A Single Hollyhock



Hollyhocks - Frederick Carl Frieseke

"As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous sunflowers, we shall never have a garden without them, both for their own sake, and for the sake of old-fashioned folks, who used to love them."

                                                                                                                                                                    Henry Ward Beecher 


I love this painting by Frederick Carl Frieseke and have a knock-off of it on canvas rolled away to be framed if I ever have enough wall space.  Oh to have a garden like the one he painted!

Hollyhocks are a favorite of mine.  At one time, a life-time ago, Hollyhocks bloomed over six feet tall in the back bed. Sadly they disappeared over time. Happily my huge rose bush with its tiny pink flowers took over the space years later.

Last summer when my  picket fence went up, I had help picking out flowers to plant from a charming gentlemen who worked part-time as a garden consultant at my local hardware store. He planted a single Hollyhock on the outside of the fence, where it bordered the sidewalk. I thought that was a most unusual place to plant a Hollyhock, remembering the years past and the size of the plants in my back yard. I didn't question it. He was the master, I was dolling out a bit of change for his help.

It didn't grow much last year. I couldn't image how this runt of a plant would grow six feet tall. This year it was still short. I waited and wondered how I would ever see it bloom.

Then to my amazement, there were buds, and a week later, a blossom. It finally dawned on me this was some sort of a dwarf hollyhock! No wonder he planted it by the fence!

At this point I need to remind myself to ask more questions of others and to reiterate I am lucky my flowers grow at all in my yard with my lack of gardening knowledge.

But still . . . I have a Hollyhock by my picket fence. One stunning black blossom nods at me as I walk down to admire the flowers that continue to surprise me with their beauty and willpower to thrive!

Isn't that what life is all about . .  the willpower to survive, to grow, and to bloom.  Every day there is something that has left my garden and something new that is lovely to replace it.

I am learning what seasoned gardeners have known. There are lessons to be found digging in the dirt . .  . I am coming at it late in life, but what a beautiful time to discover this.

 

 

My Faux Farm

Sometimes a house dictates what it wants to look like. My ranch house told me it wanted to be a farmhouse more than a cottage. I think in my heart I wanted a little farmhouse too - one full of cottage style with a touch of whimsy. I think I've achieved my goal on the outside. At night when I drive up - the solar caps on the fence posts lining my driveway wink at me as if to chuckle about the house's new look. A neighbor stopped by last evening as I was watering my plants. She wanted to know if I just moved in the neighborhood. I refrained from laughing. I've lived here thirty years. She loved the girl pulling the cow and wanted to know where to buy one. Shhh. I'll never tell. I don't want to ruin the neighborhood with too much silliness. My house has enough for all to enjoy.

Below are some photos of what we look like with our facelift!

Street view

 

 

 

Garden Lady

 

 

 

 

One of five Knock Out Rose bushes

 

 

 

Lady on wall by front window

 

 

 

 

Crusty metal flower hung on chimney

 

 

 

 Front door - new awning

 

 

 

Back gate, outhouse shutters, hen house, and egg sign!

 

 

 

 

And just as you were saying, how tastefully whimsical - Elsie appears in front of my gas meter!

 

 

I think I'll stay put for awhile!

 

When In Fear Of A Dog Bite Always Buy Pink Roses

The face of a guilty dog.

A dog that intends to bite does not bear its teeth.  Turkish Proverb

If I had read this proverb two days ago, I might not have bought more pink roses for my yard. But Bertha showed me her teeth and I went out on a spree.

I think in reality the rain had gotten to all of us. Me, Bertha, and the other five hounds. I saw more teeth this week because of dog boredom. Teeth not in my direction, but my normally well behaved pups got testy with each other. Then a set of pearly whites did gleam at me.

It was raining again and the only thing to do was take a nap. The old cantankerous Annabelle was asleep on the bed. I tried to crawl in next to her and she refused to budge. Then Bertha flew into the room, jumped in the air, and landed smack dab on Annabelle's front paws. That woke Annabelle up, who proceeded to snarl at Bertha. A mean snarl that said "don't do that again if you know what is good for you."

Bertha cowered by the pillow. I was amazed she didn't growl back. I was pleased she was learning her manners. Bertha was the last dog to come to the pack and her social progress was slow.

