Snow in St. Paul, Part 3:



Yet another winter day here in Minnesota. Mostly just flurries for the last 24 hours resulting in abut an inch of powdery flakes the fall slowly and blow away easily.

Snow removal is mostly a problem of temporary storage - and the folks in the American Siberia of the northern mid-west are expert at it, having managed it for generations. As you can see here, the airport runways and aprons are basically clear but they were still working on scraping the last few millimeters of ice and snow off.

More snow flurries are forecast for this afternoon and on through tomorrow - but the following high pressure was already slipping in, driving the temperature down ten degrees. The temperature is supposed to continue it's downward trek for the next few days. I was glad to be leaving for the winter temperatures of Seattle.

Snow in St. Paul, Part 2:



Another winter day here in Minnesota. It's been snowing in fits and starts, flurries and flakes since yesterday evening. Not as much accumulation, and of course, yesterday's accumulation has settled in part, so some of the early, delicate piles are gone. Instead we get some interesting textures and lots of brown and gray stuff from the sand and ice and mud.

More snow in the forecast for 2 more days.

Snow in St. Paul:



Winter here in Minnesota, obviously. It began snowing about 10:30 pm last night and has been snowing non-stop ever since. The forecast is for the storm to finally peter out into flurries late Friday into Saturday, with about 10 inches / 25 cm on the ground by then, on top of the 3" / 8 cm already there.

Not cold fortunately but lots of wind, so it's drifting a bit. Drifts are a good and bad thing - amazing shapes and behaviours, snow devils (think dust devil with snow) and all but also the pleasures of getting stuck in hotel parking lots.

The Subtle Swiss Sense of Humor

Sometimes it seems as if Swiss humor emerges most frequently in the architectural details of their buildings and public places. The brackets supporting the bay windows of the old buildings seems a particularly common place for small surprises and funny faces. One bay window in St. Gallen (left) was particular was loaded: funny faces and figures festooned all the brackets, the corner newels, and the panels. Elsewhere in town,dragons smiled from the end of each drain spout of otherwise dignified buildings.

In Zurich, burghers, craftsman, pensioners, children and imps decorate the the Stadthaus building pillars. In Basel, a pool of small animated fountains bubble and purr with no reason but to cause a smile.

Walking home from the train station one afternoon last October, I just happened to glance at the shutter brackets on an old local building in Kilchberg. Crafted of black iron, and shaped like a hinged "L", the brackets sit at the bottom center of each shutter, holding them tight against the building when open. To my delight, each bracket was crafted so that a human face always pointed outward: a smiling face for an open shutter and a frowning one on the obverse for a closed shutter. While no bigger than 2 cm. across, each face, after decades of exposure, was still clear and detailed.

It seems, at least in the case of old swiss buildings, that joy lives in the details.

Continuing on my walk home and arriving at my 50s vintage flat, it seemed a pity that nearly all post WWII Swiss architecture is of the Bauhaus tradition: cold and angular and stark. While graceful, it seems lifeless and inhumane in comparison. Fortunately, a few squares of dark Swiss chocolate and dinner with a friend in an old inn can make up for an awful lot of bad architecture.

Salvias in Seattle - 2005 Version

It's a cool, yucky, and gray day here in the Great Northwest with occasional showers. A storm of some size is due to blow in later this afternoon with lots of rain and some wind so I spent the morning and early afternoon in the garden doing autumn cleanup, including cutting back some of my Salvias planted in large pots. It's getting dark now so it's time to come inside, warm up, dry off, and write this year's edition of the Salvias in Seattle 2005 Review.

The early news this year was the blooming of the Asian Salvias, S. hians/forshkahlii(?) (on the left) and S. flava (on the right). Both of these plants put on big shows and were really spectacular. I do wish I could get some sort of definitive identification for the alleged hians plant - there seems to be considerable disagreement among the learned on the Yahoo Salvia List as well as in the nursery trade about which is being sold as what.

New this year were plantings of S. Greggii v. Furman's Red, S. Microphylla var. Variegata, S. Reptans, S. Elegans v. Honey Melon S. Chaemenoides, S. Nemerosa v. Marcus, S. Penstemoides, S. Greggii v. Navajo Yellow and S. Pitcherii v. Graindiflora. With the exception of S. Penstemoides, all bloomed at some point during the summer or fall. S. Reptans and S. Pitcherii both bloomed in late September / early October.

