MARCH - Named for the Roman God of War

Paddy caps (hats) off to the Irish! March is a windy, sometimes chilly, but joyous month when everyone becomes Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. In the northern states, it’s also the month which can come roaring in like a lion with cold blustery weather and go out with warmth and the softness of a lamb or—vice versa.

Everyone looks forward to March 20^th, when spring is supposed to march in and put an end to winter weather. Daffodils, the flower of March, rear their sleepy heads and poke through the cold ground, bringing the color of sunshine back to the drab flowerbeds.

Rain and mud are part of spring. If we’re fortunate, we might well see the return of early migrating birds. Birds that nest in the Northern Hemisphere tend to migrate in spring to take advantage of burgeoning insect populations, budding plants, and an abundance of nesting locations. I love to step outside, search the sky, and listen when I hear the first flocks of geese winging their way toward Canada.

For me, it’s also a bittersweet month. My mother passed away in the month of March. Ironically, her birthday was on St. Patrick’s Day. For someone of Polish ancestry, she was always a good sport and laughed and loved the cakes, iced in green with shamrocks, we made to celebrate her special day.

Most of all, for those of us who like to garden, who like to watch things grow, it’s an exciting month as we start planning the flowers, vegetables, herbs, and other greenery we’d like to plant for the coming spring, summer, and fall ahead. Last year, we had a bucket garden filled with a variety of spices. This year, my husband has found a “vertical squash” plant we want to grow. But that’s a story for another day.

Hats off to all… and to the month of March named for the Roman god of war, Mars.  May it be a prosperous and pleasing one for all.

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HERE COMES AUGUST!

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, 

and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time. 

                                                                                                     ~Sylvia Plath 

 

Here she come comes…August and her last days of summer. I don’t know how those days flew by so fast. My husband saw some sumac changing to red on one of his many jaunts around the area. For many, myself included, it’s one of the harbinger of fall.

 

And who doesn’t think summer is sliding to an end when our local Clearfield County Fair gets underway? If you are anywhere in the vicinity of the fairgrounds during fair week, you can smell its presence. The sweet smell of cotton candy and waffles dunked in sugar wafts in the air with the flavored smoke of hamburgers, hotdogs, beef, and hot sausage cooking on burners under the concession stands. Anyone who owns land near the fairgrounds have lawns and driveways that look like parking lots. Children gather in groups to lose their money on games of chance or to ride any fast moving mechanical apparatus that swings its riders high into the air and twirls them around and around.                                                                                                             

Speaking of lawns in Central Pennsylvania, they are morphing into shades of light brown—which means less mowing, less gasoline consumed, and less work. Scott is not heartbroken over this occurrence, even though he agrees a thunder storm once in a while is a welcome relief from the heat we’ve been having. 

 

August is the month of reaping what we sow. Tomato plants, scattered around in my flowerbeds, are dressed in bunches of still green tomatoes. But if you’re lucky, you can find a handful of small red cherry ones to whet your appetite or to use for a treat on your salad. Why do the flavor of fresh juicy tomatoes from the garden taste better than any you can buy at a store?

This year, we tried a bucket garden again, concentrating on spices. We now have parsley, lemon thyme, rosemary, sage, mint, along with two buckets of marigolds and a bucket of lettuce. I also have chives in a bed and a container of basil on our patio. What get used the most? Ironically, it’s the chives that come up each year without fuss or coaxing. 

 

For some odd reason, instead of writing, my wandering mind and body heads off to do other chores that need my attention. I think it’s called procrastination. It’s one of my many talents. Do you have an activity or special summer chore you put off despite the nagging of a little voice inside your head? 

 

I’m always curious to hear how others enjoy the end of the summer season. Drop me a line in the comment section below. And, let’s enjoy August as summertime in all her sunny glory abdicates and autumn splendor ascends the throne next. 

 

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BON APPETITE - Zucchini Bread

It's that time of year when zucchini squash multiple faster than any vegetable known to man. Get ready to bake those loaves and freeze for winter. This is an old recipe my mother gave me.

ZUCCHINI BREAD

3 cups grated squash (peel and all)

1 cup oil

3 cups sugar

3 tsp. vanilla

3 tsp. cinnamon

3 eggs

3 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

½ tsp baking powder

½ cup chopped nuts

Heat oven to 350 degrees.

Beat eggs until light and fluffy and add to grated squash. Add the oil, sugar, vanilla and cinnamon. Then mix in the flour, soda, salt, baking powder and nuts. Mix well and bake in two greased loaf pans for one hour.

JUNE - The Month of Roses

Although the rose has always been my favorite flower, it is also the flower of June, my birth month. Growing up on a farm in northeastern Pennsylvania, I cherished the intoxicating fragrance of the antique rose bushes growing around the stonewall foundations of old razed houses on our property where early settlers lived, but later moved westward for reasons unknown. Every June, like a birthday present from the earth and heaven above, it was a delight to see the many bushes, growing wild, bursting into riotous pink blossoms, and spreading over an entire knoll of our pasture.

Old roses, also called “old-fashioned roses,” “heirloom roses,” “antique roses” and “old garden roses” are those plants introduced in America prior to 1867. Although there are hundreds of old rose varieties, they are best known for their hardiness and fragrance.

The oldest rose planted today was in existence some 2,000 years before the birth of Christ. It migrated from Persia (Iran) through Turkey to France and finally into England Later, clippings of these old garden roses were often hand-carried to America by early immigrants from Europe.

In my novel, Four White Roses, I chose to have the heroine try to save the last white Austrian rose that the hero’s great-grandmother brought with her stateside just prior to World War I.

Sometimes writers don’t know where they get ideas for writing a novel. Sometimes thoughts and ideas just pop into our heads. To be honest, only when I started writing Four White Roses did mental sparks erupt—and I was able to draw an eerie connection to my own life. I have actually saved the last old roses bushes planted on my family farm and dating back to the 1800s.

Luckily, I took cuttings after my husband and I were married. With the passing of my parents, the rose bushes eventually died out, probably succumbing to harsh winters, the elements and wildlife, and lack of nourishment and care. Now, more than ever, I find it humbling when I realize I possess the very same roses planted by the hands of our first settlers. And, the lineage is still alive for over a hundred and fifty years.

Ralph Waldo Emerson best reflects my feelings about these beautiful flowers with those prickly thorns:
 “There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence.”

BLURB:
 When widower Rich Redman returns to Pennsylvania with his young daughter to sell his deceased grandmother’s house, he discovers Grandmother Gertie’s final request was for him to find a missing relative and a stash of WWI jewels.
 
Torrie Larson, single mom, is trying to make her landscape center and flower arranging business succeed while attempting to save the lineage of a rare white rose brought from Austria in the 1900s.

 Together, the rich Texas lawyer and poor landscape owner team up to rescue the last rose and fulfill a dead woman’s wishes. But in their search to discover answers to the mysteries plaguing them, will Rich and Torrie also discover love in each other’s arms? Or will a meddling ghost, a pompous banker, and an elusive stray cat get in their way?