Why Hollyhocks Are Old-Fashioned Flowers

"Old-fashioned beauty," "old-fashioned Southern favorite," "definitive old-fashioned garden plant" -- why, when someone says "hollyhocks," does "old-fashioned" precede it? These yesterday were on an island in a strip-mall parking lot: showy, heart-colored; perhaps the popular "creme de cassis" color. I want some! Blossoms the size of a face! I want to meet whoever planted them for our enjoyment. And I want to know why they're old-fashioned.

My brother-in-law just phoned and I told him "hollyhocks" and he said his grandmother mentioned hollyhocks in one of the poems she wrote.

They're originally from China, where they're called "shu kui." Google Translate says "shu" means "book" and "kui" means "God," "chief," or "serious"; Wikipedia says that in Chinese legend, Kui was the inventor of music and dancing. In 15th-century England the plant was named "holyoke." They are neither holy nor oak, but it is said, who knows if it's true, hollyhocks arrived in England from the Holy Land.

Ancient photos show the house I lived in from birth to age 7 (house built 1887; no longer standing; it's a parking lot!) had a tumbledown white-painted arched wooden trellis, with two seats.

Me and Aunt Anna in Sunday best. The car's four "ventiports" identify it as a Buick.

Photograph taken summer 1958 is of me and "aunt" Anna Savin (nee Weiss), a German who during the war dug ditches in Russia. The trellis held morning glories in season, and behind us, outside of the fence, on long bare stems, are hollyhocks. Alongside the house in spring grew violets and lilies of the valley, and in summer,  "four o'clocks," cradling smart black seeds; we also had peony bushes. A lilac bush and orange lilies bloomed out back. My parents planted none of these. All these flowers are still designated "old-fashioned" perennials. There were rambling roses, because I remember the scent and thorns.

Those are all old-fashioned flowers because they're English cottage-garden flowers, and there must have been a time when English was the type of flower garden for a Midwestern householder to have. In the language of flowers, hollyhocks mean "ambition" or "fecundity."

I remember as a kid crumbling between my wondering fingers the corncob-like stamens of the hollyhocks. The flowers in the parking lot in 2020 I did not touch.

Hope Springs

Maybe I told you that two or three years ago a huge tractor ran over and churned to mud a rich and generous chanterelle mushroom temple I had cultivated near a juncture between woods and fields so that it was hardly necessary to step into the woods to harvest pounds of cheddar-yellow ruffly lovelies good to eat and share. Also crushed was the fallen tree that was my oyster mushroom gold mine, and logs that brought forth Bearded Tooth, which tastes like lobster. As I surveyed the ruins, shocked and saddened, only religious language came to mind: God is not mocked.

Last summer I tramped over there and saw two or three small chanterelles trying to make it through the mud and wished them the best. This year they are definitely bouncing back, and after a rain I picked a meal's worth and left the rest to reproduce and once again (I hope) cover the earth.

Toad-Stranglers

June thunderstorms with clouds like slate rolling pins and booming noise shook up our area three times this past week. First time, electricity was off for six hours. Second time, a heavy tree branch fell and broke my rain gauge. We were lucky that the eye of each storm just missed us and did nothing but dump needed rain for a while, I'm guessing about an inch each time, not enough to flood. The third storm was last evening. Gully-washer. Toad-strangler. Perfectly seasonable. After poking at us just to let us know who is boss, the storm turned deeply serious as it chugged eastward. Photo was taken facing east, and you can see the dark clouds at the bottom while our area was filling with eerie yellow-orange light.

Nothing Bit Me All Summer

"Lavender is an insect repellent," the Lavender Farm nearby had advised. That place, of happy memory, lost its lovely scenic lavender crop from alternating years of flooding and drought. But when their brand of lavender oil ran out I bought a 16-ounce bottle from Amazon and have used it ever since as insect repellent, pre-treating myself against bites and bugs before stepping out and meanwhile smelling pretty good.

