Filling In The Blanks

Two years ago I had a small area just outside my kitchen window fenced in.  The white lattice work fencing framed with redwood turned out very well, creating a charming view. But as is often the case in life - or at least in the gardening life - as soon as the fence was finished I realized that the space it enclosed had some major blank spots.

Of course, you might logically ask, had I not noticed this previously?  Actually not.  This area already contained a fifteen feet tall mock orange shrub, a large oleander and two big lilacs, one with white blossoms and the other one with lavender.  Thus, I had four large shrubs in the space, and I had thought that those would suffice as "anchor plants" (I am learning all this gardening vocabulary from my garden books) while I studied which plants to use to fill in the rest of what I was now calling my "kitchen garden."

I must woefully acknowledge that my gardening rhetoric gets ahead of my green-thumb skills.

Many dozens of plantings, and two full growing seasons later, I am still trying to fill in the blank spots.  I've thrown zinnias, candy-tuft, columbine, coreopsis and anything else I could lay my hands on, into the gaping void.  I still see bare spots when I gaze out my large kitchen window.  Phooey!

This is not a picture of my garden - just an ideal to which I wistfully aspire.

God placed man and woman in a garden from the get-go to bless them.  But once disobedience happened, well they left the rest of us struggling with thorns, thistles and blank spots ever since.  What were they thinking?
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Then day before yesterday I came up against an entirely different kind of blank spot.

It was Wednesday, so for me that means I am at the local women's community Bible study, teaching a class.  They are such a good group of women, and I enjoy their company more than I can tell you.

We were sailing through the Jennifer Rothschild study on Walking By Faith:  Lessons Learned in the Dark when suddenly I came upon a ____________ that I had neglected to fill in.  I paused to glance down at it as several class members were participating in a discussion of the previous point.

The room became quiet as they looked at me to begin the next discussion point.  But I was having a senior moment.  So I just said, "I don't quite know why, but I didn't fill in this ... this ... what do you call those?"  

Puzzled looks and more silence.

"You know", I said pointing to the empty line on the page in my workbook, "these lines like this one."

One really feisty little lady with a wonderful sense of humor and a ready laugh responded with a big smile, "Marsha, do you mean blanks?"

"Yes!  Just like I am now." I said laughing.

Then we all laughed... and laughed and laughed.  We guffawed and belly-laughed.  We chortled and chuckled.  We laughed until we cried, and then we mopped our eyes as we settled into those snuffly little hee-hees you just can't help after a good long laugh.

Oh, by the way, did I mention that the lesson title for this week was "Remembering God's Word"?  Seriously, I cannot make this stuff up.

 Not exactly comedy central material, I'll admit.  But oh, the shared sense of "me too - I do that all the time" was soooo refreshing.
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Whether it is filling in the blanks in the garden, or filling in the blanks in a workbook or in our memory banks, God is still the answer to the bare spots in our lives.  He laughs with us not at us, and he weeps with us, too.  

So let's remember (when we can) and just trust (when we cannot remember) that:

Strength is for service, not status. (Romans 15: 2 - The Message)

and even more importantly, 

Remember, you aren't feeding the root; the root is feeding you.
(Romans 11:18 - The Message)
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So whether you are gardening, teaching, or relaxing today, may you rest in His strength and be fed from the Root.  Until next time, Marsha - your grateful gardener

Does Your Life Attract or Scare People ?

Last week was decidedly not a routine one.  And I am one of those who loves a good solid routine.  So comforting, the familiar ebb and flow of daily tasks done with a sense of peaceful appreciation.

A long-time friend of mine once said to me, "Marsha, you and I have lived enough trauma / drama to last us both a lifetime."

She spoke the truth, despite the fact that at the time we were both still in our late thirties.  It had been a tough decade for us both.  She had become a premature widow, I had sustained multiple losses; and we were both more than a little road-weary.

