THere is a small mountain about two miles from Stony Run Farm that is covered with a network of trails, and is the centerpiece of an attractive county park. The mountain's south slope is a steep meadowland, interspersed with copses of black oak, and dotted with wild plum trees; the north slope is forested with second growth Douglas fir and carpeted with an understory of sword ferns, viney maples, and filberts gone wild. I like to hike to the top, though each year I find the going a little harder, and look about me. Below, two rivers come together after dodging round the mountain toward each other. With binoculars I can find, in season, fishermen seeking steelhead and coho salmon. To the north there is considerable urbanization; I can see at one glance the second largest metropolitan area in my state, but it is not unattractive as cities go, and I can forgive its noise and bustle for its not being any worse (yet) than it is. To the south and east is the valley of one of the rivers, opening out of the foothills of a substantial and still very wild mountain range. In winter the eastern peaks are dusted white with snow, and present a dramatic and lovely scene; but my interest is generally drawn to the near view.
      At my feet are a succession of habitats: the eastern ridge of the mountain, with Douglas fir forest to the left and oaks to the right, with perhaps a herd of deer placidly browsing in plain view; the meadowland within the park boundary, with a few pear trees left over from some farm venture in the previous century; the wetlands with its dark patches of sedge and the occasional blue heron. Beyond are pastures, woodlots, filbert orchards, and fields used mostly for corn, hay, and grass seed farming. Threading among these, I see, are narrow roads along which are some two hundred houses, on properties of anywhere from one to two hundred acres, with their barns, outbuildings, and accumulated belongings left to the winter rains and summer sun: trucks, tractors, harrows, drift boats, and an occasional stove or washing machine. Most of us in this valley are not especially poor, but we are a thrifty people, many only two or three generations descended from pioneers, and we make but few trips to the county dump.
      Almost no one here can earn a living from farming now. We are an amalgam of loggers, retirees, and commuters: gentlemen farmers of two classes, the professionals -- doctors, dentists, and the like -- and the rest. These are mostly school teachers, store clerks, and office workers. I am in this last group. Regardless of category, almost every one of us has a garden. I can see them from the mountaintop: at every house, a brown patch within easy access of the kitchen door. Some of us have enough pasture for a horse or two, or a few steers; I have room for a flock of ducks and geese; but if there is nothing else, there is a garden. Gardens here have a priority over lawns. This is a thing that I greatly admire in my neighbors.
      If, like the people in my valley, you want to grow things, it can be a good idea to try to get an eagle's eye view. If no mountain is handy, try a map. Most gardeners know the dates of frost in their "zone," but there is much more to know. Find out the direction of the prevailing winds, the angle of winter sun, the temperature of June nights. Know the depth of the water table in August.
      From the mountaintop I can see that the valley runs east and west, and that the river is nestled against the northern hills. My own little piece of land is in the middle distance, on the long glide of slope from the south hills to the river. There is a seasonal creek through the property, dry in summer and a raging torrent in winter. This means that I'm in a low-lying spot, subject to the movement of air. In winter the wind comes from the southwest generally, in the form of Pacific storms laden with incessant rain. These winds chill the soil, and the water that drops from them saturates it and renders it clammy. Pools lie on the surface in winter with no place to drain away to, as the water table is even with the surface. Dig a post-hole anywhere and it fills to overflowing. So gardens tend to be planted late, well after the dates recommended on seed packets.
      In summer the water table drops to ten, twenty, or even thirty feet, while the winds are continual, shifting daily from north to south. This is because of our mountain ranges. The sun heats the slopes, and air rises, drawing air away from the river bottom. At night, this air cools and sinks back down along draws and creek valleys toward the river. Gardens in this drainage must be almost continually watered, as the tender plants are subject to drying out. Watering is more frequent than the books recommend; corn begins wilting within a day of its last soaking. At night the wind stops, but heat radiates away quickly among the glitterings of the stars, and temperatures can drop into the forties (fahrenheit) by morning, even if it's been close to a hundred degrees during the day. Gives tomato lovers fits.
      The wiser among us build wooden fences, or hedge their gardens about with shrubbery or even hay bales, to combat the winds and the heat loss. A heavy mulch would help, but the main mulching material is straw. The straw available locally contains a lot of weed seeds, and it invites tremendous armies of slugs and snails of all sizes. No one seems to care for black plastic, which takes a lot of fiddling with in the shifting winds, or newspaper, so most of the gardeners keep their soil bare and cultivated. The majority use herbicide to control grass, which is the primary weed; I have reason to believe herbicide is the greater evil in this case, and use the straw mulch, trying to stay just ahead of the weeds by piling on more, and I bait the slugs when necessary, trusting perhaps more than I should to the manufacturer's soothing reassurances.
      Right now, it's January. Most of us have not had much chance to think about gardening. We have had record rains, with some manual guages registering 93 (!!) inches. That other river, the one you can see to the southwest from the mountaintop, recently jumped its banks and flooded two hundred homes, making the national news. The creek on our place, which doesn't even exist half the year, rose to the foundation of the house and flooded the potting shed, which I'd thought of as standing on high ground. Three fences were destroyed, and tons of earth moved in the general direction of the Pacific. But the garden was spared. The vetch that I planted last fall for green manure is intact, as are the piles of leaves and the compost bin. The wintered-over red chard is still useable, and our Detroit Red beets are superb. Meanwhile, our first harbingers of spring -- elephant garlic, growing from those tiny cloves that stay in the soil when we pull the crop -- have sprung from the cold, heavy soil, dotting the view from our kitchen window like randomly dibbled irises. And on the rainy nights, between the gusts of Pacific wind, we can hear the first chirruping choruses of the green tree frogs. I found one once in high summer, napping as it were, on the shore of a pond of water in the angle of a sunflower leaf. Their sound is, to me, a promise of sunflowers yet to come. I fall asleep to their frantic cheeping, and dream of green things growing in the sun.