Somebody told me that lavender oil at the Amazon price I paid is probably not real lavender oil but swill from big tanks of chemicals in China, but I just couldn't see letting that ruin my day. The darned stuff, no matter what it is, works just as well, whether cloudy (it turned cloudy) or clear.

Caution that lavender oil as a bug repellent doesn't serve everyone. I drenched a friend in it before we went bushwhacking. Chiggers still bit him and so covered him with those volcanic bites that he was bedridden with nausea. Usually he deserved bad things to happen to him, but not that time.

Food Porn, Summer Edition

I didn't really need a basket of umber-colored heirloom cherry tomatoes because at home I had big red and yellow ones from the honor produce stand, but there they were looking just like the 'maters on the cover of this month's issue of Food and Wine, which features a positively wanton summer salad of peaches, heirloom tomatoes, and feta, and before I knew it I'd also bought four pounds of peaches and a half pound of Bulgarian feta, but I digress; the absolute first thing to make and eat when back from the farmer's market is a fresh-tomato sandwich.

The proper tomato sandwich is made with white bread. Some insist on Pepperidge Farm's; my bread machine makes mine. Slather mayonnaise on both bread slices; pave those with ripe tomato slices piled half an inch high, then salt and pepper them. Lay some fresh basil leaves down if you have them. Close the sandwich and mash it down a bit so the juices flow. And what happens next is just private.

Good, Good, Really Good!

At a Chicago conference last week I heard in person a famous channeler of positive messages, author of millions of books and CDs. She might be fake, but I liked her message and echoed to myself, “I will accept that things are always working out for me, and any expansion is good.” Minutes after starting back home on the tollway, my left rear tire blew. I take the next exit and, by the grace of God, it's a suburban Chicagoland avenue lined for miles with car dealerships and car-repair shops.

The repair shop I pull into mounts my spare for free and sends me to a tire dealer where I'm told there's a two-hour wait. “Things are always working out for me,” I thought, and in entirely foreign Naperville, Illinois, I take an aimless walk and two blocks down find a wonderful nail salon in which to spend an hour and a half. Across the street is a Greek restaurant. They know how to cook fish, and the waitress is great and gives me a free dessert. Hours off schedule by now, I’m as happy as they make ‘em. The weather is gorgeous. As I’m finishing lunch the tire place calls; the car’s ready.

Back safely in Missouri, I find a client has paid me. Years ago Mom had given me a floral-type 1950s white-gold diamond ring with a mousy little diamond that Dad bought for their 25th; I never much liked it. She swore me not to sell it; but bravely telling myself, “I can afford this,” I went to a jeweler I didn’t know and said since he was the pro he could give the stones any new setting he liked. The little squirty trailer-park ring is now dazzling, classy and worth more than before, and in the same shopping plaza was a frozen yogurt shop. Saying, “Things are always working out for me,” I scheduled my ten-year-old Toyota for removal of its two little rust spots and it’s in the body shop right now increasing in resale value.

At the bank, the fun never stops.

During my weekend in Illinois, summer came to Missouri. The public pool opened for the year but I lacked a beach towel; I’ve never owned one. Goodwill—next block over from the jeweler—didn’t have any. Oh well. Stopping by the bank I find it's Customer Appreciation Day with delightful free hotdogs and model trains. I told the teller this should happen every day.

When my last haircutter, a sub for my usual, gave me a “Moe Howard” (bowl haircut) and I'd cried, a friend recommended a stylist 30 miles away, booked up weeks in advance. Saying, “Any expansion is good,” I called, and drove for my appointment far into the city, and for my efforts got a soft and flattering haircut. Because any expansion is good (by then I was playing the channeler’s CDs in my car), I bought that same day my very first eyeliner and some brow highlight called "Living Luminizer." The next day when I’m wearing them (plus my new haircut) a man approaches me, the first in almost a year. He’s not a contender (his dentures smelled), but any expansion is good!

