My Addiction.

Bachman's.
Uncommon Garden.
Tangletown Gardens.
Even K-Mart has a garden center. I simply can't resist. Gotta have it every weekend. Dirt. Muck. Moving plants from one corner of the yard to another, striving for the perfect balance of color and texture. And rarely achieving it.

Seed catalogs in February are required reading.

A dimestore shrink told me it's because my kids are grown and I need something to focus on. Possibly. I'd rather think it's because plants don't talk back.

It could be genetics though.









Here's my mother in her commmunity garden plot. She's always had a garden growing. Even our Pillsbury Avenue backyard {long, long ago} had a few flowers that survived the wretched children.











Let's go back another generation. Here's my grampa, E.T. Farley in his backyard on Clinton Avenue. A retired teacher, he hung out at home while gramma {a.k.a. The Madam} went to work at Power's Department store. See that cane? He'd usually be sitting in that metal chair and would point at spots we missed with the pushmower. For weeds, he'd bust out the "Killer Kane". A strange device -- a tube filled with water plus a wafer of poison -- that dispensed a shot of herbicide on dandelions. Deadly! And we loved it.

But wait, let's go back even further.



















The Madam didn't have the gardening bug, but her mother {my great gramma} did. And here's great gramma with The Madam's sister Ada, in her California garden.

So, when I obsess on turning this . . .









into this. . .




it's because I can't help myself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a gardenn to tend.

Slowly catching up on the events in MadgeWorld while listening to: Living on a thin Line by The Kinks from The Sopranos soundtrack.

What We Missed. V.1

What's a mother to do? So many interesting moments and not enough time to comment. It's been so long since we visited MadgeWorld that we forgot our password. We shall attempt to play catch up.

You may know how much we loath fake holidays.
Like Grandparent's Day.
Sweetheart's Day.
Office Administration Helper Day.
However, we bow to convention and acknowledge that Mother's day has passed. If we were in the mood to comment, this is what we'd say.














How the hell did this group of benignly neglected children. . .















. . . grow up without being incarcarated, or appearing on a "missing" poster?

Perhaps on Mother's Day we should celebrate the offspring's successful arrival into adulthood in spite of our parenting style. One might describe it as laissez faire crossed with a little Machiavelli. Let us take this opportunity, weeks after Mother's Day, to publicly apologize:
- Austin: Sorry about putting BenGay on your broken leg and telling you it would feel better in the morning. We thought you were faking. No wonder you don't trust us.
- Nora: Sorry about being chronically late to pick you up. Especially that time in the winter when you had to wait outside with wet hair after swimming practice. That may explain your neurosis about being on time. It doesn't explain the swearing.
- Chronic nagging about homework. Paddy, we were desperate. Forgive. But what's up with the tattoos?
- Meggie: For the low-rent orthodontist. The wires that came undone and skewered your tongue. Ouch. We admit fault. Additional piercings optional.

What's a mother to do? Being careful not to smack of cheap sentimentality-- you all make me proud to be your mama. Now, stand up straight, get a job and get your life in order.

Listening to: Music from La Dolce Vita by Nino Rota