To her observation I responded, "So true.  I am ready for about five straight years of monotony."  We both laughed, but it was rueful laughter.
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I now think we must first travel a little further along what is called the "time / life continuum" before we realize that nearly everyone has a good deal of trauma / drama to deal with.  Some encounter it sooner than others; but it always seems to show up eventually.
                                             
This week I attended the memorial service for a former colleague of mine.  It was not just called a "celebration of life" - it actually was one.  Another friend said to me as we exited the church where it was held, "Now I feel like I have been to church!"  And she said it with a genuine grin.  

The woman whose home-going we celebrated had left her loved ones much too soon; but oh, what a legacy of love, laughter and inspiration she had left with them.  Her life and influence was variously described as "transparent, honest, occasionally stern, always straightforward, laughter-filled" etc.  There were eulogies from at least three different generations, and all seemed equally glad to have known her.

Clearly her life had been one that attracted others to her.
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Sunday I was sitting in a pew singing a hymn with which I was unfamiliar.  It was not my home church, and thus I was paying close attention to the order of the service, the songs being sung, and to the homily as it was delivered.  All were uplifting.  But one song in particular struck a chord with me.

It was called "The Summons" and the lyrics included the question, "Does my life attract or scare?"

As some modern preachers might say, "Now we need to unpack this."  Indeed.  There is so much potential baggage, misunderstanding, and self-recrimination in that question that we could easily become discouraged with our efforts to be a positive example to anyone at all.

That is just when we need to remind ourselves that Christ's example is the only perfect one.  And Jesus did both.  His life attracted the multitudes in some cases - but it also scared the bewillikers (that's a technical theological term) out of many of his listeners.

We can, after all, be attracting people for the wrong reasons; just as we can scare people for the right reasons.  What?

Here is what I am getting at:  if we attract others to our life because we are closely following Christ's example, that is wonderful.  If we are attracting people to us simply because we are clever, or manipulative, that is not good.

If we scare others because we are rigid, self-righteous, know-it-alls, well, common sense tells us we will quickly have very few people in our lives. But if we scare someone off now and then because they are uncomfortable with our efforts to follow Christ as closely as we can - perhaps that is a case of "no good deed goes unpunished."

In such an event I suspect God may be pleased with us.  So I ask myself today, does my life attract or scare?  Hopefully both, for the right reasons, at the right times, and in the right ways.
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How about you?  Are you attracting people to your example or scaring them away?  Perhaps a little of both?  No one said life was simple, or if they did - they clearly didn't know what they were talking about. Just saying ...

Looking forward to a routine week. Until next time, Marsha

Character for the Job - Courage for the Journey

She walked into my office with a bounce in her step and a twinkle in her eyes.  She was smartly dressed and her attitude seemed to transmit the following: I'm ready and I'm up for it.  What have you got for me?                        
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There were a lot of days when I loved my job as a senior HR executive in a tech company.  Places to go, people to see, mountains to move - these were my daily routine.

It was sometimes my privilege to be able to offer a position to someone for whom that chance meant everything. I was often humbled by the responsibility of impacting a complete stranger's life in such a deeply personal way.

There were other times, however, when interviewing candidates was simply a chore.  It had to be done.  

It was on one such day that I first met W.  She interviewed professionally and her preparation showed in the careful but confident answers she gave to the standardized questions.

Thus W. and I hummed along through a smooth interview experience and as we neared the end of it, I realized that I was about to do something I had done only a handful of times in over twenty years:  offer someone a job on-the-spot, before completing the background checks, prior job references, and mandatory drug test.

It was legally risky, professionally ill-advised. W. (an experienced interviewee) recognized all the signs and gently said to me, "May I tell you something personal, before we go any further with our conversation?"

This was highly unusual.  Personal is exactly what you must try to avoid in a job interview.  It is about skills, knowledge and abilities. Personal is hazardous to your job chances.  

"Certainly, you may" I said, "But please keep in mind that I will have to take into consideration anything you choose to tell me."

