Wick

When a thing is wick, it has a life about it.
Now, maybe not a life like you and me.
But somewhere there's a single streak of green inside it.
Come, and let me show you what I mean.
--from The Secret Garden (lyrics by Marsha Norman)


   A week after planting my strawberries in starter pots (and plastic cups) I found myself looking for signs of life. The ones I planted in the cups (first batch) mostly had green leaves when I planted them. The ones I put in the bio-degradable pots (second batch) with Miracle-Gro potting soil, on the other hand, were an exercise in hope. They looked pretty far gone. And after a week, there were no signs of life in them. 
   The ones in the plastic cups, on the other hand, had changed dramatically.  They had seemingly died. 
   I attributed that to the soil and to the container, which didn't let air in or water out. I went through them carefully looking for any signs of life-a live leaf, a shoot of green, even some fuzz that didn't seem to be too brown.  Those that offered hope I transplanted into the bio-degradable pots with the Miracle-Gro, replacing the plants that clearly were beyond saving.  I tried to shake off all the inferior soil and replant them carefully to give them the best chance of life.
   In the end, I trashed all the second batch (put them in the compost, actually) and re-potted all the first batch, even though some of them showed little or no sign of life.  Eight of them looked to survive, while the rest were again an exercise in hope.
   Each day I checked them, watered them if needed, and looked for that single streak of green. Now after a week four or five more are wick, and I'm giving the others a chance to prove themselves. I eagerly look forward to checking them every day, amazed at the miracle of life within them, astounded that they have come back from seeming death.
   It's kind of that way with people. Now and then I run into people who seem to be zombies-the living dead. They have a pulse, they hold down a job, they even smile from time to time. But the signs of life are weak. Perhaps they've been beaten into submission by the circumstances of their lives or by others around them who have slowly-or even all at once-drained the life out of them. Perhaps they've made destructive choices, betrayed the divinity within them.
   What they don't seem to have is purpose, direction, hope, faith.
   And yet, if you look closely enough, over a period of time, nurturing and caring for them with friendly interactions and supportive words and deeds, you may just catch a fleeting glimpse of green inside and realize that they are wick after all.


When a thing is wick, it has a light around it.
Maybe not a light that you can see.
But hiding down below a spark's asleep inside it,
Waiting for the right time to be seen.


   If you care to, and if they permit you, you can help clear away the dead things and nurse them back to life.  It isn't always easy, and not every one revives, but when they do, it's one of the most rewarding experiences I've ever had.
   When we engage in that kind of gardening, we are doing God's work, and He can provide a joy that passes understanding. If we are wick with that light, we may gain Eternal Life.

Of Junipers and Cranberries

    I don't like junipers. At least not the horizontal ground-cover type common in landscaping use here in Northern Georgia. I readily admit that they have their uses. They maintain a green ground cover year round.  I think they're also often used to keep a hill in place, perhaps due to the tangled, spreading root system.  But to me they looks boring, they're difficult to weed, and they're scratchy.
    Now if I had a type with berries, or softer leaves, or one with a pleasant aroma, I might love them differently.
    As it is, I find myself trying to root them out and banish them from my yard. The problem is how to replace their color and, more importantly, keep all the dirt from sliding down in a big rainstorm.

    Cranberries.  From everything I've read, cranberry bushes tend to make great colorful ground cover, and can also hold the dirt in place on a hill.  Plus they produce edibles (though Tryn is concerned we could never eat as many as we would grow). All else being equal, I'd rather have a bush that provides me food than one that just stands there filling space. I guess I want a plant to give me something back. If it's not providing beautiful flowers or color, a sweet aroma, or shade or privacy, then it should give me something tangible. (Just admitting that brings to mind the selfishness in Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree" and haunting refrains of "Feed me, Seymour.")
    I would have liked to replace all the juniper at once, but I thought I'd try one bush to start. None of the nurseries here carry cranberries, though. Apparently they're not very popular in the South. Should I take that as a message about their viability?
    So I ordered an American Cranberry bush from a mail-order nursery. It arrived looking much more frail than I expected, with thin, flimsy branches and leaves that almost resemble some types of fern.
    After work the other day I gathered my tools and began removing junipers. I thought perhaps just one would be sufficient, but I finally removed three and parts of another one. Not an easy task. An established juniper on a hill is like a crusted barnacle on a ship's hull. It took a shovel, a pick, two-handed pruning shears, and a lot of backbreaking pulling, but I finally got them out. By then the sun had gone.

    I dug a hole, added some compost and Miracle-Gro and placed the plant.
    I have great hopes. In my mind's eye I see that hillside covered with low-growing, fruit-bearing bushes awash in colorful flowers in the spring and fiery tints in the fall.
    I anticipate someday having enough cranberries for my children to bag and sell during the Thanksgiving season.