Romancing the Garbage Dump

This morning I'm at My Ranchburger, preparing for a weekend at The Bunny Bungalow; however, I took some time out to plant some yellow Lantana and Sweet Basil in a large pot which already contains Rosemary, mint and apple scented Geranium. So, I have to confess, I forgot to water this large pot and some of the more fragile plants withered away (a euphemism for died.) Hopefully, Tall Husband won't yell too loudly about this transgression, if he sees I've replaced plants. He is a tender, attentive gardener and laments the passing of each plant, and my forgetfulness, along with a brown thumb, gives him occasion to lament..loudly.

I think my forgetfulness is the reason I love trees so much. If you forget to water them, they just put down deeper roots and grow strong enough to withstand our hurricane seasons. Remembering this, I looked up at a Crape Myrtle tree that Tall Husband and I had planted some years ago. What do you think I saw? Its first bloom of the season! You know how exciting that is.

When we planted this tree, it was about ten feet tall with a large root ball. We've all seen bad guys in movies digging graves. They make it look so easy. Well, let me tell you...digging even a small hole in the earth is difficult work. When it was my turn at the shovel, I couldn't believe the energy it took. After about ten minutes into my digging career, my shovel hit something hard...clunk. I screamed, "Buried treasure!" I had always said there was something special about this piece of land.

Tall Husband quickly came to the edge of the hole to take over. Refusing to give up the shovel, I dug faster, with new-found vigor. Finally our treasure was partially visible: "Old bed springs," Tall Husband said in disgust.

Before we got that tree planted, in addition to wrestling bed springs out of the ground, we had dug up a rusty old ax head, an old railroad spike, bucket-loads of rusty metal and pieces of dirty, disintegrating rags.

We had to admit it. The evidence was in: we lived on an old garbage dump. All our romantic notions about American Indians having hunted Buffalo here; about pioneers passing through...all gone. We are garbage people!

"Well, it doesn't look bad for a garbage dump," Tall Husband tried to reassure me.

Where the Wild Things Grow

Tiny Pink Lantana

Behind The Bunny Bungalow there is an alley.  When I was a child, alleys were places to be feared.  Neighborhood boys told frightening stories about things they encountered there.  And there was that one summer night, when I was six, that a prowler came from the alley, over our back fence, then attempted to break into our house by cutting the screen of the open window next to my bed.  He was stopped only by my screams.

So when Tall Husband came into the bungalow last Saturday and solemnly announced, "You need to come into the alley with me...now." I thought with dread that he must have found a body. Then he said, "Bring your camera."

"You want me to photograph a dead person!?" I squealed. He ignored me.

Lantana with its green berries

I anxiously followed him into the alley with my camera clenched in my hands, between myself and certain danger.  Then I saw them, flowers growing in wild profusion all around us. The fresh fragrance of the flowers, new grass and moist earth was intoxicating.  My camera clicked away at the magical scene.

Alleys have a different feel for me now.  Some wild things are wonderful.

Bougainvillea

Thanks to the gardeners at Buchanan's Native Plants in Houston Heights for identifying the Pink Lantana for us.