Separate The Corms From The Mothers, Toss The Mothers

Or we could call this Iris For Dummies. That's certainly how I feel right now and I've raised them for decades. 

Perhaps I need to start over. "Raised" sounds a lot more active than I've been. Sure, I've had them in various gardens, but in they went, and ignored they got. Whatever survived, survived. Over the years some died out. Others cross bred and new color blends arose, particularly among the varieties which grew seed pods each year, mostly ignored except by the chipmunks and possibly a few birds. Maybe mice.

But there's a new garden waiting for plants, and the budget has been stretched more than enough, so with my son's permission, since he owns the house now, it was transplanting time. Mistakes had been made in the initial planting, most of which involved rocks, while the remainder of which mostly involved trees, a whole different story. 

One rock in particular stood out - in fact still stands out in the yard. It's a huge boulder, granite with wide streaks of feldspar, unearthed during the construction of the city's new Public Works Building some years back. It was one of several set way out next to the street awaiting a destination, while the concrete pad was poured. It needed heavy equipment to move it, but it sure would look nice along a corner of the yard as an accent piece, as well as a resting spot when one had worked hard enough for a while and wanted to sit and enjoy the yard. Actually the working part is not a requirement. It is big enough to hold three people, if they're not feuding. I asked the city clerk had anybody spoken for the rock yet? Was there a plan for getting rid of it or being used in landscaping for the building? The answer was the rock appearing in the yard the next day a couple feet from the driveway and just a bit farther from the street. It wasn't the corner I had in mind, but who was I to argue? No chance I'd move it myself! It had been accompanied by three other large rocks, which were movable by the right combination of wheels and muscles. I guess I solved all the rock problems for them at once!

Rock above, close up of feldspar details below.

I decorated the side of the rock nearest the house with pale blue bearded iris. They've thrived there, sort of. So has the grass, baby trees from all kinds of stray seeds, dandelions, violets, Virginia creeper vines, and whatever other opportunistic flora came along. The iris at least kept producing blooms, even if only one stem a year, like this one below, shot after a rain last spring. The area couldn't be mowed, or weed-wacked, or sprayed. They needed a new home and I had just the one to offer.  Offer accepted. After a couple big back-to-back rain storms, it was time to dig. September is right around the corner.

 A friend who loves gardening and gratefully accepted a few corms from me the previous week from a different blue iris, reminded me then that the basic rule for iris transplanting is to remove the corm from the mother and toss the mother. So: definitions needed, as it's not as heartless as it sounds. The corm is the lumpy part with leaves on it that will bloom next year. It is still attached when first dug up to a skinnier lumpy part, the mother, which bloomed previously and shrunk back, just life enough remaining to make one or more new corms for the next year. When blooming isn't happening, a new home is needed.

These had been neglected for a couple decades, were seriously overcrowded themselves, and totally infested with grass and other weeds. The original heavy tan clay they'd been planted into was now rich black loam full of roots. In addition to iris roots and grass roots, the birch trees along the drive had added their roots to the mix. Several baby cherry trees in the mix had grown a foot tall already. Digging was "fun". "Interesting". One big! damn! challenge!

Lucky for me my son had gotten Friday off as an extra long Labor Day weekend. After struggling to get the first clump up and out, I went and rang his bell to see if he was interested in helping. We had talked about doing the job over the 3-day weekend, but the soil was wet and soft right now, so here I was. Now he didn't have to interrupt the rest of his holiday if he was willing to help with the shovel.

He was. I returned home with two pans full of clods of dirt full of a bazillion different roots around corms on mothers. Plus a ton of expressed gratitude. And he can now mow and/or weed-eat around the big rock.