Old friends planted and blooming this year included S. Nemerosa, S. Patens, S. Guarantica v. Black and Blue, S. Farinaccea v. Victoria Blue, S. Officialis, S. Hot Lips, S. May Nights, and several varieties of S. Microphylla, S. Ulignosa, and S. Greggii. Oddly, one of my S. Patens plants produced variegated blosssoms (shown at left).

I also saw several other plantings of interest this year including humungous specimens of S. Leucantha and S. Ulignosa in full bloom in the cutting garden at Dig Nursery on Vashon Island.

After seeing specimens of S. Viridis (left) at the St. Gallen Botanical Garden as well as at the Dig Cutting garden, I'll probably try to see how this grows here in the Cascade foothills next year.

Another highlight was seeing a wild Swiss Salvia tentatively identified by Robin Middleton (Salvia Gardener par excellence) of the UK as S. Pratensis v. Hematodes (right). I found it blooming freely along roadsides for a few weeks at the end of May and early June. Though the blossoms were short lived they were exceptionally lovely with bright clear color.

A Long Time Quiet - St. Gallen

It's been a while since I updated this online journal and for that I apologize. But not much; I've been doing lots of work with digital photography and participating on the Flickr community as well as traveling with work quite a lot.

September and October were fine months to be in Switzerland this year. There were few particularly dreary days and many fine days. As is usually the case at this time of year, the air was particularly clear and the Alps were showing their pre-snow faces.

This trip was busy, work-wise, so I was unable to get away to do much touring on the weekends. I did spend a very delightful day in St. Gallen. As you can tell from my flickr pages, I spent an enjoyable morning in the Botanical Garden there, taking many photographs of the very fine collection housed there. The day was very sunny and even a little warm, so photography was an exercise in controlling contrast and depth of field to achieve decent results. Thank goodness for high capacity data cards!)


Like all great gardens, it was a very sensual place filled with racous colors, shapes, and textures. Some amazing plants were in bloom - the lithops and the carnivorous pitcher plants in particular, as well as the Nirene Lilys and the always gaudy passion flowers, to say nothing of the usual cast of autumn bloomers like Datura, Salvia Veridis, African Daisies, asters of various sorts, and Solanum. As one might expect, the changing colors of the autumn leaves were quite brilliant in the intense sunlight light; the end of season seedpods and berries were miniature delights of color and intricate shape. Of particular beauty was the Wisteria and Japanese Maple lined alley. The Wisteria had yet to lose it's foliage and the long dangling seedpods looked like chimes hanging from trellises that were punctuated with ivy covered brick columns and brilliant overhead flashes of maroon, scarlet, and orange from the Japanese Maples.

The afternoon was given to touring the old town including the marktplatz, the cathedral and that amazing room, the St. Gallen Abbey Library. Founded by Gallus, one of those amazing, itinerate Irish monks who imposed exile on themselves, the eponymous Abbey was, during the 9th and 10th centuries, one of the lights of western civilization on that side of the alps and the library was it's treasure.

The collection was never sacked or burned, and so contains works beginning with illuminated manuscripts dating from the 9th century and continuing until the present day. I cannot fully describe or even do justice to the feeling of gazing on hand lettered manuscripts, each lovingly decorated with capitals of gold leaf and precious, hand ground pigments. One is, in the presence of the real article, immediately taken with the composed design of each page: letterforms, blocks of text, illustrations, and marginalia all contributing to a unified whole. One wonders if the monks drew rough drafts in sand or dust before laying out and executing the final designs on each sheet of vellum or parchment. Equally amazing to me, and completely unexpected, were the illuminated musical scores - hymns with scores that are, in equal parts, musical notation, lyrics, and linear story lines decorated with saints, sinners, and symbols of belief.