 Today the sun came out for the first time since I don't know when. The ground rises to the east of the house, and a morning-coffee glance through the living room window revealed a jewelled world -- heavy dew on the rumpled grass, which has grown during the last month, and on the leafless lilac bushes, and the neighbor's apple orchard. Rainbow hues glinted from the drops, and the glow suffused the house like a dream of a better world.
      These lilacs, when they bloom, are of a purple-hued variety, and all the lilacs around all the houses hereabouts are of the same kind. The originals were planted by the first family to arrive here, not long after the original pioneers in our end of the valley. They built a post-and-beam two-story house in the midst of three hundred and twenty acres of Douglas fir forest. Not old growth, interestingly enough: the Calapooya Indians, who had lived here for centuries, periodically burned over the valley floor, to keep it open for game and for defense. But these trees were certainly large, and there were a lot of them; their shade was dense, and it would be a while before this could be farm land. The men, taking stock of their situation, immediately contracted to provide firewood for all the one-room schoolhouses in the area, and fell to work with axe and crosscut. As the clearing around the house grew, the women installed plants they had brought with them: lilacs, periwinkle vinca (a ground cover), daffodils.
      The original house, and the forest that sustained it, have been gone for decades. But the plants remain; the original lilacs form a semicircle around a pile of foundation stones which were used to fill in the cellar, and the vinca and daffodils cover the area. It's part of my neighbor's pasture now. My house was built in the year I was born, 1949, by one of the descendants of the woodcutting family, and his wife grew the lilacs that are by my front door from cuttings from the pioneer plants. All her neighbors appear to have been invited to do the same. The family across the road have a thick, healthy-looking hedge of them.
      When we arrived here, the dooryard lilacs were much in need of pruning back, as the winds were scraping them against the house. I went after them with the pruners, taking out dead wood, crossed branches and the like, and noticed that suckers had formed around the root collars of the ancient bushes. These had been cut back, and had resprouted, innumerable times, and the root collars had thickened considerably, providing room for yet more suckers to form. I was about to cut the latest ones away, when an idea came to me -- would they form roots if I hilled up earth around them? I brought a barrow-load of dirt and piled it round the bases of the lilacs, and went on to other tasks.
      Weeks -- or it must have been months -- later, I remembered my experiment and went to the lilacs with a trowel to see how the suckers were coming along. Sure enough, they had formed roots. Cutting the main stems away from the parent, I was able to replant a number of them into number ten tomato cans in the potting shed/greenhouse, where they stayed until dormancy the following winter. I remembered them just in time, before bud break, and set them out at the corners of the house. They have all done well, and I am filled with admiration at the hardiness and adaptability of these pioneers of the valley. I hope our own transplanting here will be as successful.
      The lilac has long been hybridized and there are now well over 500 varieties. For best results, plant them in fall, or no later than February, with some compost and bone meal in the hole, which should be spacious enough not to crowd the roots. Top dress biannually with compost, but remember to add some pine or fir needles, or other acid material, from time to time. If you feel that the acidity isn't benefiting the plant enough, you can use a trick that works well for rhododendrons and azaleas: add apple parings to the top dressing and stick a few rusty nails (not galvanized) underneath. The iron seems to react with the apple skins in some way the shrubs find appealing. Pay attention to watering for the first year. After that, the lilac should be fairly hardy, and you should avoid letting the ground around an established lilac get too soggy. A vigorous plant can sustain plenty of blooms. If it seems poorly, pick them off so that more of the strength can go to building new roots. The bloom season is relatively short, but while it lasts, the scent carried on the breeze to you as you dig in the herb border will become one of your favorites, and provide a strong argument that in Heaven it is always early spring.

 I didn't care for gardening when I was growing up. I much preferred to spend my Saturdays lounging around the house with a book, or exploring the small wilderness across the creek that bounded the suburban lot we called home. From a hill across a meadow in the wild area, I could look back over the creek valley and see the backs of the row of new houses, set down in pastureland during the explosive growth of Atlanta after World War II, and in the large back yards the men could be seen, each in his own realm, restoring order to the landscape the bulldozers had crushed and tumbled. Some planted a few pines, all planted grass. My father, almost alone among them, planted fruit trees, grapes, figs, and row upon row of vegetables. He owned a walking tractor, the remote ancestor of today's tillers, and I could hear it singing to him, dinka-dinka-dink, as he plowed. He made the earth yield tenfold, twentyfold, an hundredfold, all of which he brought to my despairing mother in brimming bushel baskets. She had neither the time nor the inclination for canning, drying, and freezing, and would surreptitiously slip the produce, as much as she could reasonably expect would go unnoticed, into the trash. Frankly, I shared her point of view. I didn't like squash or spinach fresh, let alone reconstituted in the dead of winter, so why bother?
      He failed to make a convert of her, and had worse luck with me. I was enlisted to barrow ripe manure from place to place, to hold trees upright while he mixed compost, water and earth gently round the roots, to unroll bare-root tomato plants from their damp newspaper wrapping in my own shade, safe from the sun, while he dug, and poured, and tamped, talking and explaining the whole while. But my mind stayed resolutely elsewhere, on the bloody plain of Troy, or visiting the Egyptians with Herodotus and hearing with him their strange tales of a civilization already old when his Greece was young. My father sensed the futility of his efforts, and with a sigh released me to my own world, taking up the tomatoes from his shade with one hand and pouring water into the holes with the other, alone.