Next stop was my sink. After about an hour, dirt was one pile in a pan including miscellaneous roots and angleworms demonstrating their expertise as escape artists, a dishpan next to it was full of corms, hopefully plucked free of grass roots,  and the corms cut back to 3" green leaf tops were soaking while I grabbed a break for myself. I have found that once all the dirt is gone, which the soaking helps achieve, the iris roots are tan, about a 1/16 inch thick while the grass roots are very thready, black, and tangled. In a while the plantable bits were bagged and put in the fridge, and the dirt with miscellaneous roots was spread over the lawn. It doesn't need to come anywhere within a yard of the garden. That already grows weeds just fine.The mothers and some clumps of roots are in the garbage bag under the sink and can sit there for a week until the bag is full and the garbage can is again empty. They won't stink at least.

 Over the weekend the spot for the bearded iris will be filled with currently bagged black dirt and iris corms, with spaces left for other colors of iris yet to arrive in the mail. It will be a hell of a job, but the weather is supposed to be perfect for it, and I can take a break until the next huge job comes along. Say, planting the ordered lilies, or spring bulbs, or....

I'm hoping for at least another week to recover afterwards, that plus a lot of ibuprofin. My shoulders are still trying to get my attention for a break. November sounds good for that, don't you think?

That Tornado Wasn't Even Close!

We were expecting another line of storms last night, and canceled plans accordingly. Just like the last storm on the 26th, the sirens went off, twice. And just like then, we simply stayed inside. After all, it's the easiest place to watch the radar weather image on a laptop, disconnected from a power cord because we don't fully trust surge protectors, and with a picture large enough to be clear.

So of course, it "broke". Not the laptop, the radar image.

It had been a fast moving vertical bar of red on the screen, and then just sat, about 10 miles away, just on the other side of the freeway. That's when Steve's eldest son called about the tornado. The front wave of wind, rain, and lightning had hit us while the radar image still sat unmoving on the screen. It was time to turn on the TV to the local news, even though it was plugged in. (They are much cheaper to replace if necessary.)

Weather was all the news. The metro's storm was clearing on the west side, as it was a very narrow east-west band, even though vertically it covered most of the state. Across the bottom of the screen was the endless scroll of counties where people still needed to take shelter, and above that a bigger bar for the counties getting the tornado warning. Not watch, warning. We were included.

Oh yeah, their radar showed us in the heart of the weather, just like our windows did. My laptop, not so much. Still a frozen radar image. But we weren't getting the hail the newscaster was warning about, the wind hadn't been as strong, and the tornado warning, while still including our county in it on the screen, was being explained by the announcer as "radar indicated", backing down from "spotted by law enforcement", and had been from the county to the west of the northern tip of our county, and moving to the northeast from there. (We're in the southern part, so never in danger.) Just in case, they diagrammed where it might be in the next 5 minutes, 10 minutes, and on into Wisconsin, if it should ramp up again.

My laptop radar image still just sat, so some part of the system got taken out by the storm's leading edge. Our rain level backed down but continued to fall for about an hour. By then it was dark, I was tired, and bedtime loomed. Tomorrow (now today) we'd be out and about to see what damage may have occurred, though the previous storm days earlier had done very little here that we could see, aside from bringing a single tree down  just outside our park.

It had been stronger than this one, though with no rotation claimed anywhere, but winds had been clocked at 80 mph in the metro, and two days of news had been showing downed trees and reporting the slow progress of restoring power in the area. The only "damage" from it in our yard was the nuisance value of it having restored life to all the little uprooted weeds in the round raised flower garden after they'd sat, roots in the air, for several days. Guess this time I'll have to actually remove them!

Dang!

One Rose and Two Maples Down....

I think break time should last a bit over a week after that! 

There are reasons. Good ones.We could start with exhaustion... mine of course. I think it was a two hour project. I could have continued to put it off, but the longer it took to start, the more the job bugged me. I'm talking absolutely CRANKY!

It's not that some pruning hasn't been going on already. There was the bit just after we moved in when the rose and the hydrangea tried to take over the sidewalk. The pruning was ugly and not terribly successful. For sure it wasn't lasting. So another pruning followed, plus deadheading the rose hips that were forming, which only encouraged more flowering. That's how it works.

