My! How My Garden Grows!

Continuing with our series, “Things in My Garden Besides Me”….

A young deer in my petunia patch.  Note boulder flower pot with smashed petunia and flag behind the hapless deer.

A young deer in my petunia patch. Note boulder flower pot with smashed petunia and flag behind the hapless deer.

Lovely lavender

Lovely lavender

I've kept these geraniums for the past ten years, originally from my dear friend, Michelle.

I’ve kept these geraniums for the past ten years, originally from my dear friend, Michelle.

The faithful echinacea or cone flower, comes around every summer.

The faithful echinacea or cone flower, comes around every summer.

Lotsa lovely lilies...

Lotsa lovely lilies…

Mom used to call them Snowball flowers.  Today it's more politically correct to call them Hydrangea...

Mom used to call them Snowball flowers. Today it’s more politically correct to call them Hydrangea…

The squirrel gardeners planted this sunflower.

The squirrel gardeners planted this sunflower.

Come and visit the garden of Mother Goose anytime! Complimentary cushions to the first fifty guests who crash land…

The Autumnal Garden of Mother Goose





We Tour the Gardens of Mother Goose

The gardens of Mother Goose are surprising in their early bloomingness. I’d like to share some of my flowers with you today! I only wish you could be here in person — we’d stroll the grounds of the Goose Estate and chat about all things flowery and bright.

Cascading white blossoms

Some folks call it the Bridal Wreath. I’ve also heard them named Wedding Flowers. To me, they are fresh and lovely as a bride as she cascades down the aisle to her groom. “Now wait just a minute, Mother Goose,” I hear you say. “A bride doesn’t really go cascading down the aisle. Cascades are for waterfalls and fountains. A bride gently floats down the aisle to meet her groom.”

“Floating down the aisle is like floating down the river,” Mother Goose replies. “It’s really peaceful and picturesque — you look around you at the lovely scenery, slowly passing the weeping willows and the stately oaks. Does that really describe a modern day bride, for gooseness sakes?”

You smile and nod your head in understanding. “Ohhh yes, Mother Goose, you are right again. The bride is much more appropriately described as cascading because of the adventure of the wedding day. Over the waterfall we go, into who-knows-what-befalls-us!” And we continue our tour of the garden…

An old-fashioned charmer, The Iris

Let’s look a little closer at this one.

All the frill of a summer dress.

“Mother Goose!” you gasp. “Why are we looking so closely at this iris?”

With all due sensibility, I calmly reply, “We must look deeply into the folds, deeply into the petals of the purple iris in order to determine whether the act of pollination has occurred. The birds and the bees, you know, dear friend…”

And you look at me with such a look of consternation that I quickly add, “My dear, the whole point of flowers is that they are seed-making factories. They are God’s assurance that life in all it’s remarkable forms will carry on. I’m quite certain that you are familiar with the parts of the flower, the pistils, the stamen, the pollen. Our friends at Wikipedia define it so well: Pollination is the process by which pollen is transferred in the reproduction of plants, thereby enabling fertilization and sexual reproduction. Why, in fact, this iris is so extremely gorgeous to the eye of the bee that the very process of pollination may be taking place even as we speak. Here’s let just take a peek…”

I glance into your face and see the strong disapproval in your eyes. I wonder if you are afraid of bees or perhaps overly-sensitive about the privacy of the flower’s reproduction process…

“Oh very well, let’s continue our tour…” Mother Goose takes your arm and gently guides you under the trellis heavily laden with greening grape vines. “Please watch your head, dear.”

The lush grape arbor of a Goose

And as we stroll into the woodsy back yard of Mother Goose, a cloud passes over the sun and spring rains begin to fall. With hardly a comment, we pass the most overlooked of all spring flowers, The Lily of the Valley.

The Lily of the Valley

You put forth a rather random comment, “Oh, I see you have Lily of the Valley, Mother Goose.”

“Yes, I do,” I answer with a touch of curtness, and we continue on our way, barely stopping to admire the humble little miracle.

Tiny little bells, only a fairy could hear them ringing amidst the arrogant chatter of a friend of a goose.

We stoop at last to examine a strange golden flower. You are quick to label it as a weed.

A weed, or perhaps a misplaced wild flower, completely uncultivated or cultured.

“And what is this, Mother Goose? It certainly seems out of place in your formal garden.”

“Yes,” I reply. “It is surely a wild flower. I had nothing to do with its appearance here.”

You give me another look of disapproval and casually stroll away. Mother Goose is beginning to wonder why she ever brought you to the garden in the first place.

The rare and beautiful Clematis viticella 'Venosa Violacea'

“And your clematis!” You exclaim with sudden excitement. “Why, for heaven’s sake, Mother Goose, why didn’t you tell me that you had the rarest of climbing blooms back here along the fence. I have not seen this variety of clematis since our trip to the Balkans several years ago. In fact, I’ve been told that this particular genus had disappeared from the face of the earth due to the problems of global warming. You ARE keeping its roots cool, aren’t you, Mother Goose?”