      Years later, needing to earn a living on my arrival in Oregon at the height of an unemployment crisis, I signed on to a tree planting crew. The foreman showed the new hands the basics in setting out a two-year-old Douglas fir seedling:
      "Y'open the hole with the hoedad at the bottom by pulling up on the handle, see? Then the top by pulling down. Now yuh've got a hole twelve inches deep and four across all the way down. Right? Now take yer tree and dangle the roots down; give 'em a shake so they'll hang loose and won't get caught upside down, see? 'Cuz roots upside down don't work -- they'll die on yuh; if all the roots are upside down the whole tree'll die. They only work one way. Keep it out of the sun, too, and don't hold it out in the wind too long. All that sun and air'll kill yer tree. Now yuh pack the dirt around the tree with yer hoedad blade, once, twice, like this, so there's no air pocket in the ground -- that air will kill a tree in the ground just like it will in yer hand. Now press down with yer foot, but not too close to the stem and not too hard. There's hair roots, yuh can't see 'em, on every root yuh can see, and if yuh get rough you'll strip those off at the base, and they'll die, and there goes yer tree. O.K.? now on to the next spot."
      About halfway through the lecture I realized I already knew all this; it was the tomato lecture! Shade, air, and hair roots. This foreman might not know Homer, but his rough sophistication in physical geography and botany struck me as something admirable, and at that moment with a flash of insight I understood my father's enthusiasm for gardening not as a weird masochistic hobby but as a vital branch of knowledge. I suddenly took an interest in tree planting, which in a way was unfortunate for me, as I lasted twelve years at an occupation which no one has any business doing for more than three. (sigh)
      Hand planting of tree seedlings is carried on in the winter hereabouts, beginning when the rains have penetrated about ten inches into the soil. Our crews worked in the Coast Range until March, then fanned out across the Cascades and the Rockies, finishing up usually about the end of May in Montana or Colorado. Summer was the off season. Having nothing else to do that first summer, I took up gardening. After tilling a suitable patch of ground, I went out with a round-pointed shovel, a bucket of compost, a bucket of water, and a flat of tomatoes in two-inch pots (I have never seen those bare-root "field-growed" plants since my childhood). With the shovel, I dug a hole about the depth of the blade, threw in some nice wormy compost, turned up a tomato plant and gently lifted off the pot, set the root ball quickly into the earth (working in my own shade), slopped in some water, and backfilled soil up to just above the root collar, tamped gently with the heel of my palm, and measured to the next spot by simply laying down the shovel and noting the place where the end of its handle reached to. I didn't think about it at the time, but later realized, while admiring the nicely laid out grid of fresh greenery, that I had absorbed, albeit unknown to me at the time, every move of my father's method. The conversion was complete.
      When my parents eventually made their way west to visit, they caught us at the end of a pretty good harvest. My father looked over the rows of corn, the squash patch, the bean trellises, and the fall bed with its broccoli, lettuce, chard, and kale seedlings, and shook his head.
      "Where'd you learn how to do all this, you rascal? " But he knew the answer as well as I did, and I could tell the old man was mightily pleased.

 This year we felt we should reduce our "acreage" in the main garden, so I took an iron rod, set it up in the approximate middle, and with a rope attached to the rod, made a circle about sixty feet across, planting garlic to mark the edge as I went. The garlic is up now, and one can see the size of the garden-to-be. The Garden Lady came out to see what I had done.
      "Whoa! That's way too small!" She folded her arms and gave me "the look." "Where do the brassicas go?"
      "Right here."
      "Uh-huh. And the squash?"
      "Sort of over here."
      "Right. And the cucumbers, -- and -- and -- where does the pumpkin patch go?" Her chin began to tremble a bit at this point.
      "Right back here...no problem, really! Honest!"
      "And your corn, beans, tomatoes and potatoes?"
      "Uh, well, I thought I'd revive my little beds up in the orchard."
      "I thought we were going to have a 'smaller' garden!"
      "Well, that's what I remember us both saying, so I've cut this one in half. But if you need it all, I can always go back there. And the trees will need watering anyway, so I might as well..."
      Etc., etc.
      I figure, with all the quart jars of tomato sauce still in the pantry, I can get by on only four tomato plants this year. YEAH, RIGHT. I've already got a flat of two-inch pots. If they all make it, that's 32 plants. Who's going to kill 28 of those little lovelies? ME? But let me tell you about our first year here.
      I had a bigger tiller at the time, and dug up not one but three gardens. The Garden Lady got the well-draining little one for spring and fall brassicas and peas, I got the orchard one, and we both got the big one. I decided to put out four kinds of tomatoes: Romas, Better Boys, Sweet 100's and some vining cherries. So I did a flat of each, figuring on some die-off. Nope. All healthy little beasties. This was early in February, as I was having some kind of light-deprivation fit and had to grow something. So I spent the spring mostly repotting and repotting until the tomatoes were shoving the lids off the cold frames. After ruthlessly giving away all the plants that anyone who knew me would take, I still had 72 tomato plants. So I put them all in the ground. I had forgotten to lime, so there was some blossom-end rot, but not much, as it had fallowed a few years. There were tomatoes, tomatoes, and tomatoes. Big ones, little ones, round ones, pointy ones. I gathered all the pointy ones and sauced till I dropped. The pantry shelves groaned. I chased the kids through the cherries and Sweet 100's and told them that was their dinner for tonight -- and all month, same menu. I sliced the big round ones and added them to every conceivable dish. But more kept coming.