W. said she understood this and then added, "I feel it is only right to let you know that I have recently had cancer.  I am just finishing my final course of chemotherapy. I am in remission and I can do the job.  I am confident of that.  But I did not feel it would be fair to not let you know of this issue."

I was stunned.  There she sat, calmly putting it all on the line despite the fact that she clearly wanted the job, very much.

After taking a deep breath to recover, I basically told her, "W. , if you have the courage to show up for work, I have the faith to hire you."
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We worked well together for several years.  She did not report directly to me, but her manager did. Still, I made it a point to sometimes sit in on one of her training sessions.  I monitored the employee feedback on her. It was all good.

Last year she called me to discuss her retirement plans.  I have been retired for a few years and she thought she was about two years away from that momentous life change.  She wanted to talk about negotiating the challenges - and she laughed about the travel plans she shared with her husband.  It was a lovely conversation.  We hung up with plans to meet for lunch "one day soon."

Last week I received the news that W. died peacefully at home, having just finished yet another round of treatment for her recurring cancer.  She did not get the retirement she hoped for.  Her travel itinerary changed completely in a moment.

But this one thing I believe; W. is now enjoying the reward she so richly deserved.  And I, and all those with whom she served,  are richer for having been witness to her courage and her character.  
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Until next time, Marshal my hopes on the line in order to maintain my integrity?  How about you?

A Divine Delay ?

A Pearl Maxwell Camellia

I just love it when a bud opens - or better yet several dozen - and out pops a blossom that just about takes my breath away.

Due to the unusually warm weather we have had here in the Northern California foothills this February, lots of things are in bloom about a month early.  Some are even two months early. Daffodils are everywhere you look.  

Camellias that generally do not appear until early April are already in full display.  Azaleas are truly eye-catching.  The black plum trees are already blossomed out and are putting on leaves.

Early enjoyment - what a treat.  Except when it shouldn't be.  Not yet.  Not quite yet.

My wonderful old "Pearl Maxwell" -  is a double-blossomed, pale pink, camellia bush about twelve feet tall.  It is about twenty years old, and it used to be nearly twenty feet tall; but we pruned it back, hard, a couple of years ago.  There is really no point in having blossoms so high only a stray giraffe can see them.

Since it has been hovering around seventy degrees and sunny (and dry, regrettably) old "Pearl" blossomed out in mid-January.  Just sprang forth like a fountain.

And in early February we had a much-needed downpour that lasted three days.  

When the deluge was over, Pearl had not only peaked, but was looking decidedly piqued.  Drippy, dreary, and nearly bare of pink flowers.  She bloomed too early and when the still-winter rain came she got beaten and was left bare.  Phooey!  I just hate when that happens.
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Patience is not my middle name.  I am not known for being blase' about much of anything.  I move, I drive, I go at things.

During these past three years of gardening with a passion, I have learned a lot.  (Not nearly as much as I would like to know ... see paragraph above this one.)

Here are a couple of things I have experienced gardening that are fairly applicable to my spiritual life as well.  Timing is truly everything.  Perennials are not annuals; and bi-annuals and/or what are called tender perennials are not either one.  You can try to force their blooming cyles, but it won't be pretty.

Things pruned hard - which is sometimes necessary - will likely not bloom that season; but look out in year two because you are going to enjoy a bonanza of productivity.

In other words, things do not produce their very best product until the timing is right for them. Not for the variety in the next bed over, nor for the close cousin two rows behind.  

No, they will do their best when they blossom at just their own right time - right for their particular species, variety, or hybrid type.

Sometimes we fret at what we feel are unreasonable delays in the development of our hearts' desires.  We know what we want, and by the way, we want it now.

But just as God has designed the times and seasons for each tree, plant and flower, so has He designed us to blossom at just the right time in each of our lives.  What we perceive as needless delay, He may have ordained as the timing for our very best season yet.