To match such a priceless collection, the library itself is a room that takes one's breath away. The single room containing the collection is astounding - an amazing confection in high baroque style. The two stories of stacks around the perimeter of the room are punctuated by expansive, tall windows, all overarched by a series of allegorical murals painted across the ceiling, each surrounded by heavily carved frames, standing well out from the murals, giving a dimension of depth. Two rows of glass and wood display cases stand in the center of the room, each filled with particularly rare volumes, opened to pages of interest and beauty. The stacks themselves are framed with ornate carving and fronted by a finely made but open wire mesh. Secreted in some of the stacks, nestled on top of books are stuffed local and exotic animals: ferrets, lizards, and the like, each joining the putti and cherubim silenty watching over the precious boards, papers, and inks that make up this tiny gem of a place.

The Abbey cathedral, also executed in the high baroque style, was also nothing short of incredible. In the presence of such grandeur, I tend to go for the details; the gestalt of it is so overwhelming. Of all those details one that caught my eye and keeps returning to memory was a memorial bookstand in the very back of the church, under the organ loft. Shaped like a candelabra, the piece was composed of metal with two huge volumes of Psalms, each propped open facing away from the other. The candelabra sprung upward from between the books, with single huge, clear quartz crystals substituting for candles of wax. The base of the candelabra was anchored by a collection of rounded river cobbles, each a memorial to some beloved soul: some deeply engraved with a name and a date, others with only hand-written inscriptions of ink on stone. It was a beautifully executed piece that seemed somehow oddly personal but no less heartfelt than the other parts of this awe-inspiring place.

Of course, the old town, clustered near the walls of the abbey was full of life: a small farmer's market, a clutch of fountains both large and small, and a dense promenade of people, bustling along or relaxing in front of restaurants, bakeries and sweet shops.



And so it goes while traveling: amazing places seen and photographed, remembered and talked about for long hence. But it's always nice to get home to the comforts of familiar books, music, food, and one's own space.

The Cutting Garden at DIG Nursery on Vashon Island.


I posted a bunch of pictures today I took on the day (6 August) that DIG Nursery had public access to their cutting garden. So many amazing flowers; it was frustrating that the mid-afternoon light was so harsh, so hot and so nearly overhead. Still - lots of amazing shots and very cool images. Not to mention a visit to the Vashon Farmer's market and a couple of very pleasant meals to round out an excellent day.

The view of Mt. Ranier was particularly spectacular on the ferry ride back.

The Start of Autumn

In the entry before last, I wrote about how there is a day when summer seems to end. And another day when the plants seem to give up the struggle. And then finally a day when Autumn starts. Though technically, the Autumnal equinox was yesterday, Autumn really arrived here a week ago last Wednesday. A few leaves turned: each of the Japanese Maple had a few leaves that had changed colors. The weather felt like fall. But the odd and kind of humorous thing is just at about midafternoon last Saturday, I was standing in the backyard, looking out into the woods when a single yellow leaf from the Bigleaf maple came gently tumbling down.

The Bigleaf maple in the yard is perhaps one hundred and some feet tall. It's an amazing tree. There is just something so astounding about a tree with leaves the size of dinner plates; a tree with such a mass of leaves that the mounds of dropped leaves are eight or ten inches deep across a 75 foot diameter canopy. Talk about biomass. The mind just boggles. Unfortunately, this tree had a rough summer. An early hail storm last spring was quite destructive to the emerging leaves, and later, because of our odd, early too wet/late too dry summer, it developed a mild case of a dry white fungus on some leaves. Not bad - just not too pretty. Unfortunately this particular tree was diagnosed with Verticillium Wilt last year - an untreatable condition that will, over a period of years, eventually kill the tree. That day, my heart will break. But in the meantime, the Bigleaf and I have bit of an agreement - it grows and does as well as it can - and I keep an eye on it everyday, doing what I can to make sure it's in good shape, trimmed up with regular examinations by the arborist.

But back to the start of Autumn. That single yellow leaf, slowly fluttering down, right in front me, tumbling end over end to land a few feet in front of me could not have been any more of obvious announcement. This week, the procession of autumn events continued. Leaves on the mountains are changing colors fairly rapidly, though they have not yet begun to fall off. The seedpods of the Crocosmia are shrinking into small orange balls and the tall flower wands of the fairy candle bug bane plants are transforming themselves into heavy seedhead branches.