      One day, late in August, I picked a perfect one-pound Better Boy and looked at it in misery and disgust. A surfeit of your favorite things will, sooner or later, turn you against them, and with a kind of strangled cry I pitched the tomato as high in the air as it would go. It came down in the middle of the duck pen with a satisfying splapp! of water-balloonish disintegration.
      One of the ducks ambled over to see what the fuss was all about. Idly, almost absentmindedly, she nipped at the remnants of the once-proud Better Boy. I could almost see, from across the creek, her small eyes widen. "Eureka!" she burbled to the others in Duckish, which was a mistake, as the others came boiling out of the shade to take the rest of the prize from her.
      Ah, said I to myself. Duck food! I threw bombs into the sky with abandon, and as three were coming down among the ducks, three more were launching into the air. At about this moment the neighbor, a tradition-minded stalwart citizen of some seventy-two years, decided he had better investigate.
      "So, uh, what are we doing today?" came his voice, from right behind the merry bomber's back.
      "Oh, hi, Mr. Trueblood! Feeding the ducks!" I launched three more missiles. The ducks, who by now had gorged themselves, showed no further sign of appetite and were mostly just dodging the incoming shells.
      "Right. Feeding the ducks. Well, nice weather, huh?" He watched me closely for signs of more erratic behavior, but none was forthcoming; my arms were tired.
      Every day until frost, though, I fed the ducks. It was good for my pitching arm, they clearly liked tomatoes a great deal, and were good for about fifteen Better Boys a day.
      The next year, I put in thirty-two plants.
      The year after that, sixteen.
      This year, four for sure. Well, maybe eight.

 The tomatoes didn't pan out. I hovered over them with the mister till they keeled over, no doubt with damping-off. I shall have to go to the garden store and surreptitiously acquire replacements. I put out peas and then got sick and couldn't cover them during the heavy rains, and they rotted. I put out corn -- I know, it's early, some people never learn -- and it's been snowing up at the pass all day and hailing and pouring half-frozen rain here, and I'm sick again and didn't go out and cover the corn beds, and now I can hear the seeds drowning even as I write. Gardeners are a masochistic lot -- or sadistic, depending on whether you consider their feelings or those of their seeds and transplants. I looked out the window at the already tall grass that would be choking the irises if it hadn't been lodged by the constant wind and rain, and howled, or rather croaked: "my seeds are rotting! My garden is drowning!" The Garden Lady looked up from her easy chair, smiled beneficently, and replied ever so sweetly. "My garden is in the greenhouse, safe and snug." It's true; that's where her whole garden is, including the pumpkin patch and the sunflowers, waiting for the real spring, which as any Oregonian knows, starts sometime between June 1 and the 4th of July. She can do this because she's mastered the art of repotting.
      Even in this weather, the greenhouse, which is nothing more than three sliding glass door panels mounted on frame lumber along the south side of the potting shed, is cozy during the day. She kneels on her feedsack-pillow, trowel in hand, and repots from two-inch pots to four-inch, from four to eight, as needed, while her garden grows. I always manage to wait too late to do this; eventually I'll unpot a veggie only to find that the roots have grown about sixty feet long, or maybe a mile and a half, winding round-and-round the soil plug like thread on a spool. The effect on the growth of the plant is not unlike that of creating a bonsai tree by removing its taproot. I can produce little teeny tomato plants and little teeny zinnias this way, and probably should enter them in the County Fair -- in the contest about how not to garden. Take a tip from the Garden Lady and repot early.
      She takes up, say, a flat of broccoli, thirty-two of them in two-inch pots, and makes sure she has nearby not two but four (try the math!) unoccupied flats and thirty-two four inch pots. A sack of potting mix rests close by, that has been mixed in a wheelbarrow at the rate of three sacks potting soil to one of steer manure and a bit of powdered limestone, and resting on the soil there is a number ten tomato can, which makes a fine cheap scoop. She scoops up a canful of mix, slurps some into the bottom of the first four-inch pot, turns a broccoli upside down, taps two sides of the two-inch pot, lifts it gently off the soil plug, rights the plant into the four-inch pot, shakes mix in on all four sides, tamps it down a bit for a snug fit (roots abhor two things: air and light) so that the top of the soil meets the root collar of the broccoli and is between 1/4 and 1/2 inch from the top edge of the pot, sets it in the new flat, and on to the next one. This is much faster and simpler, really than the description, and the rhythm of it all is quite relaxing. I prefer doing this with Mozart or Bach in the background (or even the foreground). She's a Golden Oldies person, but I've never heard Herman and the Hermits in the greenhouse; only the chuffing of the tomato can hitting the rich brown surface of the mix.
      Abner, our White Chinese gander, watches her angrily through the "lights" as she works, and when she reaches for the pots nearest him, tries to nip her through the glass, with a thump that's kind of pleasing to hear if you've ever been bitten by a goose. The glass is stout enough to resist anything that Abner might contemplate, but there are situations that it was not built for. George, a sheep that lived with us for awhile, made this point very clear by escaping from his pasture one fine day. We got him surrounded, and he retreated into the greenhouse, from whence we thought to lead him on a bit of rope -- he had other ideas, and sailed through the double-paned safety glass as if it wasn't there, scattering rainbow shards twenty feet in all directions. Not a scratch on him, either. And all this time the greenhouse had faced into the pasture. Made me think long and hard about which animals to put where. (The freezer, for example, turned out to be the best place for George.)
      Working in the greenhouse pays dividends, though, in opportunities to watch the critters that we own and some we don't own. I've looked up from potting to see a mallard drake and his mate looking in on me from the goose pen, and I enjoy watching the swallows zipping up under the eaves to their nests not three feet from my head. And beyond, in the yard full of dandelions, there are the goldfinches.
