Yellow...and Pink...and Lavender...and Red...and Green...

The long monsoons are finally lifting, and this is a bit of what is emerging in the back garden (and front beds). Bow is enjoying a chance to sniff some new scents emerging with the arrival of April. There is much work to be done, but it's encouraging to see the calla lilies emerging as well as the California wildflowers in their pots in the tiny greenhouse.

What We're Seeing in the Back Garden

Yippee! Afternoons Are Now Perfect for Garden Play

Miss Bow Says...

Yippee! The sun has been shining for the past 30 hours in San Francisco, and I have been enjoying sun paths in the afternoon in the front parlor. My daddy has a furlough/leave day Friday, and we're going to be in the back yard pulling weeds, chasing cats on the back fence, and enjoying the sun. At last I've broken free of the chilly temps and snow of Chicago and am a true California girl!

In These Uncertain Times...

...the view from my front window, the berries on the trees the only sign of autumn in my immediate world, I take comfort and unease in remembering the transient nature of everything, everyone and every emotion. And I take solace in knowing that I planted these trees ten years ago after two others died.

Stoned in the Back Garden

One thing that has long kept me from wanting to move from my little Mission District tenement is the small but beloved garden that I can spy from the dining room back window and has been a part of my morning and evening routine for years. A range of perrenials and annuals come and go, and I take solace in what I sometimes call the "River 101", the freeway just three blocks away, that can sound like a mighty river that is grounding and a reminder that nature and urbanity merging together can give me peace.

The memorial stones for my cats are there, and now letting Guru out in the garden is a part of my daily routine, allowing me no guilt to take time to pull weeds midday or catch up on recreational reading as he answers the call of nature.

Lately I have also come to take greater comfort in this garden stone that was given to me by my mother on the third to last Christmas she was alive, 2001, with its wisdom of "Out of crisis comes opportunity". These words would prove to be far more prophetic over the seven years that would follow, and there were so many people I could blame -- disappointing exes, an inept President, a few inept bosses and most of all, myself.

Yet, the stone has remained, sometimes nagging and other time reassuring. Tonight, as I looked at it, it seemed to have different meanings that I can't quite pinpoint. I just hope the opportunities are larger than the crises ahead.

Of course, W______ and I had a gorgeous garden in Park Slope. And I’m sure that I could find one in the right spot in NoLiTa or Chelsea Park…

…not that I am absolutely moving there…

…but I’m just saying. And shouldn’t Guru have his first visit to Central Park and the Met?

Brothers Reunited Today

Friday Chez le Jardin du Junque

Have a lovely weekend. It's gorgeous here.

Someone Is Flirting With Bunter

Garden Variety

Is it a sign of one's impending dotage or is it the absolute verification of a full blown, now officially in advance stages dotage to keep a garden journal? I've kept a life journal since I was age nine with never more than a three week gap in entries. There are also travel journals, gym journals, house journals, spiritual journals, and journals on...oh, I'll just let you use your imagination. I swear, I am truly carrying the torch of Brigid Berlin.

One of my exes, a Jewish-Italian American from Connecticut who always said I reminded him of the people from the other side of Connecticut, once remarked that the garden journal was actually the quirk that he found most endearing about me. He kept cooking and entertaining journals. The fact that he was one of a still to be disclosed number of ex-beaus of Jewish-Italian heritage from the states of Connecticut and New Jersey that are a concurrent theme in my life should, perhaps, inspire me to keep a journal on that topic. But, believe me, I've written and typed endless pages on those boys in the other journals.

Regardless, I've had a few recent nudges asking me to post shots from the aforementioned journal. While not spectacular, at least they show my nifty birdbath and those rose rocks in the background of the iron lantern that come from the famed Lazy Acres estate. How many of you have rose rocks in your garden?

Le Jardin de Junque

I know everyone has been on pins and needles waiting for the early May garden shots, so here they are.

Concrete and Pork Art Terrorism

More than once I've heard people say that this blog is about as interesting as watching concrete dry. Yet, folks keep coming back, and even read and comment on entries as banal as these from last August and September where I chronicled my neighbors replacement of their concrete slabs and subsequent daily hosing of their prized new slab.