Within minutes the room was full of dogs. It doesn't help I cry out "dog party" as they all make their way to my king-size bed. We snuggled down for a nap, the rain pounding on the roof,  the sound of it dripping against the window was a sad reminder it was time to clean the gutters.

Chloe my seven pound Chi was under the quilt when I turned and squashed her. She did not take it kindly and poked her head out to let me know she was quite annoyed. I ignored her. After all, she is only seven pounds. No matter how sinister she tries to be, I can only smile. She twirled around and scooted back under the quilt.

Bertha sat up and started to shake her head. I had been worried she might have an ear infection earlier in the week. The movement she made only convinced me I was right.

"Come on, girl!" I eased off the bed and she moved to follow me. She stepped on Chloe under the quilt, mashed Annabelle's paw again, and bumped into Rascal as she jumped to the floor. Three dog heads shot up, but they kept silent. April and Bray were unfazed. Does that add up to six dogs?

I reached over to Bertha's head and touched her ear. She winced and growled at me. Her teeth were close to my hand, her eyes looked at me for an instant, then she dropped her head in shame.

For that nano second I saw her teeth I panicked. Her nose flew up and she smelled my fear. Then she became contrite. She did nothing more than any of my other dogs would do if I'd grabbed an ear that hurt them. But because Bertha is still an unknown it worried me more than I liked.

Between the rain and my concern over Bertha my day felt bleak. I put on my jeans, grabbed the car keys and headed out. I drove around the shopping center and passed Kroger.  In the grey drizzle of rain I saw a soft pink. Roses.

I couldn't park my car fast enough. Did I need more roses? Is that a question a rose lover would ask. There are never enough roses.

I purchased three rose bushes at Kroger and gently placed them in my van. The sun did not come out, but my mood elevated back to its normal happy self.

My little cottage garden is filling up. The roses will be planted in the next few days. I am waiting for the sun to shine so I can find the best spot for them. I've already planted roses by my picket fence.

In the meantime, I placed the roses by the front window, next to the old tin girl and cow that was my sign at the shop. It may be the decoration over my awning later this month, up high on my roof line. For now, it looks lovely framed by roses.

The dogs were happy to see me as I entered the house. I uncrated Bertha and she butted me with her head. Her thick muzzle had the velvet feel of a horse's mouth. She pranced over to the sofa, jumped up and rolled over on her back. Belly rubs were called for. She has an appointment with the vet for her ear on Tuesday.

I love my dogs. I love my roses. Simple pleasures.  Roses have thorns that will prick you if you are not careful. And just maybe a dog with a tender ear will bear its teeth if you touch it wrong.

Life lessons learned and a great excuse to buy roses for my yard.  While I am still waiting for the sun to shine my life is full of light.

Kroger. Could you drive by and not stop?

The companion next to me on the car seat.

More roses on the front seat.

Waiting patiently.

My old shop sign.

A Picket Fence Needs Roses, Don't You Agree?

      A funny thing happened on my trip to the hardware store. I walked in with a fluorescent light bulb to return and left with a truck full of rose bushes and soil. In an odd way, it was a good way to start work on the bed by my picket fence.

     The light bulb sat in my van's front seat for a week. Each time I started to return it, I ended up someplace else. Antique shops, dinner with friends, the grocery store. Anything, and everything, seemed more fun than a return trip to the hardware store. The bulb cost $9.99. Did I really care about a refund? The fixture I bought it for had long since died. I didn't realize it didn't work until I put my new bulb in. Maybe I could use it when I replaced the old light. But fluorescent bulbs don't just tuck in anywhere for later, they are long, and fragile. Sick of looking at it in my front seat, I decided today was the day of action.

     Who knew my timing was right for an unexpected pleasure!

     Rain sprinkled on my face as I got out of my van. I looked ahead at the garden area. Rows of roses, all colors, stared back at me. In the misty, grey air, they looked magical. I pulled open the large glass door and walked into the hardware store.

     “Need to return this light bulb.” I smiled at the girl at the register. “Here's my receipt.”

     “Got it!” She punched some keys and handed me a pen. “Just sign here. Can I help you with anything else.”