      Many people in our area prefer the word "lawn" to "yard" and every year they wallop the dandelions with a herbicide-laced fertilizer. So we're a kind of dandelion island in a sea of miniature golf courses. Goldfinches seem to love dandelion seeds above all else at this time of year, so we get all the goldfinches. They descend upon the yard in troops of twenty, fifty, a hundred, eating, arguing, making love. A goldfinch will land on the seed stalk of a dandelion, barely bending it, and sweep the head clean of the tiny white parasol seeds in moments, then on to the next one. The males are dazzling, and I find myself moving from window to window to get a view of their plumage from a few feet away, empty pot in one hand, a naked plug of soil with a chard seedling held forgotten in the other. It's a fine way to spend a Sunday afternoon, it really is.

 When I survey the acre of land with which I have surrounded myself, the oak and ash trees, rhododendron, hollyhock beds, barn, and house, I turn upon all these things a critic's eye, and keep ready to hand the pruning knife, fence hammer, and trim brush. They do not yet appear to me as I see them in my mental eye, and I shape them toward an end which I acknowledge as mine, though I sometimes remember they serve other ends as well. I shape the trees to my own pleasure. But so do the children, for whom trees are for climbing. So do the birds, whose need is nesting; so also the carpenter ants, who must bring nectar to that vast colony somewhere in my eaves. We knew, long ago, that we would come to such a place, with its diverse longings, so we called for a document to mark the beginning of our life together. Such a thing could be bought, but we both said, " oh, no, it must be hand made." We could see it as clearly as if it were already done. Each could describe it to the other, and to the other it was the describing of a thing already seen. The young student who volunteered, who shaped our wedding scroll, our fractur, with its brave words, was commissioned also to frame it with a house and trees, flowers, birds, a sense of place in a clearing amid woods. I think she understood this commission, this designing of a dream, that it was our weaving of a spell to catch our future, to make a future. And all who signed that Quaker wedding certificate, thirty-nine in number, understood: hope made visible. This is what art is, though we are living a time when it is not fashionable (at least among the intelligentsia) to say so.
      We get, occasionally, a visitor who signed that document twenty years ago. There is a pause as we come, in the "tour," to the wedding certificate in its place overlooking the bed that I have made, and there is an almost invariable recognition. The trees, the house in a clearing, an unimpeded view of a mountain, a circling raptor. They smile: "you were headed for this place the whole time, weren't you?" Such a dream is a lot to put one's name to, so we owe our thirty-nine witnesses much. I didn't know then, and maybe I don't know now, what the painting meant to those gathered round to hear our vows and sign their names. But it's enough to know they liked it, and still do, and so easily make the connection from it to our present life. Their approval leads me to believe, a little, in my own and my Garden Lady's wisdom: that we could see a way forward, and say so; then having said, follow through. This is prophecy, the oldest art, which also called simply the art of living.
      Every gardener is an artist in this most ancient sense. The seeds and starts, balled trees, piles of rocks, and bags of soil amendment are pieces of a vision already seen, to be brought together with a willing toil and persistence. Even when the planting and placing of the elements of this vision is done, the vision is not yet attained: what was once seen is still a future glory, which the reality must yet grow into. My hollyhocks just now are two to three feet high, and my vision of them towers over me; in my mind's eye they are seven to eight feet, dropping blooms like small ladies-in-waiting among the clumps of spearmint at their feet. These hollyhocks-to-be, hovering in the air above the current scene, are in a sense the real garden, the garden of the mind toward which the outward garden is progressing. The two gardens will not come together without labor. I intervene by fighting slugs and removing grass and dandelions, and by watering.
      Spring watering is a different ritual with every gardener-artist. Some set up their summer sprinklers right away and leave it all to a timer and the available water pressure; those who can afford the initial outlay very wisely invest in a drip system, with the tiny tubes running along every bed, stopping to weep only at a hill of zucchini or at the feet of each of the rhodies. We're a low-budget outfit, so our tools, especially early in the garden year, tend to be labor-intensive. At each end of the house is a spigot, low to the ground to prevent freezing in winter, and to these we have attached enough lengths of cheap garden hose to reach the ducks and geese, the upper garden, the lower garden, the orchard garden, and the various fruit trees and flower beds. The Garden Lady does the animals, the upper garden with her lettuces and brassicas and strawberries, and the Front Beds, which are mostly poppies and marigolds this year, wherever she can tear out enough mint and oregano. I do the rest. This involves a constant war over nozzles. She really only likes one, a greenish fan-shaped thing that hits exactly the right width at four feet to sweep a garden row in one slow pass. She bought it over fifteen years, ago and it has spent enough of that time sunning itself on its coils of hose to have faded in color, and it even seems to have lost weight, as though the years of water rushing through have eroded the plastic from within till we handle it like a blown egg. I dread the day that it falls from some unheeding hand and cracks. We see similar-looking ones marketed nowadays, but they are made in a far and populous country where manufacturing for the American market is all the rage and manufacturing for an appreciation of quality (at least as regards export) most definitely is not. So we baby along the one that we have.
      I like the sweep nozzle, too, for the first five minutes, but then I get restive. It hasn't enough reach, and I'm one of those who stands in one spot dispensing favors near and far. So I generally wind up removing the sweep and hanging it in the crook of the nearest lilac, and put in its place an old fashioned brass nozzle. Antique ones are well made; get one of these. Those in the stores come from that afore-mentioned far-away land that is gulling the poorer sort of shoppers here, and are to be avoided. With the brass nozzle you can produce a fine mist eight feet across, or a brave fireman's blast that fans out, forty feet away, just enough to water a distant tree without accidentally digging it up. There's really no better tool for demonstrating the phrase "all-purpose." The only disadvantage to these old brass nozzles that I can discover, but it is a very real one, is that the Garden Lady removes them to re-install her favored sweep, and puts them down wherever she happens to be. This can be anywhere on the acre, and I have very bad eyes nowadays.
