OUT OF THIS NETTLE DANGER

"..it’s also dangerous to catch a cold, to sleep, to drink. But I tell you, my lord fool, we shall pluck a flower of safety from this thorn of danger." William Shakespeare's Hotspur in HENRY IV


Dealing with trauma is an interesting process. In my case, the trauma was not physical. I have no bruises to display.  Nevertheless, having one's home invaded and one's property destroyed can cause a number physical reactions. Disorientation, trembling, high pulse rate, chest pains are among other symptoms of distress. Exhaustion follows.  It helps enormously that there are good people in the world and that they take the time to give generously of their time and to perform acts of extraordinary kindness.
Life goes on regardless of one's travails. Within one's circle of friends far and near, there are joys events. For example, Jerusalem welcomes  a brand  new beautiful girl, Mari Carys Rees sister of Cai and daughter of author Matt Beynon Rees and his wife Devorah Blachor. My friend Alex Shoumatoff gets well-deserved praise for his article on the decimation of African elephants, "Agony and Ivory" in the August 2011 issue of Vanity Fair Magazine. Elsewhere, a couple goes to lunch at a new restaurant, another spends a day at the beach, yet another  rejoices in the presence of a young grandchild.  Along with the sweetness of ordinary life, the world goes through convulsions-, economic quakes, grievous examples of social injustice.In Brazil drug dealers shoot unarmed Native Brazilians, in Saudi Arabia the government sanctions the beheading of an Indonesian guest worker who dared fight her abusive employers back, Syria's ratchets up the violence against protesters, there are more killings in Afghanistan and on,  and on, and on.

"Hold fast," says one of the women who is helping find out how to navigate the troubled  legal waters of my community. That, is the least I can do. I am deeply grateful for her  kindness.

THE MOVABLE FEAST RIDES AGAIN
Watching the British police bash protesters over the head with billy clubs is not an edifying activity. Neither is reading about Michelle Obama's wardrobe. Therefore I intend to skip further media's regurgitation of events peripheral to the G20 conference. For heavens sakes, 720, 000 jobs just vanished from the American private sector and TV talking heads are discussing similarities between Mrs. Obama's and Mme Sarkozy's fashion style. Is something wrong with this picture?
Voltaire was right. One must cultivate one's garden. Planting a veggie garden these troubled days is not only an economic necessity, it is a way of holding on to the sense that while the world may be out of control there at least one aspect of one's life that is manageable--never mind the vagaries of the weather and the appettite of the resident deer herd. Today, I planted Asian veggies. Ice storms may blast my crops, Bambi may eat the lot. If that happens, I will replant. Heck, my First Lady dresses stylishly, non? What is more, she is prettier than the Queen.

In mid-June, the flower garden rests. Coreopsis, that old standbys of perennial gardens does not do well in our clay soil. Shasta daisies need to be replanted in great volumes in order to make a show. Among the roses, only the ubiquitous Dorothy Perkins, purloined from an abandoned farmhouse, puts forth its dusty looking clusters of mottled pink. Blue veronica makes a modest show and russian sage puts in the shiest of appearances. Annuals planted in March demur. Weeds flourish, covering the flower beds in great splashes of misleading green. Black spot, the bane of the organic gardener's existence takes hold upon rose leaves. For real life gardeners, such dismal times balance the easy glory of late spring. It is well that at this point the vegetable garden begins to produce beets, tomatoes, snow peas and rhubarb, although the latter, in spite of muych cosseting and massive doses of blood meal yields just enough to make a deep dish pie for the man in life. We savor it under the wisteria arbor, as sunlight plays hide-and-seek in the woods. A goldfish darts beneath the young leaves of a waterlily, in the fish pond, the wood thrush and mourning doves concertize and all is well with the world.

LET THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME

Enzo, named after the Enzo Ferrari racing car, rest in the spice barrel after a dip in the fish pool.

Please note snail damage to basil seedlings in foreground. French persons fond of sizzling the critters responsible in garlic butter may apply for the post of Escargot Hunters. As for me, well, I can try the old trick of baiting them--the escargot, not the French persons--with beer, but it seems a misuse of Stella Artois. I can also surround the basil with a nice layer of sand, which the beasties find unpleasant to navigate. Somehow the garlic butter treatment seems more appropriate.

The inner Enzo, photographed by the Ferrari makers.

Hybridiser Sam McGredy relied on the apple scented, pink Bantry Bay shrub and red, single flowered climber Altissimo to produce this gorgeous Dublin Bay shrub in 1976. Often paired with white Iceberg, for contrast, it is a slow growing pillar rose suitable for small spaces.

Sombreuil rose and peony.

The first Sombreuil rose of the season glimmers in the rain.

Peony Coral Charm after a rain shower.

Coral Charm in softer light.

Sir Thomas Lipton continues to dazzle.

Yellow rugosa's scent

earns it a sunny place in the garden.




Cecile Brunner explodes into color.

Rain drenched Cecile Brunner.

A better shot of the windowsill project.

Cecile Brunner yet again.

Fortuniana rose is a joy to behold.

William Baffin rose bud.