     “Those roses are wonderful outside. Think I'll just take a peek at them.” I laughed. She looked at me as if to say whatever.

     “I have a new picket fence. Don't you think roses would be lovely planted by it?”

     “They can help you in the garden area.” She was not excited with my idle chatter, but that has never stopped me before.

     “Heading there now. Bet I spend more money than what I just got credit for.” I chuckled knowing full well it was do or die today. I needed to do this while I was inspired. If I didn't buy roses now, I wouldn't buy them at all this season. The cool rain made it all seem possible. My tax refund check would cover my costs. I didn't realize just how perfect my timing would be. But I would soon find out.
     Two weekends ago I was at a garden tour. I talked to a master gardener from England and exclaimed how much I wanted roses by my fence. She was a bit haughty with her reply.

     “Roses are perfect if you are in Britain. And I wouldn't plant anything except annuals now. Wait until the fall when the air is cooler. The root structure will be more hardy then. Now you'll have to water.”

      It was raining that day too. Water didn't seem to be an issue this month. I couldn't wait until fall. My fence needed something lovely now.

     “What's in that wagon?” I trailed behind a tall, lanky, man working in the garden area. The leaves looked like little rose leaves to me. 
     “Roses. Moving them to the back area.” He kept pulling the wagon and I trailed behind him.

     “I want some roses to plant by my new picket fence. Just don't have a clue what to buy.” I knew there were new roses that were quite hardy and old roses that smelled divine. I didn't know the difference, and had not cared until I walked into the hardware store.

      He stopped and smiled at me. A nice kind smile. He wasn't laughing at me yet. “So what are you looking for?”

     “Real roses. I don't think I want to put fake flowers down by the fence, but I did see a lovely tall artificial bush at the antique shop last week.” I laughed hoping he would realize I was kidding.

     “No way.  Let me show you what we have. Who is going to plant them for you?'

      I knew it wouldn't be me. The ground were the fence went in was full of old roots from large bushes my handyman took down. Gardening was not on his work agenda either.

       “I don't know. Do you know someone?”

       “Well, I do gardening and landscape design sometimes after I leave here. Maybe I could help.”

       I didn't hesitate. “What do you charge and can you do it this week? I think the rain should stop by Friday.”

      We struck a deal and I started to pick out my roses. Pink, pink, pink, red. I lined them up in front of me.

      “Well, it's your garden, but I'm not sure of the colors. Also, you need to do odd numbers, three, five, so you can space them. Not four in a row.”

      The young woman working across from us, spoke up.

     “He's right. You could mix the colors, not so much pink. This is a white climbing rose.” She held out a pot with a beautiful bloom. “Maybe you could do pink, yellow, white, red. Place three on one side of your drive, and the climber on the other side. Don't mind me, I heard you talk about the fence.”

      Based on their suggestions, I bought a mixture of colors.

     “You'll need some soil too if that ground needs to be worked.”

     “It's pretty horrible. How much should I get.”

      We went over to the soil and decided on three bags.

     “You know, I am off the clock in a minute. Let me load all this in my truck and follow you home. That way I can see where to come on Friday and get a better idea of the area. It does get sun, doesn't it?”

     “Just the area by the driveway. Further down the Crepe Myrtles, and other trees, pretty much block it out.”

     I went in and paid for my roses and dirt. He was waiting in his truck, everything loaded, when I got out. We headed to my house, which was less than two miles from the hardware shop.

     “Great fence. The roses will be beautiful with it. Good choice.”

      He unloaded everything and dropped it up at the end of my driveway.

     “I don't want to tell you what to do, but you need to cut that ivy growing on your trees. It will kill the trees.”

     “Someone else told me that a few years ago. I just haven't gotten around to it.”

     “I'll take care of it Friday too. Just cut the ivy around the base of the tree and the rest will die off.”
      The roses and dirt were next to my hen house (that's a story for later). I saw this as a photo op.

     “Mind if I take your picture with the roses? I'm writing about all the work on my house for my blog.”

      His laugh was pretty hardy. “Only one!” Then he struck a pose.

     “So, Friday is good?”

      “I'll call you early and should be here by nine.”