      My current compromise is the "pistol-grip." You can get a quite good visible one, bright yellow, American-made, too, for only three dollars. Be absolutely sure to get the one that is garden-hose threaded for attachments on the barrel. You need never discover why, as the thing is highly functional as is, but once you learn what the threading is there for you'll be pleased. We'll come back to this in a moment.
      There is one other gadget in this category that we own, and that is a water wand, the kind that is about three feet long with a valve at one end and a nice aluminum rose at the other, on a slender crooked neck. The Garden Lady finds it unsatisfactory, but then she holds it like a shower head, above the plants; held this way its water pressure shoves seedlings about like a hurricane and throws dirt onto the bruised leaves. She gets far better results from her faded green sweep because the pressure tends to get lost amid the many large holes in its face, producing a better imitation of rain. But I like the wand very much, at least when working with young plants, because of the so-tiny droplets it produces without choking back the volume of water the way the brass nozzles do. The secret to the wand is to hold it "upside down"; the rose should tip up like a flower (a rose), facing the sun, and its drops should rise into the air and fall by force of gravity alone, gently washing the mulch at the feet of your seedlings. The idea is to imitate, not rain, but a long-necked watering can of the English type, with its brass rose. I drape the hose over my shoulder and wander along, visiting plants and offering them the wash of life at their feet, where it's wanted. It's very meditative, using the wand, because there's no back pressure in the hose. Brass nozzles, by throttling the water, vibrate the hose and always seem a bit hurrisome.
      Now, back to our pistol grip. There are times when you want the rain effect of the sweep or the mist of the wand, without losing the flow control offered by the pistol grip mechanism. No problem. Because you've bought the one with the threaded barrel, you can simply attach these other gizmos as needed, creating the right tool for the job at hand. I've become fond of attaching just the rose from the wand to the pistol grip nozzle; this results in a gadget that seems exactly what's wanted for perennial herbs and berries.
      When I walk about, watering with these various implements, it is generally evening. Direct sun will evaporate much of any water offered at mid-day, and in the mornings I'm generally off to work. Evenings are good for water economy and good for me. I fall into the routine, still noticing weeds that will need attention, or transplants that have stayed overlong in shock, but mostly I'm able to relax and look around. The Garden Lady tucks a bit more straw around her newly transplanted lettuce. Canada geese pass overhead here any time of year, though they are at their most spectacular in autumn; we have also mallards who travel in pairs, one green and one brown, and put down in our goose pen to steal cob and talk to our Khaki Campbells across the fence. A swallow sits on the clothesline in his green dinner jacket and scolds me for getting too close to the birdhouse on the potting shed. The moon rises, sullen and red-faced at first, then brightens as night comes on, and the last of the sun sweeps up the face of Jasper Mountain and disappears where there will soon be stars. It is altogether restful to water a garden by hand if you have the time. Take your garden's advice: forget the evening news and the sitcoms. Make the time.

 AS the winter rains subside slowly across the coastal and inland valley landscape, and days are sunny but nights still cool, my neighbors pile up accumulated garden and yard debris, leaving it for a few weeks, perhaps under a plastic tarp. As soon as it's dry enough out, but not dry enough to get them in trouble with the fire warden, they torch off the lot. From a mountain top nearby, one can see this activity as a a kind of Civil War reenactment, with the smoke of the guns drifting from various parts of the field. Filbert farmers are prone to set off a lot of piles at once, so that their places look like some corner of Shiloh.
      When I first began to accumulate such material here at Stony Run, I started to build such a pile, but then remembered reading a book by a maverick Japanese organic farmer. He said that he had no way to fertilize a hillside orchard until he hit upon the idea of gathering wood and spreading it around on the slopes to rot. His trees thrived. I've begun to emulate that basic idea. Since we still use wood heat, I do try to saw up larger branches for the woodpile. The natives are ash and oak, so the smaller branches are useful for the small barbecue pit we inherited with the place. Trimmings of oak, ash, bigleaf maple, blackcherry, and cottonwood go into low places on the land, to help build soil. When there is a lamb, much of this goes to stock feed -- cottonwood is a favorite -- as does the abundant Japanese knotweed festooned with morning glories. Himalaya blackberry, our region's equivalent of kudzu, I leave where it drops when cut. The lawnmower will eventually chip up the drying stems. Some of them I use for bushing peas, which works surprisingly well.
      We have let too much mint grow in too many of the beds, and what we can't use we pull -- and stack around the feet of the fruit trees for mulch. Old squash vines, sunflower stems, hollyhocks, zinnias, cornstalks, "mother" strawberries, and old-growth chard or broccoli plants I carry to the compost bin in the front garden and chop up with a machete. Sods pulled up from the garden, along with what I call wild daisies and the Garden Lady calls "screaming yellow composites," I also throw into the bin, if they haven't gone to seed, and of course all the kitchen stuff goes there. We save our dish water, add it to some other choice "household wastewater," and feed this to fruit trees, grape vines, and flower beds. After I've done the woodcutting for the year, the driveway accumulates a layer of sawdust and chips too small for gathering up for the woodstove and too acid for the garden. This material is gathered up with a square point shovel and wheelbarrow, and added to the "low spots."
