's health first. A feat wisely executed: putting feet on Main Street.

Dr. George A. Jones'  Tips on Creating a Vibrant Main Street:

1. Assess your needs:  what does your Main Street need?  To fill up empty storefronts, facade and signage improvements?  Traffic calming?
2. Go visit other towns with successful Main Streets.  What worked for them that can work for you?
3. Put flower boxes on every corner.  You'll need a good Flower committee to do this.  We collect a special downtown tax to finance our flower program.
4. Get your Chamber of Commerce behind you to pursue business attraction to Main Street.
5. Establish guidelines for buildings.  No building on our Main Street can be taller than 100 feet, which is the height of the courthouse dome.
6. from the author:  Form an active, grassroots revitalization group, utilize technical assistance from your state's Main Street program and from the National level.

Organizations that provide technical assistance and guidelines for Main Streets:

In North Carolina:  North Carolina Main Street Center

National level: National Trust for Historic Preservation

Photography credit: the photographs of the Hendersonville Main Street murals are courtesy of the Henderson County Genealogical and Historical Society.  The original murals are located in the History Center, 400 North Main Street, Hendersonville, North Carolina.

About the author...

Patricia Frank loves small towns. She's also the editor and publisher of Vibrant Village.  Whenever she can, she likes to visit and profile special towns that have achieved something wonderful.

This week I realized just how important two of my friends have become to me.

I can’t believe it's  taken me so long to recognize the extraordinary impact these two have had in the short time we have known each other.

Sharing a two-mile walk with both friends helped me see the obvious: I need these two to continue learning how to live. The three of us together seem to create a positive dynamic that is contagious and even stops traffic.

Of the two, Boguey has been my friend the longest.  He is a tall, elegant standard poodle with spring legs that bounce him through life. He reminds me of Kipling’s “elephant’s child” who has “satiable” curiosity, and he has taught me to walk slowly and stop often to check a baby turtle crossing a gravel road, chase a grasshopper, or check out a beer bottle on the verge. He models an attitude that I am learning to embrace-a lot of life is good if you live welcoming what comes next and finding comfort in everyday ritual.

Most important, Boguey has taught me what it means to love unconditionally. He comes close and leans against me even when I have left him at home for eight hours, fed him late, neglected his morning walk so I can sleep an extra hour, and brush his teeth with an annoying finger tooth brush.

Colton Avery has been my friend since January 1, 2010, the day he was born. I held my grandson an hour after he was born, and even thought I had planned not to surrender to the doting grandmother syndrome that has affected most of my friends, I was hooked in two minutes.

He too has taught me to slow down, sit, and savor the moment. As a type A personality, I have had a hard time accepting the idea that “doing” does not have more value than calmly living in the moment. Smelling the scent of baby powder as I give him a bottle and listening to his slow breathing of sleep while holding him while watching a heron walk through marsh grass in the pink light of early morning erases the “to do” list every time.

And having a baby relax in my arms with total trust is perhaps the purest form of unconditional love I have ever experienced. He needs to know nothing about my past life, makes no value judgments, could care less about my income, looks, or aspirations as long as his intuition identifies me as loving and part of his world.

I feel like I am learning to see the world “new” watching through Colton’s eyes. Sounds, colors, smells, tastes, and textures delight him, and watching him check out a new teething rattle reminds me to observe and use my senses to see the most ordinary things in a new light.

So I will remember the morning walk on a back road along Core Sound. The rising heat was carrying the gardenia’s scent down the road, and the light shimmered off Boguey’s coat as he walked beside the stroller without me having to tug on his leash, ignoring the “pee mail” like dew on the marsh grass.

Colton’s bare feet kicked in time with the squeak of the front left stroller wheel. His eyes followed Boguey’s bounce as two pelicans flew over the moving water.

A red pickup slowed down to keep from stirring up the dust as it started past us. The truck stopped beside us.  The driver's face was sunburned with morning stubble, a baseball cap topped his head as he leaned out the window and said, “You look happy.” Then he smiled and drove slowly around the curve.

I heard mature ospreys call to their fledglings and a tractor cutting hay. Colton reached out and the damp hand that had been in his mouth grabbed Boguey’s hair. Boguey looked over his shoulder with patient tolerance and keep walking.

The baby smiled at me when I leaned down to release his hand, and I realized that these two friends, child and dog, had given me the gift of a perfect moment.

How easy to take for granted wonderful things when we live with them day after day.

