A GARDEN IN A DRESS

Late 1950's.

By government decree, every woman had to march at a huge rally honoring the dictator. All had to wear white dresses, shoes, gloves, summer hats. My mother had her seamstress make her a linen dress with mother-of-pearl buttons down the bodice. Before the dress was assembled, Mother took it to a lovely Chinese woman in the tiny Chinatown in Santo Domingo. This lady hardly spoke Spanish, but through signs and my mother's own design, flowers bloomed all over the bodice and pockets. There were calendars on the walls of this lady's tiny shop. One showed gorgeous, smiling Chinese girls carrying parasols and wearing sinuous silk dresses with high collars. Another had illustrations of strange, steep mountains coming out of the water. As a seven-year-old I made up my mind that Chinese artists didn't know what they were doing because obviously no mountain could look like that. This year I went to Guilin and sailed around those strange mountains and for the first time in over fifty years thought of that Chinese woman and her embroidery machine in a sultry little room in the middle of the Caribbean. The dress was gorgeous. My mother was gorgeous when she wore it. She didn't wear it the day of the rally. She was "sick" that morning and had to stay home. No member of my family would ever appear at a government rally and shout vivas to the tyrant. There are many ways to resist tyranny, I don't know how many of them require a new linen dress. This one has resided in my closet for many years to remind me of my beautiful mother and her indomitable spirit.

Who are you?

Squirrels have developed a bizarre appetite for certain compounds not found in nature. Fiberglass, which is used to create molded decorative elements impervious to weather, has become one of their favorite fast foods. I don't know if the squirrels die after such a diet, but the lovely statue of Budha, a gift to the garden by Cristina and Freddy de Castro, succumbed under the rodents' newfangled passion. After disposing of what was left of Budha, the space where he had stood for several years looked desolate but the idea of replacing him with just any old pot was unthinkable. On a shopping foray at Ross [dress for less, uhuh] I spied this blue, perfectly coiffed and bejweled entity. He smiled at me from high atop a shelf. I reached to touch him and realized he was pottery... squirrel-proof though most probably not frost-proof. Love at first sight. I looked up the price - since our trip to China I've been rather thrifty- oh baby, the price was right. He came home with me. Again there is a focal point on that crucial axis. He is not cobalt blue like everything else at Furball Cottage. Instead he is a turquoise color that brightens up the shady spot. As I'm a crazy lover of turquoise jewelry, this was a double mitzvah. Now I'd like to ask... who are you? What deity do you represent? Are you a young Gautama? Were you copied from some ancient temple in India? Will I ever discover your identity? Or are you just a melange of symbols made in China to feed the insatiable hunger for consumer goods of the American public?

How Sweet is This?

The ladies from the National Cathedral Flower Guild charmed us all at the Harvest Festival celebrated this Saturday at the magnificent Methodist Church in Haddonfield. In the morning they gave us a demonstration on how to do fabulous church flowers in what seemed no time at all. In one and a half hours they made four enormous designs plus three smaller ones. What talent! After lunch there was a hands-on workshop where we made these adorable topiaries. Although the plant material was the same, no two came out the same. And that, in a nutshell, is the joy of flowers.

AD MAJOREM GLORIA DEI

What could be more rewarding than giving flowers to the glory of God? After all, He is the creator of all our wealth. All we're doing is giving it back to HIM. Everything but the little gourds in this arrangement and its twin came from the gardens at Furball Cottage and went to adorn the sanctuary at Saint Matthew Lutheran Church in Moorestown. Let us give thanks for the bounty His generosity has bestowed upon us. All Glory to Him now and forever. Amen.

ON FIRE!

Fall arrived in all its glory. The fire bush [euonymus alata] looked magnificent. Call the firemen, my garden is on fire! Well, that was exactly one year ago. This year the drought has destroyed its beauty, branches have cracked and several of its neighbors, including a spectacular cryptomeria japonica which will have to be cut down. I'll have to enjoy pictures from years past because this summer was a bummer.

FLAVOR EXPLOSION

The pomegranates have arrived!

Where could anybody find a most sensual fruit? Well, there's always guavas and mangoes, but in this latitude, finding these luscious flavor bombs in the market is always a red banner day. The Spanish word for this beautiful fruit is GRANADA, and that is also the word for hand grenade. I can see it so clearly... an explosion of flavor inside your mouth. Close your eyes, fill the passion running on your tongue. You are eating rubies. Enjoy them while they last, which is not a long time. For those who have asked me how to eat a pomegranate: Slice off the top with a knife, break the fruit with your fingers. Remove the seeds. Put a handful of seeds in your mouth and press with your tongue onto your palate. I recommend you don't wear white clothes while you do this. The juice will run and spot everything. Maybe eating them naked would be more appropriate. Throw a fistful of seeds into the mouth of your naked eating partner... Uhm... I have the feeling this could turn pornographic if I go on... And remember... not only is it sexy to eat a pomegranate, it's also chuck full of antioxidants. A new friend advised me that squeezing the juice of a pip into the eyes will cure conjunctivitis (pink eye). I can think of more ways to eat this juicy, sweet, full-flavored gem, but I've had enough titillation for one day. Have a satisfying experience!

RAPTOR IN THE GARDEN

A flurry of activity inside and outside Furball Cottage. I'm flying to get ready and leave for a court assignment. The birds outside are chattering and flying about sending distress signals. Must explore the situation. The judge can wait. Right there, by the window, perched on a branch of the old cherry tree, a hawk! No time for binoculars or identification guide, just rush for the camera and try to get as good as shot as possible. Of course he turned his head at the last moment and, sensing the clicks, only allowed two exposures. His claws, however, tell the whole story. Bright yellow in the early autumnlight, those prehensile toes and hooked black nails, perfect for the purposes of capturing prey and ripping it apart. What a magnificent creature. The birds may not like you, Mr. Hawk, but you're always welcome in my garden, especially if you go after the squirrels, moles and chipmunks. Oh, and by the way, I made it in time for court, although I had already rehearsed my apology: "Your Honor, unavoidably detained by raptor".