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Bees love the Thai basil's pretty purple flower spikes.
- Atticus, fearsome hunter of earthworms
Is there anything prettier than a red cabbage seedling?
Green cabbage, tucked into a cozy bed of compost and leaf mold
Swiss chard. Mmmm.
Savoy cabbage, my 94-year-old grandmother's all-time favorite.
Alliums and a few hardy herbs. Garlic. Multiplier onions.
Bees love the Thai basil's pretty purple flower spikes.
Mark's citrus trees have put on new growth. It's lemon time!
Not much is in bloom now, but Texas tarragon is a bright spot.
Cuban peppers, producing continuously since April.
The lettuces grow through the winter in our only part-shade bed.
Baby broccoli in a double-dug "Chinese style" raised bed.
Pencil study for a new series of angel paintings
Tropical storm Ida rolled in from the Gulf this morning, but she has been a surprisingly well-behaved visitor. She thoughtfully watered the new transplants for me (brussels sprouts, chard, heirloom collards) and in her wake — as so often happens during hurricane season — we will have several crytalline fall days with blue skies and low humidity. Thanks, Ida!
I’m working on pencil sketches for some new angel paintings. They unfold in front of me, gradually revealing themselves, and I’m glad to go wherever they are leading me.
This is what I want to find in my stocking on Christmas morning: raku pottery garden markers from Sweet Paisley. Choose from a selection of herb names or request your own, all for $4.
I grow basil, mint, chives and oregano. (Hint, hint. )
(Added on Aug. 29: The contest has ended. Congratulations to Rain Keane, and please watch for next month’s giveaway.)
Some of my favorite gardening books are art books, as well. A Growing Gardener is New York city artist Abbie Zabar’s illustrated journal of a year in her rooftop Manhattan garden. Pruning topiaries, transplanting seedlings, the nesting habits of mockingbirds — it’s all here, drawn in exuberant colored pencil or elegant pen-and-ink. Page by page and plant by plant, urban gardener Abbie manages to create an elaborate little habitat in her 200-square-foot piece of paradise.
Leave a comment after this post, and in one week I’ll let random.org select the winner of a copy of A Growing Gardener. I’ll even tuck a little surprise from my art studio inside the front cover. Good luck!
What I know of the divine science and Holy Scripture I learnt in the woods and fields. — St. Bernard, 12th Century sustainable organic gardener
Today is the feast day of St. Bernard. When I think of St. Bernard, I think of wormwood. And when I think of wormwood, I think of the Herb Lady and an August morning 25 years ago.
I lived in the mountains then, in a little house on a ridge eight miles from the nearest small town. I was seven months pregnant, had a big garden, a two-year-old, a four-year-old and a difficult marriage. Because the house was isolated, had no phone or television, and my husband was only home on weekends, I spent most of the time alone with two young children and the gentle embrace of the surrounding mountains for company. Money was tight, so I drove into town just twice a month for supplies and a fresh stack of library books. We read, hiked and gardened while it was warm. When it got cold, we read and I chopped wood. The girls played in the creek to the west of us, or in the pasture to the east. It wasn’t a bad life, but it could sometimes be awfully lonesome.
During one of my bi-monthly supply runs, a shopkeeper told me about the Herb Lady. “She grows all kinds of herbs up at her place. Herbs to cook with, herbs for medicine, everything. And this time of the year, she’s dividing the plants and she’ll send you home with bags full of roots and cuttings. I’ll draw you a map,” the woman said helpfully. In my mind’s eye, I pictured an ancient, plantwise granny… someone who might welcome a visitor interested in herb lore. The shopkeeper paused from drawing a complicated series of squiggles. “It can be a little bit hard to get to,” she said. “ What kind of vehicle you got?”
But for a chance to visit with a real, live adult person and have a conversation that went beyond a cash register transaction, I was prepared to navigate some wilderness. Two hours later, miles from the place we had turned off the paved road, our little station wagon bucked and slid along a muddy track through the woods. It was unusually quiet in the back seat, where two small passengers frowned as tree branches scraped the sides of the car. I hoped the map drawn on the back of my hardware store receipt was accurate. I hoped that if it wasn’t, I would manage to get the car turned around on the ever-narrowing trail. I also hoped (perhaps most of all) that if my previous two hopes didn’t work out, the mountain panthers I’d read about in my latest library book were well and truly extinct.
The thick canopy overhead parted abruptly, spilling sunlight down on us, and the trail opened up into a cozy little valley. The Herb Lady’s tiny farm looked like a Disney movie set: red barn, white cottage, antique pickup truck. A fat tom turkey came strutting up the driveway to scrutinize us with his beady eyes. And then there was the garden.
Herbs climbed trellises on three sides of the cottage, spilled over the porch railings and sprawled in rock-walled beds . It was August and the plants were at their peak maturity, so it was easy to pick out the familiar culinary varieties – dill, chives, a vast mass of Greek oregano, four kinds of basil — happily growing in the largest and most diverse herb garden I had ever seen.