I speak of the marsh just outside my door. When I came into possession of a small spit of land bumping out into the Newport River, I also became an owner of a fringe of Spartina marsh, roughly one hundred yards wide and thousands of feet long.

My intention was to build a home on the land and just watch the marsh. In North Carolina, and I expect in all states now, one can own marsh, but not do much to it other than leave it alone.

This is a good thing.

Ibis

Marshes, as we’ve come to learn, are the nurseries of dozens of species of fish and shell fish. They also provide superior habitat for wading birds like egrets, herons, and ibises. Just as significant to my mind is that they are beautiful. They turn emerald green in the spring and wheat gold in the fall.

One day, when I was building my house, a stranger from New Jersey came down my lane, just ‘snooping around’, as they say. He cast his eye about the place, and offered the opinion that it took a strange person to want to live “in a swamp”.

Well, each to his own, I guess, but I found him to be an ignorant fellow and jaded to the point of blinkered stupidity. A swamp, indeed! Nothing against swamps, mind you, but setting one’s home next to a marsh is a fine choice. But I go back to my original point--how easy to take it for granted.

My little hump of land which an acquaintance once called “a sand pile covered with a thin frosting of soil,” is protected from storms by my marsh and a rim of luxuriant greenery called wax myrtle.

This wax myrtle is a miraculous shrub.

It stays green all year, thrives in the harshest of places with poor soil, blowing winds, salt spray, and weeks and weeks of drought. And it smells wonderful, a sent as fresh as salt air and as beguiling as jasmine. Not only that, the locals say the oil from the crushed leaves will repel mosquitoes and ward off fleas. (My dog does not vouch for the flea repellent qualities, however.)

Turn over a myrtle leaf, look through a magnifying glass (or the wrong end of a pair of binoculars), and note all the tiny yellow dots. Nature has provided these leaves with little glands that produce a protective wax, the yellow dots, to prevent them from drying out in the hot sun, blowing wind, and sparse moisture. Plus, the volatile oils of the wax give myrtle its delightful odor.

There is a fly in this ointment, however.

Wax myrtle proud as a tree

Wax myrtle is one of nature’s most rambunctious plants. It wants to grow-and grow-and grow, until it reaches 30 feet high and looks as proud as a tree. Though I treasure my protective fringe between the storm-churned river and solid land, I desire a marsh and river view out my windows and must keep this shrub trimmed down to waist height.

This effort gets harder and harder each year as the myrtle keeps pushing higher and my physical trimming equipment seems to get heavier.

Facing the prospect of another tiring assault on the myrtle thickets, I went to my local hardware store and inquired about a tool I'd noticed being used by a Department of Transportation crew in the neighborhood. Essentially, it was a gas powered weed whacker, but instead of the string trimmer, it had a saw blade mounted on the end of the pole.

The blade was about the size of a circular saw blade and the teeth were the size of a limb pruner saw. I already owned a weed whacker, so all I 'd need to do was  install this blade.  I felt this tool could easily tear into a myrtle thicket and aid in some major height reduction.

Describing what I wanted to the clerk, he promptly said, “Sure, you want a ‘merkle’ blade.

“Merkle blade, what the heck is a merkle blade?"  I asked.

“Just what you asked for,” he replied.

“Ah ha,” it dawned on me that ‘myrtle’ got transmuted to ‘merkle,’ somehow, and I am now in possession of one of the most common tools of the North Carolina coast.

The end of this story is not pretty

My efforts with my 'merkle blade' were too troubling to continue. This nasty, aggressive saw tore my magnificent thicket into weeping stumps and left an ugly mess. Either my control of this tool was poor (probably) or my technique crude (probably), but I was doing violence to one of nature’s most amazing plants.

So I’m back to using a hedge trimmer, heavy and wearying, but I leave the myrtle nicely trimmed off the top and ready to push ever higher the next year. By the time it overwhelms my ability to control its height, I will be beyond caring, and the myrtle will win, if you will, and seal off my little piece of land with an impenetrable, thirty foot high wall of fragrant greenery.

Sunset over Scallop Island, Beaufort, NC

But before I age beyond caring, I remind myself: never take the beauty and natural wonder of this place--marsh, myrtle, birds and all--for granted.

The Marshdoc in his hand-built kayak

"Marshdoc" is the handle of Bruce McCutcheon, educator, scientist, and naturalist. He proudly claims to be caretaker of "Scallop Island Estuary Preserve," his old dog Boon's little piece of heaven on the Newport River, in Beaufort, North Carolina.