I’d been thinking about buying or leasing a new car because I want updated safety features, and even phoned around and daydreamed at CarFax but said, monetarily, “I’ll just keep and fix the 2007 Toyota,” but while it’s in the shop I am driving an impressive silver 2016 luxury Nissan. The body shop worked out a specially cheap deal with the rental place. Things are always working out for me. . .

Towel and bathing suit

I got up at sunrise and outside bathed my new ring in the rising sun and thought, "Life is great. Life is always expanding. Things are always working out for me."

At the gym, Nissan in the parking lot, I attempt and ace the strength class that last year sent me to the cardiologist. Meanwhile, the bank phones: I have won one of their Customer Appreciation Day prizes: a beach bag with beach towel and a $25 gift card. When I pick up my prize (the bank takes my photo), I see the towel matches my bathing suit! And the bag is great, too.

Things are always working out for me!

Notes on Barbecue

• My favorite barbecue place is Super Smokers and I'm so satisfied with their pulled pork with the applesauce side I never order anything else. I sauce it with Texas Hot.
• Texas Hot is their only sauce not available in stores.
• My personal sauce recipe: half Hunt's (and only Hunt's) bottled barbecue sauce, and half medium salsa. Hunt's because it is the least sugary of the commercial sauces. I don't understand Maull's or Pappy's or Kansas-City-style any other bottled sauce. I don't want corn syrup on my barbecue.
• I never ate barbecue until I moved to Missouri. In Wisconsin and in upstate New York "to barbecue" meant "to cook on the grill" weenies, bratwurst, and hamburgers.
• I buy a half-pound or pound of pulled pork, sauce it and heat it up a bit, and toss it in green salad.
• I'll settle for barbecued chicken if that's all there is, but it's only good until you peel the skin off. After that it's not barbecue.
• Invite me to a barbecue.
• Don't buy the ready-to-eat pulled pork that's in the supermarket meat case. The meat's tough and fatty.
• I took two really classy Perry-Ellis shoes-made-in-Paris Cafe-Napoli-in-Clayton Ph.D. friends for barbecue, and they loved it, proving everyone can love it.
• Bandana's, once a favorite, has gone downhill.
• I don't, myself, make and serve barbecue, believing it's best left to professionals.
• Re the bumper sticker: radio station KPIG in California plays rock, country, and bluegrass.

I'm Invited

Sassafras trees here, and perhaps it's the soil, don't get very tall and have glove-shaped green leaves. A friend came by, dug up some of the root, and made sassafras tea: It tasted like hot root beer. You're not supposed to drink a lot of it; we just wanted a taste. All parts of the tree are said to be fragrant. Later, outside, I found at my feet, like an invitation through a mail slot, a scarlet sassafras leaf, and it stopped me, and reminded me that summer is everything's birthday party, a gorgeous insanity, and the rest of the year is everyday life. I hope you too get an invitation to the party. If summer has a peak, a summit, a day of wonder, it's July 25.

Woodpecker Family Breakfast

This morning as I sat quietly on the porch with tea and phone, having put out the day's suet and seeds and water, a male Pileated Woodpecker swooped in screeching, and landed on the suet cage to eat his fill. But this time was different; his whole family joined him and I caught it on video, activity starting really to heat up around 0:51 -- and all four communicating not through the Pileated's usual high-decibel jungle screeches, but the throaty burble they use for intimate communication. Few ever get to hear this sound.
The pair's two daughters spar on the tree to the right. Some years the pair who frequent my place winter and summer (but not spring and fall!) have one child, other times they have two. Previous to filming this, I watched the girls hassle Dad to feed them -- they do it with regurgitation, a great thing I've watched -- but now that they are old enough to get their own food, Dad gave them a sharp peck and refused. So they fuss and act up as children do. On the left you'll see Mom as she fends off an intruder, with Dad heroically coming to the rescue. When Pileateds feel threatened they open their wings, looking huge (they're crow-sized) and exposing startling white-bright wing linings. All Pileateds have the bright-red caps. Wish the video was as good as National Geographic, thanks for your patience; but it gives you a peek into Woodpecker World and birdish family life.