I suppose about this time into the tale I need to start defending my actions. Those two roses bushes were planted with love by the previous owners of this home. I get that. But they're dead. (Sorry if that's too blunt.) So they don't care any more. I never took a liking to these two bushes. First, they're yellow, so-o-o not my color. Second I can't smell them. It's me, not them, I'm told by a daughter whose nose hasn't been made useless by covid. But each blossom is pretty (enough) for a day, then turns very pale and drops petals. They seem healthy enough, though so much dead wood was left unpruned and unremoved it's hard to tell for sure. But their death sentences were issued because they are just totally a pest. The thorns on these are the worst I've encountered since leaving Arizona, reminding me of a foothills palo verde we'd nicknamed "the thorn tree". But these are hard, sharp, and recurved, so once they dig in they DIG IN! I'm used to roses with more thorns, meaning they are thinner, more fuzzy than lethal, and don't interfere with all other activity in the area.

I can understand why the hydrangea was left to grow so wild. It simply couldn't be approached. For the same reason, the maple trees were ignored while growing up inside both bushes, and any winds meant the hydrangea came knocking at the window screens. I did manage to force myself behind it once to do some pruning after the first big storm, but only part way, leaving that job unfinished and waiting for fall and heavy frosts. Ironically that job will allow air access to the AC, long after we need it. But more maple trees will have to get removed before they have a chance to grow taller than the hydrangea next summer... we hope.

I'll also be able at long last to find out whether the bleeding heart which got smothered under the mess survived.  I know they die back mid summer, so I'll have to hunt around among other short weeds which have thrived in that particular habitat. We'll have access to the bird houses and their post, so a decision can be made about their future. Paint? Replace? Remove?

There had been several close calls but my gloves managed to prevent any actual blood loss, though they did not prevent mild stabbing. When I say mild, don't even try to confuse it with painless. I did manage to draw the line at actual impalement. I also kept my clothing mostly intact, though I confess to not bothering with a close inspection. Perhaps tomorrow. If there are major snags in my knit top, it'll simply be cleaned and tucked into my "winter pajama" drawer, where imperfections won't bother anybody, and the long sleeves will be a bonus. It's a very comfortable top, so no point wasting it.

Did you think I was done after the rose branches were cut down? There was cleanup required. The sidewalk was totally blocked with those nasty branches, themselves branching out in all directions over the grass as well. I'd made a serious pile, in more ways than one. So my loppers had to be employed once again in cutting them into much smaller segments so that they fit more or less into our huge garbage can. (Maybe 60 gallon capacity?) Luckily it was emptied that morning. Not so luckily there is a holiday coming up delaying the next pickup. Garbage will back up. There is enough room left between branches and lid once it's fully closed for about four bags of trash to get packed in. In this house, that means the bags that local stores pack your groceries into, like maybe holding 4 cans of baked beans, or two loaves of unsquashed bread, at least up to the point where they are optimistically piled into your shopping card with hopes of them not being under the beans somewhere along the way home. Anyway, since we can't recycle those plastic bags, we use them in wastebaskets as liners, then tie the handles together before they go outside. Why buy bigger bags when you can just squish the trash?

At any rate, cleanup took almost as much time and effort as the cutting down did. The reason it didn't take more was because the really thick bottom stuff only needed to be cut through one time, and that had been done. It took both hands and feet to accomplish that, since my arms are pretty wimpy, but I could use my feet to pin the bottom arm of the loppers in place on the  ground for cutting the thickest part of the plant off the main trunk while using both arms together with my weight behind them to force the top arm down to the ground, thus forcing the cut. 

Amazing how much rotting rose wood can sit there just off the ground without rotting the thorns into harmlessness. In hopes of never having to repeat this job, never ever ever, I painted brush killer on the end of any green stump still connected to the ground. Now that I can see the stump remaining I can keep an eye out for signs of new life and nip them in the bud. I'm not going to bother digging up the roots, and have neither saw nor the ambition to cut the stump back to the ground. At least not until it proves necessary.