      He backed his truck out of my drive and waved as he spun it around on the street and took off.

      Life always takes me by surprise. I love that! Who would have thought a fluorescent bulb would light the path to bring a garden angel to my house.

Every Cottage Garden Needs A Muse

Lily at Vintage Village in Snellville waiting to come home with me.

     Every cottage garden needs a muse. I found mine yesterday at a favorite shop,  Vintage Village,  in Snellville, Georgia. She is now in my van, waiting for my handyman to place her by the picket fence when he comes back to work in a few days. I have a good friend to thank for her!

      This week, I am trying to decide what to plant next to my new fence. Something that will thrive in the shade, come back each year, and have a touch of green in the winter months. Most of the trash shrubs along the fence line were cut down or dug up. Two plants remain that have a bit of history.

      There is a lone pink rose bush that surprises me each year when it blooms. It was planted before I moved to this house, and comes back despite years of neglect.

     A hydrangea bush, I planted eight years ago, and forgot about, still grows despite being covered by weeds and small trees that sprouted while I ignored the front yard.  My handyman was careful not to dig it up after I warned him the bush was there.

     While I am not sure what I want in the way of plants, I knew I needed a garden lady to tuck in the nook of the fence. My garden needed its muse. I have a love affair with vintage garden statues. They are in my back yard, they are highlighted as art inside my house. The really old and fragile ones sit on dresser tops, while sturdier ones are allowed to venture into the gardens. 

     All my friends know my passion for old cement. They keep an eye out for me and let me know if they find something special.

     A call came in early Sunday evening from an antique buddy.

    "I'm at Vintage Village and the most wonderful cement lady is here in another booth. Thought about you." My friend rents space at the shop under the name My Vintage Heart.  The shop was closed, she was dropping off treasures for her space, but the timing was great that the statue was still there.

     Vintage Village is located in Snellville, Georgia, about twenty-five miles up the road from my house. It is on my way to Monroe, where I rent a spot at Hodge Podge Art, Antiques and Interiors.  I usually stop in there when I make a run to my booth. It always feels like home when I visit and I rarely leave empty-handed.
     
     "Sending a text with her photo now."

      Within a minute the photo arrived, and I was beside myself. This was the lady of my dreams for the cottage in my mind. She is beautiful, weathered perfectly, and tall.    

       "OMG! I love her. Just what I wanted. I'll be there tomorrow to buy her. Leave a note on the front desk!"

      I called the shop first thing Monday and then ran out to pick up Lily, as she had been named.

     Lily will be placed inside the fence, facing the house. I will smile at her with delight when I sit in my living room. Look for photos when she makes her appearance!

Photo from the test message my friend sent me!

    

Simply Said "I Must Have A Picket Fence!"

I'd like to invite you for tea but I think we both know it's Margaritaville!

     Ranch house. Picket fence. Are the two compatible? As hard as I searched online I could not find my style ranch house surrounded by a picket fence. My late forties ranch with its large sweeping front yard, wrought iron rails and original metal awnings, screamed out “do not fence me in!” At least, not with a picket fence.

     There once was a split rail western fence across the front yard by the street that had fallen in decay. OK, I also knocked into the fence one rainy night going out to meet a bad date. I whacked it with the rear of my car and it tumbled to the ground. An omen I took to heart that my date was not going to work out. While I never saw my date again, I got to look out my front window at the fence remains for a few years.

     The problem with my yard and a sweet picket fence is the size of the yard. The land is not all mine, but part of a right-of-way that I maintain. Those charming fences I loved would make my house look ridiculous. Like when I shrunk my already tight jeans and went out to dinner with my jeans about three inches above my ankle. Laughable, but not funny. I didn't realize how silly I looked til I caught sight of myself  in the full length mirrored doors as I entered the restaurant. Proportion counts. In jeans and in fences.

     “I want a picket fence!” Simply said. But not quietly so.

     My handyman and I went through pictures I'd printed out.

     “I like that railed fence. You could do that.” He tried to be helpful.

     It was lovely. I actually saw one like it on a farm I passed as I went antiquing the week before. White. Charming. But I was not looking to buy the farm, I wanted the cottage in my mind.

     “Nope. Picket fence.”