Well, this week we replaced our concrete slab. We had been tagged by the city for broken sections and were expected to incur all of the costs for what serves as a public sidewalk for the hundreds who walk across it every day with shopping carts, baby carriages and even cars from time to time when neighbors are too lazy to find a legal spot. Charging a toll for people to pass is not out the question now. This was a perfect example of a problem serving as an opportunity since we were able to enlarge two flower beds and add a third. Succulents, sand, rocks and neurotic grasses will follow.

However, look closely at the last couple of photos in this series. You will clearly see the graffiti spelling out "pork" which was not there when the sun went down yesterday. I strongly suspect that Bryce, Kusala or Salty Miss Jill were involved as the three horse people of the pork apocalypse. Since the latter two are several hundred of miles away I hope that they did not travel all the way to the Mission just to terrorize me. Since he lives in the same zip code, Bryce is currently our prime suspect. Watch out, Mr. Digdug, Junk Thief is on to you!

Since I Know You're All Dying of Curiosity

Here's the current status of my mini-conservatory/solarium/greenhouse. Thanks for all the tips. I hope to get more ideas next weekend at the Edwardian World's Faire.

Seeking Suggestions

Although I am not fond of that much Victorian architecture, I have always had a weakness for 19th century greenhouses and conservatories. I'd been eyeing the ones at Paxton Gate for quite a while and picked up this one yesterday. Now the dilemma is what would work best in it. Succulents? Ferns? (Which I really don't care for that much.) African Violets? A collection of Deery Lou and Hello Kitty figures?

Chez le Jardin de Junk Thief

His Majesty Bunter, assuming his rightful pose as the king of the jungle on York Street. He's an indoor puss, so he's been an absolute purr machine of thanks for having an afternoon playing and reigning in the garden today.

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I am happy to bring back the surprisingly popular feature showing shots from the garden at the back of the JunkPlex.

It is good that I did my jaunt to the Haight and Golden Gate Park yesterday since they were having the 40th anniversary of the Summer of Love concert out there today. I did actually do some deadheading, but it involved rose bushes and geraniums.

Here are some highlights.
According to Salty Sally at Flowercraft (not to be confused with Salty Miss Jill), these flowers are indigenous to Austria and contain all the colors of the Royal Habsburg Court and you will see them in any official portrait of the royals. I usually rely on Sally for tips on appropriate watering, sunlight and soils, and I had no idea that she had such extensive known of 18th century European royals. Though, come to think of it, tweak her husky Imperial Valley twang with a British accent and you've got Marianne Faith Playing Queen Maria Theresa. (By the way, if you follow the link I pasted to Flowercraft's site, that's Sally third from the left. I've no idea if that's here real name, but she's a real sweetie, but I have a hunch that if you try to mess with her you'll be pushin' up petunias in no time.)

A little pruning and adding of the new flowers in the upper center around the Whimsey shrine seemed a fitting ritual as we near the one year anniversary of losing him. (Yes, sniffle, sniffle, but every time the wind chime with the cats on the top makes a noise, we know it's our Whims smiling down on us.)


After seven amazing years, a favorite hearty little bonsai just decided it was time to go, so it was time to go with a different approach in this little black, oval pot on the fire escape.
I have not owned a bird bath since I had my flat on Garfield Place in Park Slope Brooklyn, nearly 15 years ago. I'm telling you I've got me some dirty birds back in that yard that are anxious to get spiffied up.

You can never have too many Japanese cast iron lanterns, and this one was just too hard to pass by this morning at the Alemany Flea Market.

Where Death Had Bloomed

It took a while for me to fully grasp why the past weekend felt so weird to me, but then it dawned on me yesterday that it was a year ago that my father died after a fairly brief journey with Alzheimer's. The past year has been an odd journey, and with both parents gone, I still anticipate another call with bad news, of someone who has gone into the ICU, the term "critical condition" being bandied about, relatives I've not talked to in years needing to be called and informed.

One of my co-workers has reminded me repeatedly that joy will return to my life, and I've felt glimpses of it now and again. And after a year of sorting out my parents estate, I keep toying with how many things I want to hold on to, to pass on to extended relations or put into storage.