I thought about leaving the cleanup part of the job go, but knew it would just mean I'd trip into it at oh-dark-thirty when I headed out to the car for my new job. I'd been stabbed enough, thank you, and only while wearing older clothing. Plus I do tend to occasionally pop out barefoot. No way I wanted to give the rose a chance at revenge on my good wardrobe or skin the next day. So cut. Stack. Toss. Tamp down in the can with an end of the loppers. No need to risk me again. Repeat and repeat and.... finally head into the house for a broom and dustpan for a final cleanup. The people in this park being as fussy as they are, I was far from done yet. Tools had to be put back in the shed. The garbage can had to go back on the side of the shed to spend the next week plus. My chair needed to be folded, returned to the shed, and shed door locked. The broom and dust pan came back in the house with my last dregs of energy, so after collapsing in my chair I asked Steve to please put them away and  bring me some ice water. I did manage to stroll past a pair of granola bars before sitting down, and grabbed a blanket to snuggle under, because suddenly after all that exertion I had nothing left in terms of warming myself up. We didn't even have a house fan on with it being a lovely cool day, but I was near shivering.

Once the garbage pan is emptied next week, it will be time for the other nasty rose bush out front, and the maple tree (trees?) growing up out of that patch of foliage, long ignored for the same reason. After this I cannot guarantee there will only be one maple. Nor do I care to try to check at the moment.

September is soon enough.

Do You Suppose God Got Mad?

I mentioned in an earlier post ("Oxymoron") about a neighbor's sign supposedly for both Jesus and Trump. Hence the title of the post. 

Last night a wild thunderstorm went through. Over in our yard some bushes with previous storm damage accumulated a bit more damage. Pruning will be necessary, but no big hurry. They were overgrown and need severe fall cutting back for next year. Perhaps this weekend will do. Or at least waiting till the trash bins are emptied. Across the street, however, the offending sign has disappeared. I've looked out our windows and find no sign of it - no pun intended. Another storm went through this morning, which both radar and the local news confirm, along with Steve's report from being awake at the time, as I slept through it. This morning as I opened the blinds, still no sign was there.

So, I've been busy with morning routines for a while, and just sat down to write a thought which has been entertaining me for a bit. It requires the temporary suspension of disbelief for all who:

    1: do not believe in God

    2: Do not believe in Jesus as the son of God, nor care

    3: find no conflict with the thought of Jesus as their savior while following Trump as a modern religious icon

    4: Do not believe God works small practical wonders today.

Do you suppose God got mad at the blasphemy of the sign and actually got angry enough to make a point about it? Can you just imagine the holy wrath at the besmirching of his only begotten son's name and reputation by anything resembling equating following one with following the other?

I admit to finding the concept entertaining, enough to post about it. It's nearly afternoon, and while the rain has cleared, clouds still cover the sky, and it's still too wet to head out to prune back broken branches, haul dirt to fill holes without becoming totally muddy and tracking it back into the house, and with no sign of the mail truck there's no need to head outside at all yet. 

The lot next door has rebar in the bottom of the spot they worked on so hard yesterday in the high heat and humidity until finding a logical quitting point before somebody became ill. Some of the puddles there have drained out from under the 2-by-12s holding everything in place waiting for a concrete pour, and each time somebody swings by to check on status, I take note and notice what else is happening. Mail delivery? Not yet, though UPS and Amazon drove by. Neighbors out walking? Occasionally. Garbage bins and recycling to the curb? Still too early. Give it a couple more hours, since the early birds seem to be waiting.

Across the street? The offending sign has reappeared. So much for fantasy, right? I can only presume the neighbors went out when the sirens sounded, either the first or second time last night, both before the weather arrived, and rescued their sign from...  (the wrath of...) ...whatever was to come.

But hey, ain't imagination fun?

Another Day, Another Scammer

This time was short and sweet. I noted it said "Nuisance call" rather than "scam likely" under the incoming number. I'm almost curious what that's about.