     Driving an intown neighborhood a few days later a different kind of picket fence caught my eye. Three trips around the block I positioned myself to take a photo. Never mind the few cars behind me honking as I came to a complete stop at rush hour. I got the photo. I also found my fence-style.

     “This!” I flashed my cell at my handyman. “What do you think?”

     “That will work!”

      And yes it did.

      Two inch pickets, forty-eight inches high, with four inches between the pickets, gave the openness and height that was needed to frame my yard. Simple, elegant, timeless, and charming.

     A trip to the lumber yard provided the supplies. Two hundred and forty pickets, two inch rails, and posts totaled over $740.

    Visa don't fail me now. I pulled out my worn credit card and handed it to the cashier. For just a second my heart raced. I had not put a cost to the fence.

    “Here is your receipt. Take it to the window in the first room and the guys will load your lumber.”

     Work started that afternoon and a few days later my fence was in. Most of it. The far corner on the other side of the drive goes in the end of this week. Towards the creek and right-of-way the only remaining portion of the old split rail fence still stands. You can barely see it. It has not rotted. I left it to show where the original fence boundaries were. It also reminds me of an earlier time in my house, when a man I loved would have cringed at the thought of a picket fence. It is part of my roots after all.

      I am dreaming flowers and garden statues. I love my picket fence! Come on over. I'll have a pitcher of Margaritas waiting!



Poor pitiful split rail fence!

So that is what a fence looks like fresh from the lumber yard.

And so it begins....

Looking mighty fine!

Finished, complete with solar caps on the side going up the driveway. Perhaps I'll see better at night when I back out!

Needs some flowers!

A long stretch of pickets!

Details. See how the pickets angle to one side at top.



  

    

A Bee In My Bonnet

    

Photo from the web.

    “Watch out!” I screamed at my handyman as the bees buzzed overhead. I have a morbid fear of being stung and I didn't want him to get zapped while working on my new picket fence.

     “I see them.” He swatted at the air above his head with his old cap. “Geez. I hate bees!”

     Nobody was stung, thank goodness. But I had a problem to address. While the fence in front of my house was near completion, the side corner that frames the driveway was buzzing with bees.

      We stood there looking at the area he had to work on next.

     “What do you think?” I looked at him, concerned, but somewhat disgusted there was a problem to solve.

     “Don't know. I guess I could dig out the old fence, like I did on this side." He turned back to where he had all but completed my picket fence. "But there weren't bees there. Bees and I don't get along.”

     The remains of the old split rail fence were covered with plants and shrubs. It had once been a flower bed, but years of neglect turned it into a jungle. I wanted flowers again, framed by my new fence. The only thing I planned to save was the sweet pink rose that managed to thrive over the years.

     “Wonder what kind of bees they are?” I thought about all my old Victorian paintings with their honeybees flying over roses and lilacs in baskets.
      I watched as the bees seemed to play in the air and soar above our heads, only to disappear back into the thick shrubs. They hardly noticed us.

     “I'll bet they are honeybees.”
      I called the county extension services and was put in touch with their master gardener.

     “Not time for honeybees, nor yellow jackets. You say there is a wood fence there? Probably carpenter bees. April is the month you start seeing them.”

     “Do you know someone I can call to get rid of them?"
     “You can buy spray to kill them. But that could also annoy them. They really aren't aggressive, unless provoked. Do you have a tennis racket? Try to chase them away with that.”

      Her remark brought back a flood of memories!  My husband used to keep his old tennis racket by the kitchen door. He'd take it outside to deal with the carpenter bees when he saw them at the back of the house. I tossed it away a few months ago in a house cleaning frenzy. My timing was off on that one. But I didn't really picture my handyman or myself down by the fence swinging a racket."

     “Do you have someone I could call.” I repeated myself.

     She gave me the name of a guy, a beekeeper, who might help. “Tell him you know you can spray, but wanted his help to do it. Most likely he'll say no.”

     Not to be discouraged I called him.

     “Don't want to take your money for something you can do yourself.” I had a good old country boy on the phone.
     “I'm pretty sure they are carpenter bees, and I know I can spray, but I'm scared. And so is my handyman.”
     “If he is a handyman, he's not afraid of bees. Ask him. Never met a handyman who couldn't handle a few carpenter bees, unless they are wasps or something else. But with that fence there, they most likely are carpenter bees. Can't take your money for that.”

