The sweet, the blighted and the fleeing

Gardening is an ever-learning experience. This year's crop of sweet peas taught me they grow much better if you give them space and sunshine....

...instead of planting them in the midst of a forest of delphiniums, which had given me sad results indeed for the past two years.

I also learned that my garden is not meant to grow strawberries. Here, I'm holding up pretty much the entire crop. Photo by John Denniston.

When we got back from Saltspring last weekend, the sweet peas had taken over one end of the garden bed -- a pastel tangle of sweet-scented pink, white and purple reaching for the sky.  It was a victory of sorts, because I’d feared I’d lost my touch. After two years of trying to coax sweet peas to thrive in the midst of towering delphiniums, this spring, I finally admitted defeat and moved them. Space, sunshine and a bit of fertilizer later, I once again have sweet peas scenting the house.

Gardening is a constant battle with the elements, though, and the strawberries I planted in the food-growing frenzy of our first Covid spring are another story. The first year, I obediently nipped off the flowers to help the plants get established, expecting a big payoff this year. It never came.

 The berries were few and far between, and once they got to a certain stage, as if deciding the whole exercise was pointless, they turned to mush and shrivelled up. The few that escaped the blight and tried to ripen weren’t much better. I’d find near-red berries on the ground, discarded after one bite – even the marauding garden critters didn’t like them. I tried one myself once; it had the vague flavour of strawberry, but it was raw and sour. I discarded it too.

My blighted berries. Not very appetizing.

I don't know what form of blight these berries caught, but the message seems clear that they're not happy in my yard.

Then there are the plants trying to escape my too-shady garden. A Covid-era raspberry cane behind the vegetable patch should be giving us some juicy raspberries about now. Instead, it’s bent itself almost double, fleeing for the sunshine of the back alley. Kale and leafy greens along the lattice-work fence bordering  the alley are doing the same, wistful prisoners poking their heads into the light.

The raspberry plant contorts itself sideways trying to reach through the fence to the alley. It's too busy trying to escape to make berries.

From the alley, you can see the kale poking through the fence.

There seems to be a theme in all of the above: Don’t try to grow food plants in the shade. If there’s only one sunny spot in the garden and sweet peas are the priority, admit it. It really shouldn’t have taken Covid to teach me that.

Another view of this year's sweet peas, with the blue delphiniums in the background.

And, a bouquet for the house at last.

He made me do it

 

If a sign says, "keep out," John's first reaction is to ask me to pose violating it. Here I am in Pacific Spirit Park on Monday morning, ignoring a "bridge closed" sign. Photo by John Denniston.

I am a very law-abiding person. I don’t even jaywalk, much, and then only with great wariness. But I live with a former news photographer whose livelihood depended on a certain facility for, shall we say, bending the rules. Outwitting the authorities was a regular – and to John, a most enjoyable – aspect of doing the job.

Now that we’re in gentle retirement, we’ve carried on with our lifelong habits. If a sign says “do not enter,” I don’t.  John’s first response is: “Why not?” Then, “Is there a picture there?” And finally, “Carol, walk past that sign and turn around for the camera.”

These little violations are always trivial, but it’s interesting to reflect that if anybody was paying attention, I’d definitely be the scofflaw of the couple. And that John has the evidence to prove it.

There was shade and a rock to sit on at the Long Harbour ferry terminal on Saltspring Island in June. Who knew it was beyond a "no public access" sign? Photo by John Denniston. 

At SFU's Burnaby campus last winter. A slippery slope, a "no trespassing" sign, and me. How could John resist? Photo by John Denniston.

Pandemic windfall

Winter plus a pandemic plus an early-summer heat wave have left some of us a lot of time for solitary occupations.  And some of us have more to show for it than others. In my friend Linda’s case, the last four months have produced a cornucopia of knitting. A little of it is for herself, but mostly, friends and relatives are getting a windfall.  Here are photos of her recent projects:

One lucky baby in Linda's family is getting a hand-knitted blanket, a bunny, shoes and two hats. With a beginning like this, will this child ever be able to stoop to synthetics?

A closer look at the bunny, with its deliciously plump thighs, and the little yellow shoes.

A beautifully sophisticated blanket to wrap a baby in.

Linda's self-indulgences have included some new socks for herself...

... a  yellow pair for a family member...

... and another colour for his partner.

 

This is a watch-cap for my partner John, something he has longed for ever since it became impossible to buy proper woolen watch-caps. It was my gift to him, courtesy of Linda, for his 76th birthday. He was very pleased.

Linda has always enjoyed making soft toys for kids, and animals like this elephant are guaranteed to give delight....

... as are these lions, with their saucy manes. 

Not made yet, but next off Linda's knitting needles will be lemurs like these.

This is what they'll look like when they're done.

The striped tail and yellow eyes will please some lucky child.