Gardeners instinctively know that flowers and plants are a continuum and that the wheel of garden history will always be coming full circle.

--Francis Cabot Lowell

Gardening is one those crafts that somehow creates a seamless time line from generation to generation.  I’ve mentioned my grandmother’s gardening prowess before, but several items in her garden stand out in my memory.

The first was one of the most gorgeous deep purple irises I have ever beheld.  Of course, part of that is a child’s memory that holds all favorite images at an unsurpassed apex, but truly, this flower was special.

Another memory was the row of nasturtium that we planted each year as a garden border.  I still plant nasturtium to this day.  Unfortunately, they weathered the summers of western North Carolina far better than they do on the coast, but perhaps that makes them especially significant since the time to enjoy them is so short.

But I have to say the item that most intrigued me was a shrub from the family Viburnum opulus, or more commonly Snowball Bush.  Although the bush was beautiful white puffy blooms in spring just as the name implies-its sweet scent.  But it was more the story of its arrival and its link to important people in my grandmother’s and in my own life that endeared it to me.

You see, this bush was a transplanted cutting that my great-grandmother had shared with my grandmother and which had been shared with my great-grandmother by her mother, my great-great grandmother. This plant carried soil, water and nurturing from places all over this state to finally arrive at our home in western North Carolina.

I can not say how many homesteads my great and great-great grandmothers shared between them, but I know that my grandmother lived in at least three cities and houses, two of which I was a part of.  Unfortunately, when this last house was sold, my attempts at rooting cuttings from the bush failed. Another family member was successful in his rooting efforts, and off the snowball traveled again shared with love and high hopes of being a history-laden, intriguing and beautiful focus of someone else’s garden.

It’s the concept of garden sharing that makes gardening so much more than planting for landscaping purposes.  It’s the link--the connectivity it creates to all the hands, soils, and eras of time that a particular plant or package of seed has passed through.

What a wonderful thing to find a fellow gardener who is looking for that very plant so plentiful in your own garden.

It’s a trust that someone you share plants and seeds with is going to treasure these gems as you would.  And it’s a hope that as properties change hands and gardens pass through families and generations, as we move on to new places and take pieces of our gardens with us, that the stories and the people connected with the plantings will always be recalled.

In my own garden are plantings that were inherited with the property.  They were without a story when we moved in and started the process of cleaning up gardens that had been long neglected, as often happens with rental property.  But, perhaps, that is their legacy-once loved, long neglected, but loved anew.  Over time, they responded to my nurturing and the rest is history-and a history that I am happy to share with visitors to my garden.

Other plantings were gifts from friends that were thinning their bulb beds:  day lily, iris and daffodil bulbs-all from dear church friends or co-workers.

One of the most beautiful Canna lilies in my garden came from my teaching experience.  I am reminded of those days when I look at these cannas blooming-a priceless gift given to me by someone thinning the school’s beds.  I have shared many of these tubers with several gardening buddies.  It gives me the same joy to see them cherished and blooming in their gardens.

I love the one-on-one intimacy of sharing with local friends, but, if you’re Internet savvy and make easy connections that way, there are a plethora of sites for seed and plant exchange.  Seed Savers Exchange, specializing in heirloom seed, Seeds of Diversity and Ion Exchange, whose focus is wildflower seeds and plants, are just a few.

Speaking of things to share, let me share a fun, favorite garden read:  People with Dirty Hands is a collection of stories about passionate, and sometimes unconventional gardeners, all willing to pass along their bounties of plants, seeds and gardening wisdom to those who seek.  The author, Robin Chotzinoff, takes you “off the beaten path” for some very amusing interviews with heirloom seed collectors, rose rustlers, mammoth tomato growers and even to a chile farm in New Mexico.

This book reinforces all my ideas about why I love gardening-the fascinating people and their stories about what’s in their garden and how it got there.

So, thank you to all of you who hold places of esteem on my continuing garden time line--past generations and contemporaries.

I cherish both friends eager to swap and those kind enough to simply gift.

Thank you for your contributions of plants, seeds, and dirt laden bulbs and tubers to my garden.  You have made these beds filled with soil and plants much more than a garden-they have become a colorful scrapbook with stories and memories behind every picture and woven together by family, friendship and a common thread of love for all things that grow.

"O, my love's like a red, red rose/That's newly sprung in June" - Robert Burns

Ah….the month of June.  Traditionally, it is the favorite month for weddings and all things nuptial.  The weather and landscape all come together in a display of azure blue skies, marshmallow clouds, lush green leaves and grasses and gorgeous, vibrant blooms.