Eat Your Heart Out

Berry lust. . .

Go into the Divine meadow, look at the fat blackberries shining like patent leather and multi-chambered, ripe and free of charge, and try not to pick them even though they're on briars that gaily hook and rip your flesh. Berry-picking is one of my greatest pleasures because a pie is inevitable. I now pick wearing long sleeves, long pants, and a glove on the picking hand. I have always liked pies: custard, peach, chess, pecan, cherry, key lime, coconut; also savory pies, and I can't get spiritually close to  people who don't like pie. There's nothing more Midwestern than a homemade wild-blackberry pie which I made this morning -- unless it's serving that pie to a friend.

Where to find blackberry briars? Look in sunny, grassy meadows on the edge of a Missouri woods. National Pie Day aptly falls on my birthday in the winter, and  I look for pie wherever I go (black bottom pie, chocolate cream, banana cream, lemon meringue, orange chiffon, apple, pumpkin) and have made piecrust expertly so many times -- the secret is, DON'T roll it out, merely press it into the pan -- I developed permanent muscle memory. The secret to a great berry pie slice is to avoid cornstarch and use Minute Tapioca instead. You'd never know it was in there, and the slices hold their shape. Also, use a cup more berries than the recipe calls for, and instead of dotting the top with butter, use small bits of coconut oil. My guest wanted to see the berry vines, so we went out and was surprised to see -- after picking them clean yesterday -- so many patent-leather blackberries just begging to be harvested again today.

The Ideal Home

Build it yourself overnight from free, replenishable, all-natural materials.

Can be built at your choice of location.

Open, airy, and lots of light.

Automatically makes you a living, while you stay safe and at leisure.

Makes you the center of the universe.

Entirely non-toxic and always mold-free.

Earthquake-proof. Water-resistant. Can be mended or rebuilt if necessary.

Esthetically pleasing. Harmonizes with the environment. (Frank Lloyd Wright, eat your heart out.)

Hope Emerald, Etc.

I prized two pendants for sentimental reasons -- one emerald, not a crown jewel, cloudy but green enough to remind me of nature, and one handsome oval smoky quartz, in superstitious terms a highly protective stone, market value five dollars. Wore them joyfully. Last January, hid them and forgot where, so for weeks and months I have torn closets apart, dumped out winter boots, stood on stepstools, searched the garage, and clawed from the cupboard boxes of Jello, thinking: "Maybe I put them here. Or here. Or here. . ." Maybe I hid them in the bottom of a trash can and they got thrown away, or in the folds of an old sweatshirt I bagged and tossed. Could I have done that? The thought gave me a pang. I'd looked everywhere. They were gone. To get a hold of myself, I recalled the Roman poet Catullus, who chided, "Cease this folly, and what you see is lost, set down as lost."

Even so, in the final week of June before leaving for Washington I sheepishly googled "patron saint of lost items," and murmured this "unfailing" prayer to St. Anthony to find the pendants -- sweetening the deal with an offer, if I found them, of a $20 donation to the nearest church:

"Blessed be God in His Angels and in His Saints. O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of Saints, your love for God and charity for His creatures made you worthy, when on earth, to possess miraculous powers. Encouraged by this thought, I implore you to obtain for me (request). O gentle and loving St. Anthony, whose heart was ever full of human sympathy, whisper my petition into the ears of the sweet Infant Jesus, who loved to be folded in your arms; and the gratitude of my heart will ever be yours, plus $20. Amen."

Son of a. . . In the pantry just a half-hour ago behind a stack of canned tomatoes I found a ziplock bag with the green pendant. I stepped back and felt my heartbeat in my throat and was so grateful I collapsed onto the futon.