The wonderful and surprising news is the behaviour of my Salvia collection. As is always the case, S. Ulignosa (Bog Sage) is one of the last to bloom. It's sky blue colored blossoms appear on the tops of tall but lank (and noxious smelling) branches. But by now, S. Patens (that of the giant blue blossoms) has usually given up the ghost for the season. Not this year - not only are the potted specimens still blooming but the specimens in the ground are continuing to bloom bountifully as well. A huge surprise is the S. Flava planted in the same pot as S. Ulignosa - it has ten or so flower stalks - all loaded with blossoms - nearly as many stalks and blossoms as it had this spring. S. Hot Lips continues to bloom profusely - though all the blossoms have turned to white. As is usually the case, there seems to be no particular reason for the lack of red or bi-color blossoms - I've seen many other specimens that have the usual combinations of red, white and bi-color blossoms this week, so it's just this particular plant being weird apparently. S. Guarantica v. Black and Blue (below) is just booming along as well - many stalks of blossoms and quite a number of buds as well. Of course S. Farinacea v. Victoria continues to bloom strongly, the cobalt blue flowers and stems bold against the other fading colors of autumn. S. May Nights is budded as well; though just barely and I'd be amazed if I got any flowers out of it. The big and surprising news is that both S. Grandiflora and S. reptens specimens are budded as well - I'm hoping that they blossom shortly so that I can get a few pictures.

As usual, many other things in the garden are going on - and we'll save those for another entry. But without a doubt Autumn has arrived. Though normally I find Autumn a somewhat sad time of year, the unexpected gift of all those salvias blooming so late means there is no room for anything but smiles from me.

My Other Home on Flickr

Though I know no one has been reading these ramblings - or at least commenting on them, I thought I'd explain that I've been posting quite alot on Flickr at http://www.flickr.com/photos/dougr. As a result, I'm going to try to post more often here - but shorter entries that have more to do with the work I'm doing over there.

That odd time of late summer.

There exists a day, sometimes a few days, but no more than two, when the plants seem to just give up a little. The vibrant work of creating green slows just a little and the upright growth relaxes ever so slightly. Then, a bit later; a few days, a few weeks or even a month, the plants just let go - give up so to speak, and accept the oncoming notes of autumn.

That first day of relaxation came here last week. There was a certain loss of energy in the air - a slight but new transparency to previously vigorous and opaque green leaves. That day always comes with a certain mournfulness since it presages the beginning of the dormancy of winter. It happens to all the plants in turn: the hostas and ligularia, once so proud and upright, relaxed most today - their leaf tips nearly touching the ground now, the solid mounds of foliage now growing attenuated and mournful. The hydrangea blossoms - once so large and upright, dinner plate sized and dark blue, now bend under the greying lilac weight of their fading blossoms. Even the weeds - blackberry among them seem to give up the struggle a bit.


I had hoped that that second day would delay a bit - to give us a a few more weeks of the joy of summer and the seemingly boundless energy of sun and moon and heat to help grow and bloom. Yet today, despite the lovely produce much in evidence at the farmer's market, came that second signal day, a mere week after the first. Today was a gray day, one that felt more like early fall - more like late September or even October. A few yellow leaves dropped from the taller trees, a few others appeared on more trees, and the relaxation in the gardens grew still more obvious. More than a few flowers needed deadheading and a bit of pruning to keep up appearances. Still others are putting in that last manic blast of energy to produce a lesser fall flowering in the hopes of producing another crop of seeds to see them through the winter.

The grasses - tall miscanthuses of all types, the needle grasses, and the all the various carex forms also seem to have relaxed a bit. The miscanthus are all letting the odd stalk fall over and most are starting to show seed heads. Soon it will be time to tie them up like corn shucks to give height and texture to the winter landscape. The needle grasses too are going to flower, their infinitely thin and pale yellow strands twisting now amongst the green mounds of foliage.

The lady and bracken ferns are losing color now - becoming green and white stained foliage memories of their former selves. Then too the Stinky Pete, usually so energetic in its will to take over as much of the world as it can reach, has become content to turn a delicate pinky-orange as it it deteriorates back into a ghost of it's formerly robust self.