      With all this activity, we find there's nothing left over that belongs in a bonfire, so we've never had to have one. In fact, we import whatever we can get. The Garden Lady, who is also the Duck Lady, buys tremendous bales of straw for two bucks apiece, each weighing about the same as the Titanic, and huffs them up to the barn to spread around under the bottoms of the ducks and rabbits. We fight over the resulting mulch/fertilizer, but I generally lose as I haven't the moral advantage of having hauled the bales. In November of every year, I scout around for bags of leaves left curbside. Last year I brought home some twenty-five of these. Some of the bags were big-leaf maple, which is said to be a no-no in the vegetable garden, but they're fine for the "low spots" and around rhododendrons and the like. Some were oak, which can be sweetened with rock lime and used wherever you like. Some were more of a beechy-sweetgum kind of thing, and these were sheet-composted right out onto the garden (way too much to put in the bin) and turned under with the hay-fork "rototiller" in the spring. This seems to work so well that I question the usefulness of a heap. By the time the pile, of whatever humongous size at first, cooks down, there's so little of it that it has to be rationed to the neediest (usually tomatoes), and the rest go hungry.
      If I could afford to, I'd get a chipper. This produces a very democratic product which can be spread around evenly, promoting soil health and microorganism and worm activity (which is the same thing, roughly) throughout the whole area -- can be put on anytime, anywhere, in plant pots, on raised beds, around azaleas, fruit trees, or even the lawn. At Hidden Springs Farm in Georgia, where I was the truck farmer and bakeryman, I set up a bin behind the bakery, made of three sheets of metal roofing, and while waiting for the seventy-five pound lump of bread to rise indoors, shoveled whatever I could find into a Kemp shredder outdoors. Sawdust, mule manure, kitchen wastes, grass clippings, and whole piles of cleared vegetation, including a half-acre of high-nitrogen kudzu, went into the machine, in alternating batches, so that there'd be an even mix in the bin. As soon as the bin was full, I added another one, and when that one was full, I added another. The half-acre garden, which had been in ryegrass over the winter, I tilled in, and after the crops got high enough to mulch, I sheeted the whole area with the contents of the bins. The chippings served as compost, mulch, and pathway. We would show visitors the garden, and on learning that it was organic, they would invariably ask where the compost heap was. "You're looking at it." We never bought fertilizer, except for some organic mixes for the nursery, where a more controlled acidity was called for.
      I remember the nurseryman, David Via (now a famous organic truck farmer who lives in this area) did sometimes have to fight white flies, the bane of greenhouse operations whether organic or not. He set off pungent smoke bombs that were very effective. I asked what was in them. He grinned. "Nicotine. The stuff's an organic insecticide, invented by tobacco plants to kill any bugs that try to eat the leaves." I gave up chewing tobacco that very afternoon. Nasty habit anyway...but I picked up an insight that I've tried to use in gardening ever since, which is that there is generally a cheaper way than the storebought way to do things, and still get results. I make a pomade of chewing tobacco, chips left over from old soap bars, and rabbit manure, all tied up in a cheesecloth, and leave this "teabag" in the watering can overnight. The resulting tea feeds plants and insults bugs effectively, and can be used in the greenhouse, on flower beds, and throughout the young garden, though you might want to avoid the foliage of lettuce and the like slated to be brought in to the kitchen. You can put a similar mix into a hose-end sprayer, but it doesn't seem to me that the resulting dilution, even at the highest ratio, has enough kick. Just keep the solution making daily in the watering can, and use it wherever it's needed most. I leave the can in the greenhouse, where the heat from the sun during the day and radiating back from the brick floor at night can"solarize" the tea. The warmth seems to be preferred by the plants over cold water, and I would do this routine of leaving the water in the can overnight even if didn't have the teabag in it. Once you've made yourself responsible to a lot of plants, every good habit helps.

 AS I rose this morning and carried a cup of English Breakfast to the east porch, I found the Garden Lady already there, with her stein of coffee (enough to kill a horse), admiring her surroundings wistfully.
      "Fall is starting," she said.
      This was a shock. The really hot weather has only just begun, and we've become full-time waterers. But I knew immediately what she meant. The air smelled differently, somehow, than the previous morning, and a golden glow on the wall behind us, the telltale September glow, which I associate with Canada geese going up the river to the great Klamath flyway, suffused the whole porch area with something like a palpable sadness. Where did the summer go, so soon, that we had waited so long to begin? And we have so little to show for our work, so far this year...
      The brassicas went in too late to avoid the flea beetles, which are the current plague. We only did one small bed of peas, rather than the usual four in succession. The tomatoes have barely set fruit. We've just picked the first zucchini, and there's no crookneck squash yet. Granted, I did get a crop off the early sweet corn, but the late variety should have tasseled by now and hasn't even reached waist high yet. The second-year red onions were our only real show crop, making juicy bulbs six inches across. We took most of these to the Friends Meeting House, where there is a tradition of leaving surpluses for all comers on the back porch, but that looks like it will be our only contribution for the year. There were no plums, and few apples; the Asian pears are too young to count, so there's just the one crop on the lone Bartlett to represent the orchard.
      One thing we have a lot of, this year, from our point of view, anyway -- is geese.
      There are in the core flock two White Chinas, Abner and Amanda, and two beautiful grey Africans, Auntie One and Auntie Two. Last year there were about 140 goose eggs, with Amanda producing about as many as the other two together, albeit smaller ones, and of these we left two to be hatched, which produced a couple of fine looking White China goslings, both of whom, however, died not long after fledging, from causes unknown. This year, there were about 100 eggs, of which we left enough in the nest that seven hatched. These came in waves, so to speak. Auntie One took over the brooding early on, hissing if Amanda got anywhere near the nesting box, and hatched three goslings which she took to be her very own. She was willing for Auntie Two to babysit them, or proud papa Abner, but Amanda was not to come near. If she even tried to share in bathing and drinking at the common pools, Auntie One drove her off with hisses, snake-like threatening movements of her long neck, and beating of wings. It got so poor Amanda was getting dehydrated, and we had to spread the various pools and "white buckets" over a large enough area that Auntie One couldn't cover the entire territory, making it possible for poor Amanda to jump off the nest, run for a drink, and run back. For Amanda had chosen to take on the remaining eggs, and stayed with them day and night.
