Is it too late to ask Santa for a rain barrel?

We've had an inch of rain in just a few hours this morning. In a pathetic attempt to balance the wet and dry seasons I set my watering can out on the deck to catch some rain. That should do the trick. No more summer water needs at this house.

The downpour reminds me that I always wanted a water feature in my garden. Do overflowing gutters count? They make a lovely trickling sound on the front walk.

Looking out the window at the sheets of rain I ask, Why, oh why didn't I have the wit to buy a rain barrel?

It's not like nobody warned me. Wonderful David at Montana Wildlife Gardener gave me chapter and verse on how to install a rain barrel. He's a genuine wildlife biologist. But did I listen?

And only yesterday that sound fellow, John Black at A Verdant Life, offered a thorough analysis of the ways and means of saving rainwater.

It could be worse; our driveway is gravel so the rain soaks on in, helping the roots of the Incense cedars, oaks and Ponderosa pines.

But inside the house I grieve over my short-sightedness. The children's song keeps ringing in my mind:

You can't holler down our rain barrel,

You can't climb our apple tree,

I don't want to play in your yard,

If you won't be good to me.*

Here's a two-part question for you:

Do you have a rain barrel? If so, do you holler down it?

*Two Little Maids (Music and lyrics, Petrie and Wingate)

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My garden reminds me of a Bergman film

Death in The Seventh Seal (1956), directed by Ingmar Bergman

This afternoon I noticed cobwebs on the edges of the incense cedar. Then I saw the weeping cherry had strangely yellow leaves on three branches. As I raked up the dead grass on the back lawn it all seemed too symbolic, and I felt like I was in a Bergman movie full of ominous portent.

Meanwhile, the rest of Nevada County was bursting with ripe peaches and brilliant sunflowers.

I may be half-Scandinavian, but I want to ditch gloomy Bergman and find a new director. My garden could use a lively musical number by Busby Berkeley.

What's the opening scene in your garden right now? Who would direct your garden film this summer?

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The back lawn is gone

The dog and I spent many a happy summer morning sitting under the walnut tree, watching the sprinklers run on the back lawn.

Watching sprinklers makes people feel good.

The previous owners of our house dug in that sprinkler system themselves. When they came to visit, a year after we bought the house, the four of us had dinner on the back deck. My husband ran the sprinkler system to demo that it was still working well. “Oh, that’s nice,” she sighed. We all sat smiling at the lawn.

That was 13 years ago. The lawn grew tired.

Mr. Daffodil Planter and I learned about dethatching lawns (fun!) and toiled in various ways on each inch of turf: kneeling with dandelion forks, spreading compost, pacing back and forth cranking handles of seed broadcasters, hoping each time that the gods of gardening would reward our efforts.

Last month we took a long look at the tussocky, patchy quarter-acre of turf. The only one really enjoying it was our galloping dog. And she didn’t have to mow.

Fate intervened. One sprinkler head refused to cooperate. “Let’s stop watering the lawn!” we said in unison.

And we have lived happily ever after.

We don’t know what we’re going to plant instead. Henry Mitchell would tell us that an open central area in full sun is perfect for a lily pool.

He’d be right, and then we could invite Animal Planet over to film all the mule deer, mountain lions, raccoons, and probably black bears who would stop by for a sip. So, short of opening our house as a nature-watchers' bed-and-breakfast, that idea is out.

We’re counting on the "no lawn" before-and-after photos at Blue Planet Gardening to inspire us.

In the meantime, the dog and I sit under the walnut tree in the morning and watch the Steller’s Jays.

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That Rose Campion--she seemed like such a nice girl!

Lychnis coronaria (Rose Campion) Photo: Stockxpert

Rose Campion. She sounds like a demure little plant, doesn’t she? Her Latin name is Lychnis coronaria. Again, nothing to give you a clue about her feisty nature.

Lychnis coronaria’s looks are nothing to write home about. She grows from a basal rosette of fuzzy, gray-green leaves and sends up many branching stems almost three-feet tall, with small, magenta flowers in early summer.

She’s no Homecoming Queen. So where does she get the tremendous self-confidence required to take over one of my perennial beds?

She came to my garden more than 15 years ago, as a gift to the previous owners. They were quite amused when she self-seeded in the shady edges near the back fence. She's a biennial, so one year would pass with few appearances from her, and the following year her flowers would be a happy surprise.

All that changed when she moved up in the world and got a toehold in a perennial bed.

No one invited her, she just showed up. Wanting to be polite to a new girl in the neighborhood, I let her hang out with the much prettier and more popular girls, the Tall Bearded Irises and herbaceous Peonies. Apparently the compost tea went to her head like wine.

Next thing I knew she was being rude to the perfectly nice Shasta Daisies, who never caused anyone any trouble.

Now she’s everywhere, grabbing attention as if she were Paris Hilton. I think she even has a Twitter account.

Only the mule deer seem able to ignore her.

Some of my gardener friends say they’d like her to come visit them, since she doesn’t mind the blistering foothills sun and doesn’t need a lot of water after the first summer.

Just watch out. She seems like a sweet little thing, but she’s a Mean Girl at heart.

© Daffodil Planter 2009. All rights reserved.

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Watering

At the Fountain, c. 1890, Theodore Robinson* (1852-1896)

Watering is not my favorite garden job.

I can never make it through unscathed. A simple procedure, such as moving the oscillating sprinkler into the center of the blue perennial border, will seem to be going well--when suddenly the hose arcs and strikes my shins, leaving a swath of mud on my pants just above the tops of my rubber boots.

I'm not as dumb as I look, and I finally realized there wasn't any point in doing "just a little bit" of morning watering in clothes I planned to wear into the world. It's one thing to visit Prospectors Nursery bedecked in mud, but agrarian-chic hasn't caught on in other venues.

Nevada County dirt is red and indelible. I'm an excellent laundress, but am defeated by local mud stains, so a new streak of mud is a sadly permanent addition to my wardrobe.

Pass me my watering can instead of a hose, though, and I'm as happy as a child with a favorite toy. I have an old-fashioned Haws galvanized-steel watering can, and using it makes me feel like the girl in the painting.

Time out from the 21st century. Time out from worrying about droughts or global warming. I'm focusing on the fine waterfall from the rose at the tip of the spout, concentrating on the balance of the can in my hand, admiring the plant I'm watering, and remembering why I chose it. Often a butterfly wafts past. The can is wet and I get a swipe of red mud on my pants. That's fine. Nothing can break my mood.

Watering is my favorite garden job--when I have a metal can in my hand.

*Theodore Robinson, an American Impressionist, lived next door to his friend Claude Monet in Giverny, France. This painting is in the collection of The Arkell Museum, Canajoharie, New York.

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