I said, thank you, St. Anthony. It is half of what I wanted, so you get $10. Returning to the same pantry and shelf, I moved some cans aside and there was the quartz pendant.

How to Tell If They're Junk Lilies

LaBarque Creek was once beautifully edged with wild lilies in June and July, and when construction came I dug up some of their corms -- which look like fingers of ginger -- determined to save all I could, unaware they were mere "ditch lilies" or "junk lilies," and planted them around the house and then ignored them. Thirteen summers later it's their yard, not mine.

Because they're so common and called junk lilies I'd assumed they were native, but there are no lilies native to the Americas, or Europe either; they're originally Asian and have spread through gardening. Junk lilies and their corms are so hardy they'll go without water and sun (there's no sun in this corner of my yard) and they multiply like mad -- spreading from underground, because they have no seeds. I'll dig up some corms for you, and you'll never have to plant expensive annuals again. Or water them. Deer won't eat these.

"Genuine" lilies are from a different botanical family, Liliae; those bloom at the very top of their stalks, while Hermocallis fulva (the junk lily) blooms from the sides of main stalk. Junk-lily blossoms last one day, presenting all of us with a unique moment in history and a spiritual lesson. A tiger lily (Lilium columbianum) with its poppy-seed spots is a lovely thing, but lacks the daylily's exuberance. Did I know any of this before I moved out here, near the creek? None of it.

How to Find Women's Shorts

Last year a middle-aged lady seeking summer shorts found in the stores only shorts with 3-inch inseams--or 2-inch, or 1-inch--meant to show a lot of leg. A lot of thigh. This being unacceptable, she inquired of the Old Navy clerk, who said that was the only kind they had. On the way out, Middle-Aged Lady saw the men's shorts and grabbed her size (30) and tried them on. They fit very well (not perfectly; they don't have the same cut) and had 7-inch inseams. She bought khaki and navy blue--furthermore, made with serious pockets, and CHEAPER and BETTER SEWN than the women's, which were flimsy.

This year, Middle-Aged Lady sought summertime sport shorts, Dri-Fits, for hikes, forays, spin class, and days just too plain warm for cotton shorts, and the dozens of styles and brands of colorful women's sport shorts at Dick's Sporting Goods all had 3-inch or 2-inch inseams. The clerk said that was the only kind they had. Guess you're not supposed to be athletic and middle-aged. Lightbulb goes on and Lady locates the men's shorts: Basketball-type with very long inseams; compression shorts; running shorts with male briefs inside (would require that Lady use her sewing skills to remove the brief). She picked up and tried on a weightless, well-vented pair of Dri-Fits from Nike, 7-inch inseam, called the "Freedom" model, made without the inner brief, featuring two front pockets and a zippered key pocket, comfortably wide-legged so on her body they look like culottes (who remembers culottes?!?). She couldn't find the pricetag so she asked a clerk and he found it and said, "Forty-five dollars," and the Lady blanched, but purchased men's size Medium, which accommodated her curves, along with inflation needles for her basketball. At home she put the shorts on and has now taken them off only to sleep. The next morning before spin class she ordered a second pair online, exact same, same price, and hopes they last.

If You Have Good Neighbors. . .

1. This is what you'll get from the neighbor's garden in mid-July: the first fruits, the beautiful overflow. I ate all the little grape tomoatoes that were on the plate before thinking to take the photo! Also, Patrick delivers eggs fresh from his hens. Between these and the pounds of chanterelles (what an astounding crop this year!) in my own woods, and my own hickory tree's nuts from the autumn I hardly have to buy groceries at all.

2. A large pickup truck turning around in my yard accidentally crushed my second Earth box with turnips and arugula in it, so in the remaining box I am growing only basil. The shaken truck driver ("What have I done?!") delivered  to my yard a new planting box, and 40 lbs of bagged planting soil, within the hour.

Back Roads in July

If on the first of July you're not dazzled by wildflowers and a pond

when you walk down your street or open up your back cabin door, pack a picnic and get a move on and head for a Missouri back road. A limited number of July 1sts remain -- grab one while they're still available. Free of charge!