     Please take my money, I silently pleaded.

     “I'd feel better if you could come and take a look. I'll pay for your time.”
     “If you're that worried, I'll  come in the morning. Want to be sure you know what you're talking about. Wouldn't want you to hit a wasp nest. But most likely them carpenter bees. Can't take your money for that.”

     It rained liked the heavens opened up that night. By morning it was bright again. My handyman showed up, but the bees did not.

     An old pickup truck pulled up into the driveway just as I was assessing the bee situation. A man in his late forties jumped out and walked over to introduce himself.

     “Do you think the rain chased them away?” I looked again at the quiet bushes and worried they were gone for now, but would be back, and my beekeeper would be gone.

     Then a bee flew out of the bushes and circled us.

    “Yep. You got carpenter bees.” He bent over and pulled back some limbs to see the split rail fence. “You can see the holes.” He thumped on the fence and more bees appeared. “Won't hurt you. Unless of course you bother them.”

     Wasn't that what he just did thumping on the fence? But the bees just flew about. One brushed against my hand and took back off. They did not appear to be concerned with us like I was with them.
     “Your handyman ain't afraid of those carpenter bees.”

     “Yeah, I think he is. Let's ask.”

      I called him over. He eyed the bees circling.
    “Think you can handle this?” I looked at my handyman. Someone had to get that fence out of there so we could cut down the shrubs and get my picket fence in. "He says you can work around the bees."

     “I hate bees.” He gave me a crooked smile and went back to the other side of the drive.

     “Something wrong with him?” The beekeeper shook his head. “Never met a...”

     “Can you help?” I cut him off mid sentence.

     “I'll pull that old fence out if you like.”

     Before I could answer he jerked out the two posts and the two rails and tossed them by the trash can. Then he bent over and grabbed the longer rail and held it out to me.
    “Yep. Look at them holes.” He took a stick and poked in one of them. “Got that bee.”

The holes could not have been more precise if they had been drilled.

    “Wow. That's amazing. Are there more bees in there?”

     My fear was gone. This was pretty awesome.

     He held the rail close to his ear then handed it to me.
    “Listen.”

    The rail buzzed with activity. I wondered how many bees were still in there.

    “They'll be out when it warms up a bit.” He dropped the rail back by the trash.
     I was thrilled. The fence was out. I could trim back the shrubs myself now.
    “Can I pay you for your time?” He didn't have to drive far from his house to mine, but I did cut into his morning.

    “A few bucks for gas would be fine. Can't take your money for anything else.”

    After he left my handyman and I made a quick run to Home Depot for caps for the fence posts. We stopped for burgers and drove home to eat in the driveway.

    “I can see bees down there.” He was looking in his rear view mirror.

    Just at that moment, the garbage men pulled up in their huge truck. They loaded my trash and started to leave.

     “Did they take the fence rails?” I didn't want to turn around and look.

      “No....wait, they just backed up."

     “Are they taking it?” I couldn't believe my good fortune.

      I did a quick spin in my seat to see them load the fence remains, bees and all, into the back of the truck and drive off.

     “I can't believe that. It's all gone!” Then we both started to laugh so hard I almost snorted up my diet coke.

     Scratch one bee in my bonnet! I spent the next hour cutting back the overgrowth, except for my lovely old rose bush.

     The rest of my fence goes in next week.

     Bee in hole. Photo from the web.

Perfectly round hole by carpenter bee. Photo from the web.

Overgrown corner with old split rail fence - home of the caprenter bees.

My afternoon work. Fence gone, area almost cleared.

Info about carpenter bees. Link here.  

Carpenter bees are large, black and yellow insects about 1 inch (25 mm) long. They closely resemble bumble bees. The thorax is covered with yellowish hairs, and the abdomen is a shiny black color and hairless. Male carpenter bees are territorial; in the spring they are often found guarding potential nest sites. They discourage intruders by hovering or darting at anything venturing into the nesting areas. The female carpenter bee, like many other bees, can sting, but it is uncommon for her to do so; the males do not sting.