And let’s not forget the blushing bride.

Is there a more beautiful image than the bride in her flowing white gown floating down the aisle?  Well, if there exists an object more lovely, it would have to be the velvety, dew-touched rose bouquet she carries.  Roses are the iconic symbol of love, desire and beauty, as well as being a sacred symbol to the goddesses Isis and Aphrodite - even the Virgin Mary.  With names like Abe Lincoln, Agatha Christie, Claude Monet, Ginger Rogers and William Shakespeare, roses  have been developed to honor celebrities, artists and deities.

The true beauty of the rose goes far beyond its history and traditional uses.  Roses are swirling mazes of velvety petals and sweet scent in colors that range from the softest pinks and yellows to the fieriest reds or oranges.

They are the objects of my garden affection.  I covet the buds and blooms I see in neighborhood gardens or even in abandoned fields, because as much as I crave their color and scent in my own garden spaces, they are the plant and bloom that elude me most.  I feel their hostility and dissatisfaction at being unfortunate enough to have been planted in my yard each time I pass by.

Experts agree that roses require four things to thrive:  water, food, love and the right environment.  Despite the fact that I manage to supply each of these things for my roses, I manage to fall slightly, and sometimes greatly, off the mark in each of these areas so that they fade rather than flourish.

Environment is probably one of the most important aspects of rose planting.  Select a site that will receive 6-8 hours of sunlight.  Some shade may be tolerated, but be sure to give the roses plenty of space and a minimum of competition from other plants and trees.  Oops….my bad.  That spot under the canopy of the backyard red maple seemed so perfect!  Roses will thrive in loose, loamy soil with a bit of manure worked in during the digging process.  Most gardeners recommend digging a trench about 18 inches deep and 2 feet across for planting with an additional 6 or more inches of soil loosened below the planting depth.   Roses will show their extreme unhappiness if planted in boggy, wet soils or very dry sandy soils.

If your soil is extremely sandy, you will need to dig out the area completely and replace with an acceptable soil mix.  Okay, I’m two for two.  The soil in my yard is a beach with a bit of topsoil frosting.

After the first flush of spring blooms, roses that are not fertilized will not continue to bloom for the summer season.  Roses love good food, but whatever your fertilizer of choice, they will profit more from one slightly higher in phosphorous to promote blooms rather than foliage.  Composted material, manure, bone meal, liquid or time-released fertilizer can all be used.  The more growth you see on the rose, the more often you will need to fertilize.  I’m not getting this one right either……my rose beds are a third world country where starvation abounds.

Along with whispering sweet nothings to your roses, nothing says love like a proper pruning.  My readings suggest that hybrid tea varieties will benefit most from a pruning in early spring, while older bushes and climbing varieties prefer pruning after their first flowering.  These roses bloom on growth from the previous year, so early pruning would eliminate blooms for the season.  There are a few “don’ts” in the rules of pruning:  Don’t mangle the plants - use sharp shears that will cut the branches cleanly.  Do not prune more than once each year, and never prune rose bushes that are less than 3-4 years old to avoid shock to the plant or possible death.  Start the dirges.  I planted the three surviving rose bushes in my garden approximately three years ago and have pruned them each spring.  Obviously, a rose whisperer, I am not.

Finally, give your roses plenty of water.  Optimally, roses should receive 1-2 inches each week and, depending on the size of the bush, more when the season gets very hot.  Watering at the soil level is best, but if you water early enough in the day, the leaves will dry by nightfall to discourage fungus on the leaves.  Check to make sure that the water is reaching the depth of the roots.  Deep watering encourages lower level root growth which is less susceptible to weather issues.  I have to be truthful and say that I do not provide enough water, but I do try to be careful about avoiding fungus formation.  I find that to be an important rule for most things in life.

Yes, I have broken most of the cardinal rules of rose planting and growth, and yes, my roses warily watch as I approach them for even more punishment, but I’m not ready to give up just yet.  I'm even more determined to get it right…next time.  My roses will “survive,” (and I use that term loosely) the rest of this season, but I vow to start things right in the spring of 2011.  “I’m on a mission,” I say - and my roses sigh with relief - or was that resignation?

June is National Rose Month, so maybe this will be your month to start planning for your own happy rose garden.  Choose a perfect site, and select the varieties and colors you love best - and, if the rose gods are smiling upon you, you'll get it right - the first time.  Soon, very soon, I hope everything's coming up roses—for you – and for me.

Remember me? I was there.

