Roommates

The back door hollyhock turns out not to be black, but a rather sensational deep crimson, with added drama of a hint of black veins streaking out from their centers.

Since I don’t remember planting these lovely spires, I’m not disappointed that they are not my holy (unattainable) grail, not black flowers.

They join the hot pink and white versions currently blooming out of nowhere in the undisciplined jungle of the southwest front corner.

Sunflowers are reaching uuuuup, opening their faces to the sun now too. When the little birds let them.

Luckily I’m not attached to being a cut flower seller at the farmers market where sunflowers are sure sellers, because, this year the little birds have torn a lot of the buds to shreds. It seems they are eating the seeds, or what would become seeds, before they even form. Oh well, chard survived at sunflower expense it seems. Though I tried adding young sunflower buds to stir fries one season, I’m not heavily invested in them as a food source.

After being slow to settle in, the magenta Chilopsis linearis (Desert Willow)introduced a few years ago to the Outback, is flowering for the first time. The more common Chihauhauan desert native with light pink flowers in the hellscape out front is also blooming. Big fat fuzzy buzzy bumblebees love these delicate orchid-like blooms with a light and exotic scent. Chilopsis flowers can also be used for tea. It’s mild and lightly floral, not nearly as robust and tart as hibiscus.

Seussical, prickly, starry Eryngium (Sea Holly) introduced a year or two ago, on advice from the Last Emperor, have been budding a while now and are slowly starting to colour up. My arms are covered in claw marks from these very scratchy buds which recent strong winds have blown every which way, necessitating staking and a bit of repurposing wire tomato cages.

Surrounded by all this blooming lushness I decide I need more roommates from the floral kingdom, so take Red Pony for a wander over the mountain to investigate a new (mostly) native plant nursery at Whiskey Creek Zócolo, just east of Silver City, NM, not far from the Dragonfly Petroglyph trailhead which regular readers will remember I visited in January.

Sixto Rodriguez plays on a concert quality sound system while I wander the rows of plants, some still being unpacked and labeled. How fitting: the Last Emperor’s first lullabies while I wander a plant nursery wondering who to invite home with me. I wonder…**

I’m not sure but there are signs that Whiskey Creek Zócolo is also a bar, a pizzeria, a music and spoken word event venue and offers vintage RV short stay accommodation.

After much agonizing, I gather two different ornamental grasses (one a Muhlenbergia variety called Pink Flamingo - how could I resist!) for the Cafe Paradiso area, and an orange Bulbine frutescens like the ones which were blooming when I was at the Frangipani Hotel in another county, a month or two ago. Do this in remembrance…plants and gardening as sacrament.

The fourth plant pictured far right above is an orphan (probably Iris germanica?) cryptically labeled “Bronze”, which I found at a roadside sale raising funds to restore an old adobe structure in dot-on-the-map San Lorenzo. That was just before climbing Emory Pass in the Sierra Diablo (Black Range) en route home.

After stocking up on beets and Japanese turnips at the Silver City farmers market, I treated myself to a green chile cheese muffin and coffee at the wonderland which is TranquilBuzz coffee shop. Note: The coffee wasn’t green, it just looks that way in the picture, reflecting the cool green light of the shady trees I was sitting under in this superbly crafted outdoor gathering space.

There are several entrances to this corner coffee shop. I followed a a dragonfly to find an unmappable maze of walkways and treehouse-like conversation nooks within. University towns tend to spawn good coffee shops and gathering spaces. This one is extra special.

Back at the shala I wasted no time settling the new roommates in. Pink Flamingo has been added to an evolving rockery on the west side of Cafe Paradiso while the Festuca idahoensis (bunch grass) has been nestled in a nearby pocket, next to a couple of cactus and that old wheelbarrow.

I do hope they are both happy with their new home.

The orange bulbine, which was labeled “Hallmark”, has gone into the outback garden on the cottonwood drip line alongside the done-for-the-season blue Dutch Iris. Shasta daisies provide the white for this “oranje blanje blou” kind of sacrament garden.

All this I did instead of going to hear the author Michael Pollen speak at a literary festival in Sante Fe. I’m sure this author of some of my favorite deeply researched, thoughtful and sometimes provocative books on home, gardening and cookery (amongst other things) would approve or at least understand. It was, after all, my last free Saturday until November. The summer farmers market season begins for me this weekend. I am ready with a new product offering: reversible bowl covers using my kitchen towel misprints, random test prints gathered over decades of hand block printing cloth, and ragbag scraps of cotton print accumulated over a lifetime of making my own clothes.

Talking of ragbag scraps and making my own clothes, in Silver City that “hub of wilderness and creativity “ a young man outside another coffee shop, (the one I didn’t go to), told me “ wow! You look like a pineapple in a fruit bowl!” Such a weird way to give a compliment, which he assured me he was doing, after I gave him a “what just came out of your mouth” (aka WTF) look.

Context: I was wearing a seven year old Kaffe Fassett cotton print dress which I made for my Jamaica holiday in January 2018, a patchwork underskirt (petticoat) and my jata in a messy updo. Until that encounter I felt happy and joyful and thought I was dressed accordingly.

A pineapple? Fruit bowl?

As if, thanks to white supremacist lies from on high, it hasn’t just got even harder to explain my accent or tell my national origin story. (Do I even have one?) Even after twenty five years in this country, I wouldn’t have expected a total stranger to call me a pineapple on a street corner, especially not in a liberal artsy college town known for creativity and not that far from the southern border.

Dear general population Americans: please stop othering anyone who doesn’t present as grey gloopy slop.

**I wonder - Sixto Diaz Rodriguez. 1970.

I wonder how many times you've been had

And I wonder how many plans have gone bad

I wonder how many times you had sex

And I wonder do you know who'll be next

I wonder, I wonder, wonder I do

I wonder about the love you can't find

And I wonder about the loneliness that's mine

I wonder how much going have you got

And I wonder about your friends that are not

I wonder, I wonder, wonder I do

I wonder about the tears in children's eyes

And I wonder about the soldier that dies

I wonder will this hatred ever end

I wonder and worry my friend

I wonder, I wonder, wonder don't you?

I wonder how many times you been had

And I wonder how many dreams have gone bad

I wonder how many times you've had sex

And I wonder do you know who'll be next

I wonder, I wonder, wonder I do