Signs of a very early fall: something to wonder over without a doubt. Yet the astounding abundance of the earth makes it impossible to worry just yet. The market never fails to amaze and fill me with joy at the amazing bounty it presents.

My Home Farmer's Market

I'm a huge fan of Farmer's Markets. I like to check out the local ones wherever my travels take me. The all time most amazing Farmer's Market in the world, Pike Place Market, is in Seattle and close enough to visit whenever the mood strikes. But there is nothing like my "Home" market, the one held here in the town where I live. The first day the market opens in April is my personal bookmark for the real start of spring and the last day of the market in October is always the first day of my winter. But right now, in high summer, the market is a blast of color, life, and activity that gives the weekend a great start and provides the rest of the week with the fresh tastes of summer fruits and vegetables and the brilliant flashes of color from fresh flowers.

My Home Market is held every Saturday morning from 8:00 AM to 2:00 PM on one of the original homestead farms here - some of the vendors are arrayed outside the old barn; others are rowed up inside along the sides of the dairy barn. I buy from many of the vendors every week; I know many of them by name as we've made acquintance and become weekend friends over the years. The cookie lady has my slice of lemon pound cake waiting for me now and Garden Barb usually has a salvia plant or some other plant that's interesting and needing a home as well. My amigo Tobias and his family have the *best* fruits and veggies. We gripe about the weather and marvel at the bounty of the harvest. He tells me about the new varieties of fruits and veggies he's planted this year as I pick through boxes of produce in his stand and pay for them. He's one of the hardest working guys I know but he always laughs as he throws in an extra ear of corn or a peach for me.

One of the great joys of living in the Puget Sound area is the number of flower vendors at any of the farmer's markets around here. There are usually at least four or five of them - with buckets and buckets of flowers - all picked earlier the morning of the market. The vendors spend all day making the most amazing bouquets, rubber banding bundles of stems as big as their wrists together, wrapping each one in a cone of white butcher paper and setting it in a bucket of water, tempting each passerby with the sheer joy of life. The mildness of our maritime climate means the bouquets are inexpensively priced: ten dollars purchases a merely large and lovely one and fifteen bucks will get you a huge and astounding one. It's always a tough decision which vendor has the best flowers and bouquets every week but the smiling little vietnamese grandma and her teenaged grandkids usually manage to fill my house with color from their garden.

In addition to the master gardners always on hand to help with questions about your own gardens, there are the other regular plant vendors - some of them specializing in veggie starts, or tomatos or annuals or trees. One of my favorite plantswomen at the market is the tiny, elderly woman who is there every week selling houseplants, the occasional lily, rose or rhododendron, sea shells, polished stones and small cachepots all planted and ready to take home. I hope I have as much energy and vitality as she when I reach her age.

There are some other regular vendors I don't know so well. Some of them are there each week, but one needs only so many pot holders, pillows, jewelry, wooden cooking utensils or any of a raft of other handmade things. Then there are the food stands: Tamales, chinese/thai dishes, hot dogs & brats, and the Cadillac Bar-B-Que, along with cookies, popcorn, struedels, bread, honey, pasta and dip mixes, rubs and bar-b-que sauces, nuts and the occasional one week pleasure of salsa, sweet potato pie, or pickled carrots. The regular folks who serve lunch (Tamales, chinese/thai, and Cadillac Bar-B-Que) have been interesting to watch. In the years that I've been going to the market, they've all started small, and have outlasted the others, building up a loyal customer base and gradually expanding their menu lists. All of it is served and consumed outdoors - sun or cloud, rain or shine - which makes it all taste better, of course. Added to the pleasure of the food is the joy of live music - usually about 3 times a month with Gospel choirs, Kodo Japanese drum groups, English brass bands, folk guitarists, and many more making the air vibrate with sound and grace.

Others vendors are more intermittent - coming perhaps for a few days at the beginning of the season, or once every few weeks, or even a single day each summer. Most of the berry vendors are there only when their berries are in season - first Ranier and Bing cherries, then raspberries and strawberries, then on into blueberries and finally blackberries and marionberries. Pear and Apple vendors tend to star showing up later in the season as their produce ripens as well. Each week they each all get a look - one can never tell what new delights might show up.