Along the rustic fence

And in that moment in time, Mother Goose felt as proud as a peacock. Ruffling and fluffing up her feathers, stepping gingerly towards the flower with her rubbery feet and tossing her beak into the air with disdain, she replied, “Well, of course, I keep the roots of Clematis viticella ‘Venosa Violacea’ as cool as can be expected. I keep my buckets of ice water very close at hand for careful administration at the necessary times.”

And without further ado, Mother Goose picked up the watering can and doused her friend with ice water. They did not finish the tour of the garden that day…

Is Love a Cake? Is Love a Rose?

Down through the ages, poets and lyricists have struggled with the definition of love. Many have said that love is the warm and fuzzy feeling that comes when a mother sees her baby for the first time. It is likened unto a shield of protection for the hapless and homeless. Frequently, love is confused with lust and we all know what that’s all about. I could go on and on trying to explain love and define love. Fortunately for us all, Mother Goose has done extensive research into the topic of love and has narrowed it down to two choices: cake or roses.

Amanda McBroom has done an excellent job of defining love in the song The Rose which was sung by Bette Midler in the movie by the same name.

Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
An endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
And you its only seed.

It’s the heart afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance.
It’s the dream afraid of waking
That never takes the chance.
It’s the one who won’t be taken,
Who cannot seem to give,
And the soul afraid of dyin’
That never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong,
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun’s love
In the spring becomes the rose.

And here she is singing it to Oprah!

And now let’s just talk a little about love being like cake. MacArthurs Park is actually a type of cake AND an allegorical description of love. Love is a park. Love is a cake. It all just makes sense, right? Here are some of the lyrics to Jimmy Webb’s classic song:

Spring was never waiting for us, girl
It ran one step ahead
As we followed in the dance
Between the parted pages and were pressed,
In love’s hot, fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants

MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark
‘All the sweet, green icing flowing down…
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again
Oh, no!

I recall the yellow cotton dress
Foaming like a wave
On the ground around your knees
The birds, like tender babies in your hands
And the old men playing checkers by the trees
There will be another song for me
For I will sing it…

MacArthurs Park is like a cake which is like love.

So here’s the image that comes into the mind of Mother Goose… a picnic in a lovely park, two young lovers sitting on the grass on their picnic blanket. They were lying down, but now they are sitting up, because Mother Goose is embarrassed at watching people making out in the park. The young gentleman is wearing striped pants. The young lady is wearing a yellow cotton dress. She is on her knees, perhaps she will begin praying soon. But for now, she is holding little birds in her hand. In the background, old guys playing checkers, pretending not to notice the lovers rolling around in the grass previously.

Suddenly dark menacing clouds come blowing up from the southwest, covering the cheerful sunshine with the pall of impending thunderstorms. The old guys grab their checkers and head for their bicycles. The young lovers grab each other one last time and then part, each running in their own direction towards home. The picnic blanket and the lovely chocolate cake with the spring green icing are left behind. Torrents of rain pound the park. The icing runs down off the cake, staining the picnic blanket. The cake is ruined — the picnic a disaster. And love is over for the two young people as they are quickly caught and arrested by the park security for indecent exposure and littering the park.

And now, my pure and gentle readers, the choice is up to you. Is love a rose? Or is it a nasty green melted cake, sodden and dirty and smashed into the remains of a picnic blanket in a grungy city park?

The Curious Garden of Mother Goose

Dear gentle reader, we suddenly find ourselves in November. Welcome to the garden of Mother Goose.

Whilst most people are raking their old worn out leaves to the street for magical overnight removal by the village dump trucks and loaders, Mother Goose is enjoying her lovely garden. Thanks as always to Joe, the fourth son of Mother Goose, for scattering marigold seeds here, there and everywhere earlier in the summer!

Our garden is still the most beautiful garden for blocks around. Stubbornly blooming marigolds in various shades of gold, orange, lemon yellow and even chestnut and deep cranberry red… They seem to be causing traffic jams on our street as the buses pull up to our curb, and tourists pour out of the buses with their cameras clicking away to capture the magic of our marigolds. I wonder if I should be charging admission…

And here’s the most curious and wonderful flower of all! An iris decided to give it just one more shot before the snow flies. Our irises typically bloom in June, but lo! and behold! This brave iris opened up this morning, and there are more buds on the stem. What next? Lilacs blooming on the rose bushes?

It makes Mother Goose so happy to stroll around admiring the flowers. I haven’t the heart to tell them that this is November….

Important Stats for a Goose

  • 79,310 honks to date

What’s New? What’s Old?

March 2023