Newly landscaped Russ' Old Radio Repair, Old Radio Museum entry. Thank you beautiful sunny Southern Oregon! Today bought a marked improvement in the weather.
Every time I walked by them, I felt bad. Had it been two years, maybe three, that I'd dug up the irises; decided they were root-rotted, then tossed them onto the burn pile? At least that long. I recall my surprise the following spring when healthy green, blade-shaped stems sprung up from the soot and ashes.
The garden heap exists on a part of our tree farm far from any landscaping efforts. There were no well-groomed lawns or pampered perennials- only huge, old neglected oaks- surrounded by many years of shed leaves; and buckbrush starts attempting to trump our land clearing efforts. It wasn't a place I went to- unless I wanted to discard the unwanted.
One fall, after digging the irises to divide them, I'd decided some of the rhizomes didn't look good,. They looked old- not worthy anymore. Perhaps they're infected with iris borers, I thought. I made the trek to the discard stack. Once there, I had given the rejected irises an grand heave-ho.
How could the irises have survived the fires? I'd tucked the question in the back of my mind and there it stayed- until yesterday.
Yesterday--although it rained heavily--I found myself toiling away at a newly conceived landscape project; it's purpose to enhance the entrance to the Old Radio Museum. (The Model A Club had scheduled a visit; I wanted to spiffy the grounds.) I had planted a few hardy primroses and heavenly-scented hyachinths, but the area still looked sparse. As I stood there, drenched in rain and knee-high in mud, I accessed the situation. I find gardening, like other outdoor activities, inspiring. The answer--like the first daffodil up in the spring--came to me almost immediately. I knew what I needed to do.
I grabbed the mud-encrusted shovel, and slogged through the wet ground to the burn pile. I dug around the dozen or so proud survivors, then extracted them from the fine black powder, careful not to injure their roots. The rhizomes appeared to be healthy; the pale roots exceeded a foot in length.
After planting the irises under the oaks, by the primroses and hyathcinths, I felt much better. I knew they belonged there. They had lived a long time and survived difficult circumstances; they deserved a good home. I picked up the barely recognizable trowel, shovel, black plastic plant pots, and threw them in the wheelbarrow.
When I looked up, as I lifted the flat-tired, conveyance's handles, I saw the Old Radio Museum. I knew why the antique pieces of electronics mattered--they, like the irises-- had earned, a special place in history. If not for their longevity, for their survival.
Has a revelation, such as this one, ever occurred to you? Love to hear about it.
Till next time.
Regards,
Sue, phlog's blog
The garden heap exists on a part of our tree farm far from any landscaping efforts. There were no well-groomed lawns or pampered perennials- only huge, old neglected oaks- surrounded by many years of shed leaves; and buckbrush starts attempting to trump our land clearing efforts. It wasn't a place I went to- unless I wanted to discard the unwanted.
One fall, after digging the irises to divide them, I'd decided some of the rhizomes didn't look good,. They looked old- not worthy anymore. Perhaps they're infected with iris borers, I thought. I made the trek to the discard stack. Once there, I had given the rejected irises an grand heave-ho.
How could the irises have survived the fires? I'd tucked the question in the back of my mind and there it stayed- until yesterday.
Yesterday--although it rained heavily--I found myself toiling away at a newly conceived landscape project; it's purpose to enhance the entrance to the Old Radio Museum. (The Model A Club had scheduled a visit; I wanted to spiffy the grounds.) I had planted a few hardy primroses and heavenly-scented hyachinths, but the area still looked sparse. As I stood there, drenched in rain and knee-high in mud, I accessed the situation. I find gardening, like other outdoor activities, inspiring. The answer--like the first daffodil up in the spring--came to me almost immediately. I knew what I needed to do.
I grabbed the mud-encrusted shovel, and slogged through the wet ground to the burn pile. I dug around the dozen or so proud survivors, then extracted them from the fine black powder, careful not to injure their roots. The rhizomes appeared to be healthy; the pale roots exceeded a foot in length.
After planting the irises under the oaks, by the primroses and hyathcinths, I felt much better. I knew they belonged there. They had lived a long time and survived difficult circumstances; they deserved a good home. I picked up the barely recognizable trowel, shovel, black plastic plant pots, and threw them in the wheelbarrow.
When I looked up, as I lifted the flat-tired, conveyance's handles, I saw the Old Radio Museum. I knew why the antique pieces of electronics mattered--they, like the irises-- had earned, a special place in history. If not for their longevity, for their survival.
Has a revelation, such as this one, ever occurred to you? Love to hear about it.
Till next time.
Regards,
Sue, phlog's blog
  |  The petrified wood is testimony to the oaks' endurance.  |
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