      Eventually four new goslings appeared, which seemed to us smaller at birth than those Auntie One was rearing. Three of these were larger than the last, whom we called Junior. It was now Amanda's turn to go on the offensive. Keeping the new babies close to her, she interposed herself between them and Auntie One at every possible moment, occasionally rushing over to give Auntie One a smashing peck in the back, between the shoulder blades, whenever she seemed to threaten to come too close. I was impressed with Amanda's motherly courage, Auntie One having considerably more reach and strength, and about double Amanda's weight.
      The children grew apace, but came a morning last week when I counted six at feeding time. Had Junior fallen down a missed post-hole somewhere, or had there been perhaps a fox raid? I searched, and before long came across his stiffening corpse -- neck broken -- he'd been severely pecked between the shoulder blades. Amanda?? Nahhh...
      I elected to weed the upper garden, which is close to the fowl pens, and keep an eye on goose society for a bit. Amanda and her remaining three were cropping weeds and sipping water in one pool cluster, Auntie One and everyone else, including Abner, were doing the same in the other area. Then Amanda, going for some stray bits of cob, was momentarily distracted. Instantly Auntie One, who had apparently been single-mindedly on the lookout, dashed across the invisible line of motherly enmity, and gave a slamming peck to the smallest remaining gosling, right at the base of his neck. What we had here was Texas Cheerleader Mom syndrome! I must intervene.
      Leaping over the fence of the duck pen (to the mild astonishment of the ducks), then over the goose fence, I chased Auntie One through the pool areas, overturning buckets, slipping in mud, rounding Auntie One in ever-tightening circles. We bowled over non-Auntie-One geese and goslings in all directions in our epic chase, which seemed to go on for a long, long time, though it was undoubtedly over in a couple of minutes. I held Auntie One's sleek, almost expressionless face close to mine, my fingers wrapped round her downy neck, and pronounced sentence: "Okay, you -- IN WITH THE DUCKS." And dropped her over the fence. The ducks scattered, goggle-eyed and squawking, then went about their business, which was mostly chasing flies.
      At that moment I got the feeling one always gets when one is being watched from behind. I turned. Abner, Auntie Two, Amanda, and the six goslings stood together in an amicable group, regarding me with mild curiosity. And just beyond them, my two neighbors to the west, a retired janitor and his wife, leaned on the fence. They had apparently concluded that there was no need to go the horse races up the valley. The action was right here.
      "Well, which one won?" he asked.
      I was almost too winded to reply.
      Auntie One began treading up and down along the fence across from her three darlings and the rest of the flock, calling to them, and trying the wire at every possible point. The others, after getting over the discovery that the madman was not planning to kill them all, simply went back to grazing; broadleafs first, then grass.
      Auntie Two was the perfect aunt, spelling Amanda as needed in raising the six goslings, who from that moment looked to Amanda for all orders. When they're old enough to defend themselves, the Cheerleader Mom will go back in with them...
      The Goose Lady was away at a family reunion during all this. On her return from Wisconsin, she got my report on goose events of the preceding week, then went out to survey the crime scene. I made tea, and brought it out to the shady side of the "veranda." The Goose Lady returned, took two quiet sips, and said, "You know what? Every one of those babies is a White China!"
      The three that Auntie One had fought so hard for, and been willing to kill for, were all Amanda's.

THERE is in an obscure Emblem Book by one Henry Hawkins, dated 1633, a tribute to one of the garden's great flowers:

 IN arid regions, the wise seek out plants that require very little water, the use of which is called "xeriscaping" -- whereas those who own a bit of marsh look for attractive water plants: lotuses, sedges, perhaps a bit of cress. Most gardeners in temperate zones, however, have a wide range of choices and possibilities. Accordingly, some will try everything -- from cacti to Louisiana irises -- and insist that the local setting bend to their will. Plants that have no business in northern climes are fussed over ad infinitum, wrapped against chill winds, covered, uncovered, covered again, and finally cursed for disloyally losing their green fingers to frostbite.
      On any home site, the wise will seek out plants that augment the site, not merely visually, but in ways that use what we know of sun and shade, soil, wind, and water, to enhance the lives of those living there and of lives yet to come. When they consider a tree or shrub, they look around them and think. They see not only the height of the plant and its breadth, but also the effect of its presence through time, of its youth, middle age, declining years and inevitable death. How will each affect its surroundings? Many times, the answers will be considerably less complicated to sort out if you will stick with the native species.
      Every landscape, and every homesite, has a history, and from this history, if it is known or can be discovered, we can learn something about the site's present and future requirements. Our acre, Stony Run, began in the distant past as alluvial deposits at the upper end of a vast glacial-era lake, which once lay, hundreds of feet deep, from here to what is now Portland on the Columbia River, over a hundred miles north. When the lake drained away, leaving the Willamette River and its tributaries to collect the annual runoff in its place, billions of small round stones from the surrounding mountains, mostly of slow-weathering basalt, lay packed together in a matrix of clay particles for miles in all directions. Seeds, borne in by wind, water, and animals, quickly took root, and a forest sprang up, but one adapted t