"Hello?"

"Is this Heather?"

"Yes."

"This is Anderson, with United Screening." (I caught the alleged names this time! Wheeee!)

"What do you want?" (I wasn't using my friendly voice.)

"Well, I..." click.

I predict "Anderson" does not have a long career working for "United Screening". 

Maybe he'll be happier at Mickey D's. The kids are heading back to school soon. They're likely hiring. I bet the fryer fat is an improvement over the taste of dishonesty in your mouth.

Did I Say Two Scamers? Make that Three.

The kitchen was clean, dishes drying in the rack, the mystery of a missing blue tumbler yet to be solved. My new batch of special blend of instant coffee & cocoa was mixed and in its jar with its spoon, ready for a couple more months of morning wake-ups. I'd sat down with a new-to-me Hillerman book, reading, while Steve took an afternoon nap. The phone rang.

I noted the 218 area code, so allegedly northern Minnesota. I have family there so I recognize it, but it's none of them or their names would have popped up. I also get a lot of calls from some group claiming they're raising funds for policemen. Research says they pay themselves a huge majority of what they collect. So I'm wary.

"Hello?"

"Is this Heeether?"

I could have said no right then with such a bad pronunciation of my name. Instead...

"What do you want?"

"Hello, Heeether, this is ______ with (medical sounding name). I'm calling to tell you you have been approved by Medicare to have your genetic testing..."

Click.

Did I mention my parents both lived quite long lives, that Mom wasn't at all shy about sharing medical information, and I know pretty much what kind of messes I inherited?

The book is a really good one.

More Wannabe Medical Scammers

Within 24 hours, two of them called me. I haven't compared phone numbers, but the area codes matched mine. I guess they thought I'd think they were legit, right?

The first was a man, first name only (now totally forgotten, likely fake anyway), and was offering to discuss the "results" of my neurological exam with me so we could decide on next steps.

Maybe DJT needs one, but I don't. Further I've never had one. But I live in a seniors community - they can check these things before they ask your name and you confirm that is indeed you - so I must need one, have had one, or be worrying about why old age is playing games with me, right?

WRONG! 

I was tempted to string the fellow along for a bit. But I just wasn't up to it right then. AGT was on the TV and we both were watching. Plus I know I'd never had one, wasn't worried about one, and had no interest in cheating either myself or Medicare for any costs associated with one. So I sent him on his way, fairly politely.

Afterwords of course I fantasized ways to string him along, pretending to be frantically worried about my alleged results (since I couldn't remember getting such a test, it must obviously mean I have a serious problem, right?) and seeing how far he was willing to go in order the catch this particular fish. Truly, though, AGT was more interesting. Well, parts of it anyway. This one act however....

The next afternoon I got a call, from a woman this time, inquiring whether I was on Medicare. Yes, I am, but it's a bit early yet for the insurance of sub-par "Advantage" plans, or even Supplement plans, to be trying to snag new customers with honeyed words. Give that another couple months. The mail box will be flooded. But the question itself put me on my guard. People who need to know already do know.

Her spiel I've heard before, many times. "I'm _____ with ____________ Medical Services.  (It changes slightly each time.) Our records show you have __________ and __________ pain, is that right?" One of them is always back pain, since so many people have it. I have spent hours over the years in combined  various calls demanding to know where they got my medical records, which (alleged) doctor sent them over, why hadn't my doc let me know about the alleged referral, and so forth. All they ever know is that they have "my records". They're supposedly right there in front of them. Can I just confirm the locations of my pain for them?

Of course not!

This time, so soon after the other scam call, I had no patience at all. I apologize to the rest of the world for my nasty language to her, since I was trained better, but seriously, Mom never had to deal with these crooks. 

"You're full of shit, don't call me again, good-bye!"

In hindsight, I'm kinda amazed I bothered with the "Good-bye"! I guess some of Mom's training actually rubbed off! Hmmmm.....