A divine delay will always produce better results than an premature crop of human effort.  Yeesh.  And it took me until now to realize this?  Yes.  Yes, it did.
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Hope you are not feeling drenched or dreary.  But if you are chafing at a delay, I encourage you wait for His timing.  Blessings to each of you - your grateful gardener, Marsha

A Valentine Tool?

It is almost that time again ... time to break out the hearts and flowers, the strolling violins, the Valentines and the chocolate-dipped strawberries.

How, I ask you, can it possibly be nearly Valentine's Day, 2015?  I am fairly sure that I only finished putting away the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers yesterday.  Can't put away the turkey, I'm married to him.

Seriously, well sort of, this is the guy who did BOTH of the following things in the same year.
We were having dinner at a nice little restaurant, one that was a tad over our usual budgeted fare. White linen table cloths , dimly lit candles, a reputation for fine food. I left the table briefly and when I returned there beside my plate in sweet repose lay a single long-stemmed red rose.  Sighhhhhhhh.......

However, on my birthday that year, I desperately needed a pick-me-up, as life was hard on the job, and harder at home.  You know what I mean - you have had that same kind of week, or month, or life.

He knows I love flowers.  Any kind.  All kinds.  Long-stemmed, short-stemmed, single-blossomed, double-blossomed.  Never met a flower I didn't like.  Okay, there was that one overpowering gardenia that just about put me into cardiac arrest, and a couple of stubborn calendulas that insisted on developing black spot every time I turned around.

Still, ninety-nine times out of one hundred, give me a bouquet and I'll give you my heart.

My birthday arrived and my darling husband produced not a nosegay nor a bouquet.  Not a posy nor even one of those paltry little half-wilted flower arrangements you can buy at Safeway for $4.99.  Nope.

With a little flourish of delight in his own thoughtfulness, he proudly placed a STEP STOOL in front of my wondering eyes.  A very sturdy, Stanley, step stool.

A whaaaaat?  You read it right.

Come on, honey.  For pitiful sakes.  I already know that I am short.  Short-sighted, short-limbed, and in that heart-wrenching moment, short-tempered!

But here is the funny thing.  I have no memory at all, none, of what I did with that rose.  I suppose I must have tossed it the next day - either that, or left it on the backseat of the car to wilt.

But that little step stool - I must have used that thing at least three times a day for the next twenty years.  I really did not appreciate his gift at the time, because I could not help but compare what I got with what I had hoped for.                           # # # # #

I have done that with God more than a few times over the years.  He would give me some truly useful tool in my life, something I could get years of mileage out of; and I would spend six months pining for the fragrance of what I had "hoped for" but never received.  Finally I would stumble over the unassuming tool God had given me to use, and guess what?

It was a thing of pragmatic beauty.  A handy-dandy way to get a handle on my faith, or latch onto a fistful of His promises in a fresh new way.  And I had almost missed it.
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We have been married for a little over a quarter of a century now.  This year who knows?  Maybe it will be two-dozen red roses, or maybe it will be a short-handled spade for his gardener/wife.  Either way, I plan to smile and say, "Thank you."

(Lord, please help me to take the same attitude with you, the next time you hand me a pan when I was hoping for a parade.)
Until next time, your grateful gardener, Marsha

Wings and Cherry Blossoms

As a follow up to the previous post on happiness, I ran across this poem the very next day.  It echoes some of the same themes, which I found interesting.  

 Halleluiah ~ 

by Mary Olivar

Everyone should be born into this world happy

   and loving everything.

But in truth it rarely works that way.

For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it.

Halleluiah, anyway I'm not where I started!

And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes

   almost forgetting how wondrous the world is

      and how miraculously kind some people can be?

And have you too decided that probably nothing important is ever   easy?

Not, say, for the first sixty years.

Halleluiah, I'm sixty now, and even a little more,

   and some days I feel I have wings.

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Thank goodness we are not where we started!  Hope you have had a few days lately where you could "feel your wings."  Until next time ~ Marsha

Rollerskating in a Buffalo Herd

You might not have thought that Roger Miller (singer/songwriter from the 1960/70s) and Abraham Lincoln would have had much in common.  I certainly would not have; but we would have been wrong.    