Three times each season during the run of my Home market, they have kid's day. After attending an evening class on the basics of buying and selling, farmer's market style, kids of any age are allowed to set up as vendors and sell stuff they make: pillows, beaded necklaces, eyeglass holders, crayon drawings, lemonade, dog biscuits, sugar cookies, cupcakes, clay sculptures, decorated candles, tye-died t-shirts, or whatever they want to try their hand at selling. These days are always a ton of fun: the kids are anxious to sell, the parents are having fun with it, and there are always the interesting transactions that happen when kids find themselves dealing with adults as equals. Today, one of the kids was a 8 year old girl selling tiny clay sculptures of animals and people made of brightly colored baked modeling clay. She had cats, dogs, pigs, cows, an entire dragon family (dad, mom, kids and uncle) and a farmer. Her parents looked on as we had a very interesting chat on how she made her scupltures, how long it took to make them, and whether her tiny hands and fingers gave her an advantage in making them over someone with very big hands like mine. After careful inspection of each of her pieces, I finally decided I needed one of her Siamese cats (perhaps an inch tall, with a white body, blue eyes, and black face, ears, legs and tail) and $3.00 moved from big hands into small, nimble ones with smiles on both sides.

Some of the kids do quite well with this start in business. Last year, an older boy, perhaps fourteen or so, started selling small jars of homemade jams. He began with about six varieties or so, selling them on a one day lark. However, his jams and jellys and preserves proved popular and the farmer's market bug must have bit him because this year he's a regular each week, selling a dozen or so varieties, all made the previous week from fresh market fruit. At $3.00 each, they're sunshine in a four ounce jar for your morning toast and a great way to stretch the 6 days til the next farmer's market.

My Plant Obsession

I've a small obsession about the Salvia plant family. Salvias (also known as sages) are a widespread and large sub-family of the mints. They are, for the most part, highly aromatic, and of special interest to me, possessing the some of the brightest and purest colors of any blossoms in any family of plants. Pure bright blues (no cornflower or purpley-blues here, thank you), purples, reds, and yellows, not to mention all the pastels one could wish for in pinks, reds, lilacs and others. All that, not to mention the blue, red, purple, and black calyces, the outrageous flower shapes that look like dragon faces, and the huge variation in form and habit. We won't even begin to discuss how how new species are being discovered yearly and the odd blossom color-changing behaviour of some species.

Each year, I grow about 20 species of salvia: some old favorites and a few new ones each year, mostly grown in large pots. Not all salvias grow well here in the Pacific Northwest - most of them like lots of sun and heat to develop - so many of them bloom late or, unfortunately not at all. It's a wonderful thing to research here in the foothills of the Cascades though, and I keep notes on what seems to do well and what makes a valiant effort and what just doesn't seem to be happy under our our frequently soggy pearl grey skies.

Last year I planted a couple of salvias native to east Asia: Salvia Hians and Salvia Flava. Both of these take a couple of years to establish themselves, so I was really looking forward to seeing them in bloom this year. The Salvia Hians bloomed a month ago and is just now finishing up. Hopefully, they'll rebloom this autumn but I'm thinking not. (There's a photo of Salvia Hians on the June 30 entry of this blog.)

Salvia Flava started to bloom a couple of weeks ago while I was traveling. However, it's still booming along, if slightly past it's prime. It's a lovely purple and white spotted flower that has a fine covering of hair on some surfaces, and the elongated dragon's face that is so expressive. About 3 cm in length or a bit less, it grows in roughly 30 cm spikes of blossoms; my single plant has 5 such wands of flowers.

Here's a side view of Salvia Flava. Enjoy!

More Pictures from Mainau



After my outrageously self-indulgent blather about fountain pens and technology obsolescence, I thought I'd lighten up a bit and post some pictures from the SmetterlingHaus at Mainau. Enjoy!