Backyard Music Festival

My neighbor down the road, an artist and a folk-music fan, heard a great singer-songwriter at a musicfest and they worked out a deal: Lodging at her place so he could tour the Midwest and in exchange, he'd do a private lawn concert. And so it was. Greg Klyma, native of Buffalo, NY, currently living in the Boston area, told me Boston has a great folk-music scene (after I expressed my doubts). He played guitar and mandolin during 50-minute sets including Hank Williams' "Hey Good Lookin'" and his own compositions and novelty numbers ("Creepy Dead Bug" and my favorite, "The Kale Store") -- and can he wail, and pick, and entertain! Neighbor's family and friends and my entourage of music lovers totaled about 25 people under canopies, under the stars, in chairs, listening to live music-- surely a first for The Divine Green Acres Estates -- and hearing the chorusing frogs just below the cliff. All was perfect except that Greg, not a Missourian, had to go back home, but not before he was fed Super Smokers barbecue. The balloons tied to the mailbox were to flag the turn; we have no street sign and like it that way. To my puzzlement, GPS and Google Maps have recently renamed our beloved and ratty Highway F "South First Street." South of what? First of what? One night in June it was first in fun. Farewell, month of June 2014. I loved every moment. And hire a singer-songwriter to perform on your patio.

How to Make a Marsha Lunch

Or shall I say a "Wild Marsha Lunch"? In honor of my friend Marsha, a special wild/homegrown lunch today: Self-Crusting Wild Mushroom Quiche and Homegrown Arugula Salad.

1. Find the red ramekin Marsha gave me that I treasure.
2. Fill the ramekin half full of wild chanterelle mushrooms, both yellow and cinnabar-colored types, torn into bite-size, and then sauteed with butter and chopped homegrown onion, and seasoned to taste.
3. Make a batter of self-rising flour (or homemade equivalent), eggs, milk, and Parmesan cheese and pour this over the sauteed mushrooms.
4. Bake for about 25 minutes at 375 degrees. Voila. While it bakes:

1. Clip fresh lovely arugula leaves planted and grown in the Earth Box in front of the cabin.
2. Wash and dry the leaves. Stem them and tear them into bite-size if necessary.
3. Toss with a little olive oil. Squeeze a little lemon juice over. Salt the salad just a tad.

Serves 1. Or 2 if you share it.

Up an 80-Foot Tree: The Canopy Climb

The Canopy Climb event at the Shaw Nature Reserve consisted of myself and two other people (everyone else in the world was too scared) and John the instructor, who'd slingshotted pulley ropes up into a venerable 80-foot White Oak deep in the woods, gave us safety gear, and invited us to hoist ourselves up there.

Uh huh.

Coordinated movement is required. One's right foot is placed in a loop of rope. Push against that, straightening the leg, while hoisting yourself  on a rope with a "magic knot" whose magical element was not explained, but I had faith. Arborists ascend into the forest canopy all the time to study the environment or trim branches; John said that advanced canopy climbers can cozily sleep on branches or swing from tree to tree, provided the proper outfitting.

When the three of us were strung up, John ascended and took our photos; here I am 60 feet above the earth repeating to myself, "Faint heart never won fun." John swung me a bit to see how I'd like it. I said, "Tone it down or I'll probably throw up."

I beat my lifelong fear of heights to do this. After a while I rather enjoyed dangling in the air in a forest. John said this sport was invented in the 1980s and there was something very 1980s about it: aggressive outdoorsmanship. I'd do it again.

First Sign of Summer

As hinted at in the previous post I cook and dine at home but for the first day of summer the ordinary will not do. Today at this annual event, never missed, I enjoyed scoops of peach ice cream and vanilla, and a barbecued-beef sandwich, in that order, and in exchange made a "free will offering" (there's no set charge; all may give a donation of their choice).