Roger Miller

Although it never became the mega-hit that his "King of the Road" block buster was, Miller's "You Can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd" got a good bit of playtime in my early 20s.

It was not great songwriting, more like a limerick really.  But it was the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated comparisons that stuck with the listener. That and the catchy rhythm.

"You can't change film with a kid on your back..."

"You can't roller skate in a buffalo herd ..."

..."but you can be happy if you've a mind to."

Really?  Who knew?

I was not raised to think that way.  Happiness was something you hoped for, worked very hard to achieve, tried to manufacture, and often just simply pretended to be.

But it was not something over which you really had much control.  It was more along the lines of good luck - either it came your way or it didn't.  (And our bunch did not believe in luck, so you can imagine where that left us.) Maybe you hit the happiness jackpot, but just as likely you were destined to slog through a morass of misery.  

No way to predict how things would turn out.  Even within the confines of the strict religious background in which I grew up, happiness was often more elusive than a miracle.  In fact, maybe there was not a lot of difference.

Thus, when Miller's little ditty came along I was flummoxed.  What to make of it?
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It was quite some years later that I read Lincoln's quote:  


I had long since dismissed Miller's hapless lyrics as creative fantasy; but Lincoln?  Good grief, this guy had gravitas to spare.  He knew whereof he spoke.  

I began to reassess my thinking on the whole happiness issue.
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Perhaps it was not about controlling the outcomes, or even playing the roulette-wheel-of-life ( you pay your money and you take your chances).  Could it actually be more about attitude - outlook - a choice?

Lincoln seemed to think it was. Whew! What a stunner.  

I decided I needed to "make up my mind" in a more positive direction.  Not just "positive thinking" although that can be helpful, it is not a panacea.  And you will notice Lincoln did not say "all" folks, but rather "most folks".  There are those whose lives are simply too grievous to allow for much happiness.

But still "most" certainly tilts the matter in our favor, does it not?  So here is where I landed.  If I have a choice, I choose to be more happy and less miserable.

Admittedly I have not always been able to pull it off, but as the years have rolled by, it has become more of a habit.  Try to find something worthwhile in the current dilemma.  Look for a break in the storm, be ready to take a walk if the rain lets up.  No I am not, nor ever will be, a true Norman Vincent Peale devotee.

Just not my nature.  Silver linings tend to escape my notice with some regularity.  But when I am aware, thoughtful, then I can choose.  And when I do, I choose to make up my mind to be as happy as I can manage- at least as often as possible.  And thankfully, I have not seen a buffalo herd anywhere in my neighborhood.
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How about you?  Do you think happiness can be a choice?  Just wondering.  Until next time ~ Marsha

A Charming Respose

No one can truly appreciate the charm of repose unless he has undergone severe exertion. ~ Dr. David Livingstone - medical missionary and African explorer     

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At this time of year, I sometimes justify my own lassitude by making sure that I read at least one "serious" book from the New York Times Bestsellers List while I am whiling away the summer afternoons.

It has been too hot to cook, too hot to clean house, and due to the drought, I cannot spend much time just standing in a tepid shower trying to avoid heat stroke.  It is so serious in our area, the water company is handing out free five-minute timers for making sure we do not inadvertently enjoy an extra drop or two as we bathe.

Thus, my Kindle is providing distraction and this week I am reading Into Africa:  The Epic Adventures of Stanley and Livingstone by Martin Dugard.

Talk about someone who knew something about severe exertion!  Livingstone literally walked all the way across the African continent at a time when much of it was still completely unmapped.

Okay, that makes my exertions of yesterday morning, digging and transplanting some decorative grasses (drought tolerant and deer resistant), watering, fertilizing, digging some more, etc., look like child's play. I'll admit it.