Fountain Pens and Computing: A Self-indulgent Rationalization

I've been thinking about fountain pens and why they hold such a peculiar attraction for me. I like them all on general principles, and many of the new ones are aesthetically and mechanically amazing, but my very favorites are the Big Reds, Mandarin Yellow, and Vacumatic Parker Pens of the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. Why fountain pens in general, and these models in particular? Many reasons might be relevant, but these spring to mind: An enjoyment of well crafted, beautiful and timeless technology An individual protest against the planned obsolescense of consumerism A small statement of personal style - or perhaps more correctly, a harmless affectation A particularly effective ad campaign in the 1970s when the style was revived A taste for bold designs and bright colors An enjoyment of the ritual (some would say futzing) that goes with cleaning, inking, and maintaining a fountain pen An enjoyment of the act of writing with a instrument perfectly suited to the task as opposed to the skittering click of a keyboard. Mainly, I think it's the first two reasons though honesty won't let me deny the rest. I've been deeply involved in computing for something over 30 years. That's a lot of tech that's come and gone - some good and some less so. I cut my teeth on a GE timeshare system and paper tapes, and went on to DEC PDPs, Hollerith cards, Unisys Multics mainframes, IBM mainframes, 9 track tapes, DEC VAX/VMS's, several generations of Crays, Silicon Graphics and Unix workstations of all brands and flavors, Macs, PCs, and several specialty computers that were specific to work I was doing. In turns I was passionate about each one - staying up to date with the latest Beta releases of operating systems and applications and the fastest hardware. The Good News is I've grown up a bit and lost my zealous advocacy for the latest and greatest, though for professional reasons, I have to keep up with the curve. Over the past few years I've become increasingly agnostic about what I use now - I just want it to work, to be secure, and to be reasonably low maintenance. Along with that personal trend toward more a more functional and less branded approach, I seem to have developed a respect for older and frequently elegant technologies that still work well in an increasingly digital gadget oriented world. Such tools are nearly always optimized in some way so that, despite the passage of time and "progress" in the way of "better widgets", they remain exemplars of utility and unplanned for obsolesence. Maybe it's a natural part of the aging process but I'm thinking I'm not the only one wending my way in this direction if my peers are any clue. The jury remains out on whether other geeks gravitate this way as they hit middle age. All that aside, fountain pens seem to be one of those shining examples of perfected technology, even if in a relatively small way. They were a quantum leap above the quills and dip pens and yet still provide a superior experience to the trivially inexpensive ball pens that ultimately crowded them out. It's a personal theory that using a hand manipulated implement granted the required bit of mindfulness that let the idea be more fully articulated before it hit the page. Countless other formerly hand done technical tasks, from drawing flowcharts to drafting building plans have now been automated using computers, all during my lifetime. Faster? Cheaper? Better? Probably all true and many without doubt easier and more capable, but the nagging thought persists that the mindful moment, whether spent aligning celluloid triangles or inking the fountain pen, gave enough pause to do it right the first time and express the idea with clarity and vigor. At any rate, that beauty on the left is a 1929 Parker Big Red with an extra fine nib. It's the apple of my eye, having been The One I've wanted for many years. I keep it filled with a dark grey ink that it lays down back down - without pressure - in a thin, wet line that dries quickly in my Moleskines. It's such a sensuous pleasure, that keyboarded words created by glowing electrons completely fail to capture it.

Not sure of providence or copyright of this photo; please let me know if it needs to be removed.

Macro Flowers

The subtle shapes of flowers at the macro scale remain an endless source of fascination for me.

This shot of Lilium 'Casablanca', an Oriental hybrid lily, was taken yesterday in my gardens. While the insides are pure white , the back has spokes of dark grey. The blossoms are big: more than 25 cm in length and 20 cm in diameter. This particular blossom seems luminous in the white drapery of its petals and glowing golden pollen.

Unfortunately, a hail storm in June savaged the foliage and flowers of nearly all the plants in my gardens. The storm damaged or bruised the buds of nearly all the Asiatic and Oriental hybrids in the lily bed. As a result, nearly all of what are usually color saturated starbursts of sensuous beauty are mostly mis-shapen this year with holes and oddly twisted shapes. A precious few - like this bright yellow one, were lucky and came through nearly perfect.

Oh well; Hope springs eternal for next year. The colors are no less lovely this year and that is always something to enjoy - especially at macro scales.

The island of Mainau (Insel Mainau) on Lake Konstanz in Germany is a particular pleasure. I was fortunate enough to visit there at the end of May. The gardens were in the transition from Spring to Summer - so the famous bulb gardens were done and the annuals were not yet in full bloom. Nonetheless it was a spectacular place - astounding in so many ways even in less than satisfactory weather.