Yesterday we went to see the sea, riding the see-saw of the ferry from Harkers Island over to Cape Lookout National Seashore.

The sea spanked us as the boat thumped from the wham of the waves.  As land and human habitation faded away, other lives revealed themselves.

Two shaggy little horses, standing on a hammock in hock-deep sea faced us, frozen statues, nostrils flaring to test whether we were friend or foe.  The cinnamon-colored stallion stood with legs firmly planted, his blond mane and tail lifting in the fresh wind.  Wild and free, clearly he was not a horse of the pasture, hay and grain but a true sea-horse, eating of the marsh grass, with unkempt coat, his ribs faintly outlined on his slender body.  Bridle, bit, saddle nor spurs had marred his body or broken his spirit.  No servant of man, this sea-horse was free-horse of sea, sky, wind and waves.

There were pelicans, too. These graceful masters of  air current, gliders supreme, made us laugh as their grace turned into clumsy kerplumps of splash into the water in their fetching of fish. A lone cormorant came flapping by, flapping slowly, laboring, seeming out of the ancient past, a bit of the Terradactyl in its shadowy darkness.

Smells of land and man dropped away, the scent now of salt air and salt marsh. Elemental aromas, these, perhaps a window into our earliest past when we first crawled from the sea onto land.  Is this why the sea calls to us?  Have our cells been imprinted with memories of when we, too, had gills and fins?

Our ferry draws up to the dock and we unload our gear, shoulder the backpack and beach umbrella. We amble down the long, wooden walkway to the sea.  The quiet is complete.  No cars, sirens, powered lawn equipment, saws or dogs bark.

We choose a spot with a dune to lean against.  Alan plants the umbrella anchor and twists it into the sand.  He slants the umbrella into the wind and we place the beach towels for maximum shade. I unpack our picnic provisions.

The whole-grain bread is slathered with honey dill-mustard, the pungent Asiago cheese and ruby-ripe tomatoes are cut and piled on the waiting bread.  I  slice each sandwich neatly in two.  We chew while sea-gazing.  Seasoned with a light dusting of sand, our meal is a bit crunchy, but no matter, it is after all, called “sandwich.”

We open the tube of  potato chips and ingest salt.  Must have salt by the sea, it's crucial, or so it seems to me.

Chewing and gazing, we're lost in time and place.

It all drills down to the sea.  No need for words, only the warmth of the welcome sun, so long absent through the winter.  The rhythm of the surf, regular as a heartbeat, soothing, quieting my mind, my thoughts floating as gently and aimlessly as the wind-blown sea-smoke. No deadlines, no to-do list.  No oughts or shoulds.  For today, we have vacated.  For today, we are on a vacation. The sea whispers in the background, “relax.”

Replete and sleepy, my husband, Alan, lays down, places his canvas hat over his eyes and is gone away into his Alan-world.  I lean back against the dune, opening the pages of a book about a beach house owned by five generations of a Boston family, self-described by the author as 'Boston Brahmin's'—the upper crust of old New England Boston society.  This is a perfect beach book, describing as it does, along with family, the sea-scape of the rocky Cape Cod shore of Buzzard's Bay.

I lift my eyes from the book and look out to sea, a clear band of what color shall I call this sea in front of me?  Cerulean?  Neither turquoise nor navy, today the changeling sea's a rich broth of blue-green, reflecting the cloudless sky.  No rocks here.  No family drama or weathered beach house.  Only our little island of beach towels and green and white striped umbrella.

In the distance, four young people, coupled by twos, do their ritual Spring courting dance of girls being lifted and threatened to be thrown into the still cold sea.  Their feigned squeals of dismay drift back to us.

Oh, how perfect are their young bodies, as lean and leggy as the sea-horses we'd earlier seen. Yes, I remember when I was so, too, flat-stomached and Alan all slender sinew and muscle.  Now both of us have grown round and ripe, matured with life and Asiago cheese. No matter, it's the wheel of life turning round. Roundness is fine.

I awaken Alan, softly snoring, and invite him on a beach walk.  We rise, fighting gravity's pull and off we go.

We walk by the surf fishers, we walk by the prone bodies basting, covered with oil, and turning pink and red.   We walk far to where it is just us, beyond the people.  Just us and the sea and sand and sky and the sandpipers doing their quick dance with the surf, legs in motion in a quick step of blur.