But you know what?  Although I no longer engage in "severe exertion"; I have known what it was like.  Aching back, aching feet, times when "I hurt all over more than anywhere else" - and no rest in sight. My guess is that we have all been there at one time or another. 

Yes, there is indeed a charm in repose.  An appreciation for a restful moment, perhaps a serene patio scene.  A frosty glass of iced tea, held lightly while swallowtail butterflies flit hither and thither.

That's charming enough to satisfy me. Add to it, the fact that all my hostas from last year came back up this spring, and are doing well now, and my ceanothos bushes are multiplying on their own... what can I say.  My repose just charms me silly.
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Hope your garden grows merrily, and that you are able to enjoy a little charm in your repose this week.  Until next time ~ Marsha

DO NOT - DIY ...I beg you

About seven years ago my husband decided to take care of a small plumbing problem himself.  It was simple.  It didn't cost very much. What could go wrong?
                                                                    
You will be sorry you asked, because for wrenching a $2.38 flex hose on too tightly, we ended up with a flooded downstairs at 2:00 a.m. the next morning because the thing blew off. This resulted in our house being over run by contractors and insurance adjusters for the following two months. A dozen extra-large drying fans running 24/7, dry-wall ripped out,carpet torn up.  Let's just call it what it was:  a blinking nightmare.

Two months and fourteen thousand dollars later - why we were all fixed up.  I wish I could tell you we were sadder but wiser, but I am not going to lie to you.  I was madder, not sadder - and in light of yesterday's goings on, apparently the guy who lives here is still no wiser. And Tool Time Tim, he isn't.

Sighhhh..hh..hh..hh.....  (At least we are now in a one story house.)
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Here is how it all went down.

"That faucet in the hall bathroom is really sticking.  I can barely pull the knob out to wash my hands."  (I have arthritis in both hands and this pull-knob faucet was getting to be a real pain - daily.)

"Yes, I noticed that myself.  I'll take a look at it later."

"But I thought that is why we have a home shield policy, so that all we have to do is call someone and they come fix it."

"True.  But there is still the house call fee.  I think I can fix it."
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Suddenly I am having seven-year flash backs.  I have heard all this before.  I have lived through this before.

Nooooo....ooo...ooooo - 

"I am asking you.  Please lets just call a plumber."

"Now calm down.  This is no big deal.  I can fix this."

Whereupon, I betook myself to the farthest corner on the opposite side of the house, when the above mentioned repairs began.  

"I'm shutting off the water for a little while.  Just so you know."

Things clanging and banging.  

"I'm headed down to Ace Hardware to get a part.  Back in a few."

I do not reply.  I am in deep fear and dread.

Back from the store, small parts jiggling in a paper bag.  More clanging and banging.  Semi-quiet grunts and huffs.  Quick trips outside and back in again.

And suddenly - there it is.

"Marsha, can you come here quick and help me?"

Nope.  At first I just sat there and watched it all happen in slow motion.
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Water gushing everywhere.  Already a half-inch deep in the bathroom floor and heading rapidly into his office and down the hallway.

Common sense requires that I try to minimize the damage to my own domicile.  Towels being thrown hither/thither all over the hardwood floors.  Grab a big one and wrap it around the gushing faucet while the big guy dashes outside to turn the water off - again!  Haul in the shop vac from the garage.

My grandmother had a saying:  "Madder than a wet hen."

Well, this wet hen did not get mad (other than momentarily.)  Instead, I got even.  Once the immediate flooding was stopped, I returned to my chair and read a book.  I'm not proud of myself, but at least I am honest about it.

Someone (who shall remain nameless) sopped, and wrung, and mopped, and wiped ... oh, I really don't know how long that all went on.  I was reading a pretty good book, and the afternoon slipped quietly away. Occasionally I would hear a pitiful remark to the effect, "She really isn't going to come and help."  I guess directed at our dog.