The Herb Lady was around back, knee-deep in a drift of comfrey, and she greeted me as if we were old friends. She wasn’t a granny after all. All that herb knowledge was walking around in a slender, twentysomething frame with red garden clogs and a halo of frizzy blond hair. She poured mugs of mountain sumac “lemonade” for each of the girls, then took me on a grand tour of the herb beds. For nearly two hours, I enjoyed a wonderful, adult-vocabulary-level conversation about planting, cultivating and harvesting herbs. Every few minutes, the Herb Lady stooped to pull apart a root system or separate a clump of stems, and she handed me the new plant wrapped in a piece of newspaper. By the end of our herb walk, the ingredients for a very respectable kitchen garden lay stacked neatly in the grass.
The last plant she showed me was a thick, feathery profusion of silvery stalks and leaves. It was strange and beautiful, and it was taller than I was.
“This is wormwood,” the Herb Lady said. “Artemisia absinthium. But I only grow it for historical interest. I can’t give you any to take home.” And then she told me about this powerful, bitter herb: a popular medieval remedy for worms, as its name implies; a distant cousin to sagebrush; an ingredient in absinthe, a notorious drink in nineteenth-century Europe; an herb associated with grief and mourning in cultures all over the world. Finally, she pointed out, it repels fleas and moths — which is why she grew it just outside her back door.
“If you’re Catholic, you might be interested to know that wormwood is part of the story of St. Bernard,” the Herb Lady said. I wasn’t Catholic, but I was interested in the story anyway: frail and pious, Bernard was only 22 when he was made abbot over 12 other monks. They were sent to found a new monastery in the desolate Valley of Wormwood, in medieval France. For years, the little group lived on wild herbs and water while they struggled to clear enough of the forest to plant the garden that would eventually sustain them. The garden and the monastery were successful, and the monks’ simple devotion attracted and inspired a large number of people. Faith, patience and a garden were the only tools they had at their disposal, but that was enough.
Later, I drove home on the narrow mountain roads with two little girls asleep in the back seat and a car that smelled like a giant bouquet garni. With hours of happy conversation behind me and hours more of happy gardening ahead, I remember thinking that even in the Valley of Wormwood, there must have been a few really good days.
Most of the cut-flower garden has bloomed itself out for now, but the Perfect Man’s orange canna still provides a welcome blaze of color in the front yard of the studio cottage. I painted this little canna study from a quick sketch made yesterday afternoon… when you’re drawing flowers in the sun on a 95-degree day, quick is the best way to draw!
Evenings, we are turning the far end of the vegetable garden in preparation for planting fall beans next week. I need to shift the summer compost bin contents to the beds and finish pulling down the spent summer bean vines. The herb need attention. The trellis frames need to be restrung so they can hold up our winter squash. And what about all those peppers waiting to be picked, chopped and frozen? Little by little, it will all be done.
image (c)2009 val webb
I love to draw (and carve) my favorite plant, purple coneflower. It grows easily from seed when the soil temperature is above 70 degrees — which is most of the year, where I garden. This whimsical medicinal loves compost, moderately moist soil and lots of sunshine. The native people of the prairie states used it more than any other healing plant, using mainly the root to treat a litany of ills from snakebite to venereal disease. I’m sure it was a primary ingredient in my Tennessee great-granny’s annual “tonic” — the springtime infusion she used every year to purify her blood. She learned to cultivate, harvest and compound medicinal plants early in the last century, when summer was dreaded as a season of increase in disease — and deaths — among infants and young children. Families fled the cities during those months, and country people like my Granny Griff fortified themselves with a concoction of botanicals valued for its immune-boosting effect.
So where’s the hedgehog in all this? Well…
Once in a while, an art commission comes along that becomes an unexpected source of great enjoyment. The drawing process takes on a life of its own, and I feel almost like a spectator as the image takes shape on the paper. That’s what happened recently, and here is the result. I haven’t done a pencil portrait in years, so it was fun to watch this one unfold.
Meanwhile, in the garden, I’m slowly working my way through the not-so-enjoyable process of clearing the summer beds. Over the next couple of weeks — working in the early mornings, before the mercury reaches those stifling 90s — we’ll spade up the soil to loosen and aerate it, then add a layer of compost from the bin. The winter garden is my favorite.
…And, in the rapidly dwindling fennel patch, 25 fat Eastern Swallowtail larvae are munching, munching, munching the days away. Click here to see how far they’ve come in four short days!
Beginning September 22, you can spend your Tuesday evenings happily painting Mobile Bay area plant life (and maybe a butterfly or two) in vivid color and detail. My eight-week Botanical Watercolor course at Space 301 downtown will meet weekly from 6:30 to 8:30 pm, and will include one Saturday field drawing day at a date to be selected by the class.
No previous art experience is necessary… we’ll explore step-by-step scientific illustration techniques in a relaxed, encouraging atmosphere. Develop your powers of observation while using washes, dry brush and glazing. Mix colors to create depth with light and shadow. You’ll never see plants in quite the same way again…
There is a modest supply list for the class – under $20 – and tuition for 8 weeks is $110 (It’s $95 for members of Centre for the Living Arts) .
Fore more information, email education coordinator Cindy Phillips at space301@cityofmobile.org