And I turn to Alan, remembering.  Remembering our honeymoon by the sea in Cape Cod.  Our ramshackle rental in Provincetown at Capt. Jack's Wharf, fishermen shanties turned into rentals, built out over the sea on a pier. At high tide, the sea came lapping under our weathered and worn silver-boarded room.  Using a pulley on a block and tackle, we could open the whole front to the elements. And there was a loft with a skylight.  Underneath the skylight was a bed just right for cloud gazing—and honeymooners.

Remembering, I open my arms to Alan and he comes to me.  We come close for a kiss,  and just as our lips meet, Alan suddenly gives a yelp and leaps into the air and we look down and the sea has found us and Alan's feet, encased in sock and boat shoes are deep in sea water and my bare feet, too, are immersed in the cold lapping of the ocean.

We laugh.  It seems the sea recalls those early days of ours- could it really be forty years ago?-and has said, 'remember me?  I was there, too.  And here I am again. I'm always with you.'

Yesterday, we went to the sea.  Yesterday, the sea came to us.  It was good to embrace an old friend.

Patricia Frank loves words and uses them whenever she can.  She's also the editor and publisher of Vibrant Village, an on-line magazine that celebrates the best of small town America.

love as comfortable as favorite shoes

learning to spell love

There is a word that starts with "L"
With three letters yet to go

It is quite easy one can tell
Add "O" for an even flow

Then try a "V" if it fits well

"E" after "V"'s a rule to know

Quite a loving word they spell

That can set our lives aglow....

]]> http://vibrantvillage.com/2010/06/01/l-o-v-e/feed/ 0 http://vibrantvillage.com/2010/06/01/the-tug-on-my-line/ http://vibrantvillage.com/2010/06/01/the-tug-on-my-line/#comments Tue, 01 Jun 2010 11:25:07 +0000 Neva Dail Bridges http://vibrantvillage.com/?p=1121 When I was pregnant, I read all of those “What to Expect When you are Expecting" books with their various descriptions of what the first movement of the baby within me would feel like.

- “Like a butterfly’s soft wings gently brushing your skin”
- “Like a tickle, a flutter”
- “Like the tug of a fish on the end of your line”

And when it came, it was just like the books said.  I will never forget that first movement, deep down, low in my belly, when I was lying in bed one night.  Like a tickle….like a butterfly’s wings—soft and gentle, but very determined.

And now that I am fishing with my son who once, some 13 plus years ago, kicked in my belly, I really do see why the books said those early flutters would be like a fish tugging on my line.

The first time I cast my rod into the salt water, I waited and wondered how I would know if I got a bite on my line.  Would I be pulled into the surf by a massive fish?  Or would the fish be so small that I wouldn’t even notice it nibbling: it would steal my bait, and I would sit for hours, waiting with empty hooks as the wee fish enjoyed its free meal at my expense.

But the first time a fish hooked itself on my line, it was just like my son’s first flutter kick of life. I knew at once that I had a fish on my line, just as those dozen-plus years ago, that tugging sensation proved to me that  I had a baby in my body. A tug in my belly, a tug on my line.  Not to be mistaken for anything else. How amazing the two are so similar.

With fishing, you practice and you improve your technique.  But still, no matter if you have the best gear that money can buy, no matter if you have honed your technique to that of a professional, you end up casting your line into the water and hoping for the best.

Just as it is with my child.

I try my best, I practice and improve my technique.  But still, in the end, my son makes his own way in the world and I have to hope for the best.  I see it now, so much, as he begins the sweet slide into his teenage years.

And he is still so very sweet.

But it’s now that real-world things begin to creep into our lives, his and mine—the tumultuous relationships with his peers, running hot one day and cold the next; the rumblings and rumors of drug use among the 7th and 8th graders; his struggles to fit in, to find has place in the world.

Up until this point, I have been the one guiding him and directing what he learns. As the adult, I have been the better-skilled half of our duo, thanks to a lifetime of practice.
But now that we are fishing together, his skill is overtaking mine. He has shown a quickly-gained confidence that I have never seen before, as we’ve stood side by side on the sand of Beaufort Inlet.  I have had to take a conscious step back, to let him take the lead in this shared endeavor.

For the first time, I am learning techniques from him.

He explains the nuances of different types of lures, and the reason for bell-shaped sinkers instead of pyramid sinkers.  How I should troll along the bottom if I really want to catch flounder instead of sea mullet.

We are about even right now with our casts.  Our baited hooks land at similar distances after we fling the rod and release the line.

But soon his casts will overtake mine. As I watch my son grow up and away from me, the tug on my line becomes the tug on my heart.

Me and my tug on my line