Huge loads of soaking towels going into the washer and dryer sometime later. The under-the-sink cabinet cleaned out, as he proudly announces that he has found the other bottle of hydrogen peroxide we were looking for the other day when we needed to clean a little sore spot on Holly (our old and ailing Lhasa Apso.)

I have a saying of my own.  Sometimes people can be well-intended but entirely misguided.

And some folks should not be allowed to own a tool box.  
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Yes, I finally arose from my chair and fixed us a light dinner.  And yes, we laughed (one of us more painfully than the other) about our own foibles.  But people, I am begging you, forget about Do-It-Yourself.  Call a professional.  Please.

For the love of Pete, spare yourself the aggravation.  Write a check and be done with it.  Or not, and turn it into blog-fodder.
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Hope you have dry floors with no impending dry rot.  A good book helps, too.  Until next time ~ your busy-hiding-the-darned-tool-box friend ~ Marsha

Petunia Power

Flowers always make people better, happier, and more helpful; they are sunshine, food and medicine to the soul and can never be taken in overdoses. ~ Luther Burbank  

I saw on TV the other evening that there will be a new series debuting soon which centers on whether or not people are getting the satisfaction they want in life.  

Well, for today, just color me satisfied.  
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They told me not to do it.  It would not work out.  I was tempting fate.  Yada, yada, yada.  


It seems that petunias are like catnip to deer.  They not only like them, but as the song says, "they love 'em, can't get enough of 'em" .  They just slurp them up as if they were enjoying a good glass of iced tea on a hot summer day.

So our first two summers here I fore bore. And I am not usually strong in the forbearance category.  Not my favorite virtue.

This spring I just could not stand it any longer.  I went to the plant store and promptly went nuts.  They had just unloaded a whole truck load of petunias and I was immediately weak-kneed with desire and hauled home a trunk full of these lovlies.

After all, I had a new twenty-foot long redwood planter box just begging to be filled with all manner of beauty.  Seven dozen plants, two or three hours, and one back ache later, I had a petunia vista right off the back edge of my patio.  It was a veritable feast for the eyes and I pigged out!

Purple, pink, white, red, mauve, and crimson each vied for best-in-show.  Talk about a bunch of show-offs!  I grabbed my own glass of iced tea and just sat down and grinned.

True, I put them in the ground with fear and trembling, knowing full well that they might very well be gone when I got up the next morning.  I had, after all, been warned.  I would have no one to blame but myself if the local deer population strolled through and decided to throw a petunia-party.

Come on over - petunias at the Youngs!
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But guess what?  It didn't happen.  Week after week, they bloomed undisturbed and much admired.  One neighbor said to me, "I wish I had before and after pictures of your back yard."

David immediately responded, "Oh, we do."  I just smiled.

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Yesterday morning, two full months after I planted them, I opened the drapes to discovered seven dozen stems - but no petunia blossoms.  It was inevitable.  Had to happen.  Could not be avoided indefinitely.  The deer had dined.

This afternoon, I pruned, deadheaded, pinched and primped to my heart's content.  I misted them (petunia petals are delicate - at least the remaining ones were - both of them) and then gave them a good long drink of liquid fertilizer mixed in lots of cold water.  Finally, I sprayed them liberally with an organic pesticide. 

They look well-scrubbed and sturdy.  Naked but healthy.  Well, who wouldn't settle for that?

Just before dusk, I gave them a good spraying with deer-repellant; just like putting flea and tick drops on Holly.

So I rested from my labors.  Satisfaction may be fleeting.  Perhaps even illusory.  But I will take mine where I can get it, and today, I got it from rehabbing my petunia bed. I could try to draw some spiritual analogy, about people and circumstances and life's disappointments.  But really, this was just about the flowers.

It is true that right now I have almost no petunia blossoms.  Lots of plants, but very few flowers.  But I remember their glory.  And I have hope for their recovery.  Petunia power is a wonderful thing.
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Hope your blossoms are coming along nicely, and that the local marauders missed your garden.  Until next time ~ your satisfied gardener, Marsha