At the time I was there, the rose gardens were in full bloom and they were utterly amazing, to say the least. There is both a formal rose garden near the castle and as well as a long rose alley. The formal garden looks out from the castle over Lake Konstanz and is divided into plots of with various varieties of tea, cabbage, and climber roses (and many others I don't know, I'm sure). The rose alley follows the shore and is graced on both sides with shrubs and climbing roses. Many huge specimens graced the grounds including many unusual and amazing types. Of particular note were the Moss Rose and the Green Rose - both long cultivated (several centuries) and completely new to my eyes.

Very cool indeed...

Insel Mainau is located just over the Swiss border. The first traces of habitation on the island date to roughly 3000 BC. The recent history of it's transformation to a garden island is the life work of Prince Lennart of Sweden. On the death of his mother, Queen Viktoria of Sweden, he was given the island. When, in 1932, he renounced his claim to the crown in favor of a marriage to a commoner, he took up residence on Mainau. He and his family then dedicated their lives to turning the island into a garden, eventually opening it to the public. Lennart (by now Count of Wisborg) eventually passed away last spring. A full history of the island, as well as a map and additional information is available at the web site (www.mainau.de).

Ukiyo-e: The Lucky Teapot of Temple Morin

This woodblock print, by the amazing artist Yoshitoshi Tuskioka, is an iconic work for me. Compressed into it's lines and shapes are many favorite symbols and a certain peace and humor. The waving grasses visible through the window flicker in the moonlight while the ambience of a steaming teapot, the strewn books and the the tanuki's peaceful and knowing grin confirm a quiet happiness with life.

The creature depicted is puzzling. Badgers have a mischevious place in Nipponese legend; however a shape-shifting fox (kitsune) or a racoon dog (tanuki) might also be shown.

The story connected with the picture is a popular one, though like most tales, told in many ways. In all versions the tanuki and the teapot are the same, shifting back and forth in form. John Stevenson, in his book, Yoshitoshi's Thirty-Six Ghosts, Weatherhill, New York and Tokyo, 1983 gives a recounting of the tale as well as the symbols in the work.

This is a first edition impression of the work - one can tell by the three colored cartouche in the upper right corner. Later editions had only two or one color. The print is from the series New Forms of 36 Ghosts 1889-1892. The Ghosts series was Yoshitoshi's last major series of works - the last few were published post-humously.

A Beginning

Freshly started, just this moment. I'm fascinated by the breadth and depth of things people are willing to share and discuss, so I thought I'd join the conversation for a while and see where it leads. Rather than starting out with a pile of marginally valuable personal information, let's leave introductions aside for now and get to know each other over time.

Naturally, this blog will center on things of interest to me - plants and gardening, technology, cats, fountain pens and other writing utensils, Ukiyo-e, cooking, travel, photography, farmer's markets, and people. Those subjects should give us enough space to play in for quite a while, but today I think we'll start in the Garden.

It's high summer here in the Pacific Northwest just now - and though we've have had seemingly interminable rain the past few weeks (ever since they declared a drought), it is sunny right now and quite pleasant, with a bit of a breeze to riffle the leaves of the Japanese Maples and Fir trees. The garden is just inhaling the warmth - you can almost hear it. The grand pause of budded plants waiting to burst that we've been enduring these last few weeks looks like it may finally be over and the riot of color beginning again. On the other hand, the rain makes the ground wet enough to pleasantly continue the endless battle of pulling Stinky Pete and blackberries.

• Opening today: Salpiglossis, Ligularia (rocket type), Salvia Guaranitica v. 'Black and Blue'


• Continuing and Notable: Globe Flower, Salvia Hians (the yellow and purple stunner shown in today's picture), Salvia Officialis, Salvia Patens, Salvia Chaemonoides (sp?), Pacific Iris


• Opening Soon: Bugbane v. Brunette, Ligularia (daisy type), Salvia Flava


• Poor Opening: Poppies of all sorts
• Fading from the Scene: Poor Man's Orchid (too bad - these are always amazing)