As I hear about horrific weather in many parts of the country and the globe, I can see glimmers of the supposed joy likely to return to life in a couple of items brought across the country back in June during my famed U-Haul trek. These two flower pots belonged to my maternal grandparents, and I have seen them in photos from the house in Kansas City at least as far back as the 1940s, possibly even the 1930s. I don't know the story behind them, but for the past 20 to 25 years, they were fixtures at my parents' house but always empty. When I emptied them to bring across the country, the dirt was as hard as concrete, having not been worked for decades. Seeing them filled with life again is encouraging on a sometimes disconcerting Tuesday. August, always a month of preparation for some (me) rest and retreat for others (not me), leaves me in that mode of frustrated anticipation for the show about to open. I am trying my best to take a moment now and again to focus on the coleus in the pot, appreciating that they are here now and will likely be gone in a few months. In the meantime I am reminded to seek more life.

Street Wise Smith and Hawken

Why should I bother with that $125 galvanized steel watering jug at Smith and Hawken when I have this gentleman so kind to take care of my sun parched elysium and Shasta daisies. However, I wish he'd refrain from insisting on hosing down my car as well.

Thursday Garden Shots

The agapanthus is in bloom as well as the shrub below whose name I forget. After having them for just under a year, the birds of paradise have yet to bloom. They keep getting bigger and look healthy but no blooms. Any advice?

Melting in May

Egads, what a miserable weekend it was in San Francisco. Saturday was almost tolerable, but today it was nearly 90, and at 10 p.m. it's still over 70. It feels like I'm in some shithole city in the south, with slowly lunkering lunkheads hanging out of their windows and on the stoops. No relief until mid-week, and I am still dealing with the aftermath of my virus, so every temperature point feels as if it's been tripled.

At least it's not has horrible as that heatwave back in July, but it still is not fun.

Before the heat hit, I managed to make it to the new Flora Grubb. I have to love a garden center that has an Edsel in among the perennial and an espresso bar next to the upscale gardening books. They're just settling into their new digs off the 3rd Street corridor, so I'll give them time before deciding whether they are style or substance, but I came away with far less than I did at the more practical albeit less glam Flowercraft. There's something to be said for their no-frills atmosphere and mix of cute Latino boy and crusty Sally-gal staff members.

I hope the heat does not scare away the butterflies that I saw all day Friday. They helped cheer my spirits during the main activity of my weekend -- writing proposals about Apurimac, Peru, and Bihar, India, thought got delayed from being flat on my stomach the first two days of the week. Though being the Peruvian Andes right now sounds great -- it's late autumn there right now.

Constantly Gardening

That would be me, the designated gardener in my TIC (tenancy in common). It's an informal role that I have assumed since 1998. One Saturday morning, one of the then residents/current landlords was in the garden (which faces my study/den window) pulling down the lattice work and yanking weeds. "Oh, would you like to help me with this?" she asked. Over the course of 30 minutes we worked together. I don't think she ever stepped foot in the place again, but I would go on to radically transform an overgrown jungle to what I now have dreams of emerging into an almost Edenesque vision from Palo Alto from the pages of Sunset magazine. Dare I admit to being a part of the dreaded gentrification of the Mission? At least no one can see it from the street.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've probably lost four to eight pounds, made my hands and arms lead folks to believe I was in a cat fight, and yanked weeds, pulled ivy, cut Papua New Guinea Impatiens to the ground and paid for cutting down one Hollywood Juniper. Today, my new contractor Francisco completed a replacement of our fence. In mid-America or even California suburbia, this would be a no-brainer. But in cluster-fuck co-habilitating San Francisco it's a bit more complex. Nervously I managed to emerge from my Myers-Briggs INTJ to a ENTJ and reached out all four owners in the building and to all three neighbors, coordinated bids and even billed them for their share of the expense.

Though the project cost almost the same as my first spawling bungalow in Oklahoma did in 1988 (maybe a couple of thousand more), I managed to broker it down to a third of the original bid.

I don't think of myself as that great of a salesman (even though I am supposedly a professional fundraiser and have raised a few milliion over the past couple of years), but this was a great chance to push myself outside of my comfort zone. For a couple of days, three yards were joined as one, ivy that had been my bête noire for years was pulled, cut and whacked.

For two days, my poor cats Bunter and Whimsey had to be sequestered in the laundry room. So the cats and I felt a great sense of release and relief yesterday afternoon when I wrote the final check to Francisco and shook his hand complementing him on his work.

Then this morning, just when I was feeling a sense of accomplishment with the completion of this project, I got a call from the upstairs renter who plans to buy into our building. She got her inspection report, and it recommend $30,000 in "minor repairs." Ah, well, at least my share is only 28%. Maybe I'll have to budget that Japense maple later in the year.