Overcoming Clay

A Growing Challenge Update

One of the biggest garden discoveries I have made since moving to the farmhouse* is that the plot of heaven I have purchased stands on 10,000 square feet of SOLID clay. I am saying that if I wanted to start a career as a potter I would never need to purchase any clay. Indeed, it is sticky and thick and heavy as a Victorian widow's veil. You were hoping (if you're a gardener) that I was going to tell you that there is some magic way to transform clay into...not clay.

There is no such thing as overcoming clay. So I lied to you. And I'm mildly sorry for it. Except that I'm not. There are blessings inherent in clay earth. Aside from the fact that none of us would have such fine dishes without it it retains moisture and it is loaded with nutrients. Drainage is really the biggest problem with clay soil.

Believe it or not, lots of things can grow well in clay soil. If this wasn't true the Pacific Northwest would be a wasteland of cracked packed empty dirt. Instead it is a lush landscape in which, among other things, roses flourish. There are only two things that you can do to improve the performance of clay soil:

• Amend it lavishly with organic compost every year. EVERY YEAR. It will take years, but your clay's texture and drainage will begin to improve immediately and continue to improve as time goes on. Organic matter breaks down fairly quickly which is why adding a ton of it just once won't get long term results. For long term results you need long term practices.

• The other thing you can do to help plants grow well in clay is to add calcium to the soil (every year if you live in a wet climate) because clay is often slightly (or incredibly) acidic. In wet climates you will lose calcium every year because it is a water soluble mineral. In some situations it may be wise to get your soil tested to find out just how much calcium to add.

It is clear that this garden is going to involve the use of mostly raised beds. Which I love anyway and was planning on using. What I thought I would be able to do is move in and plant a few things directly before having to build beds. Since this is not going to happen (except for the roses I planted after a backbreaking session of removing quadruple layers of "weed cloth"** and mixing the mulch in with the virgin clay) I cannot plant any of my seeds for the growing challenge yet.

So I planted up a very pretty (and very small) glazed pot that my mom gave me with spinach. I will show that when sprouts have appeared. It felt like quite a triumph to finally participate in the challenge. Like all gardeners here in the Pacific Northwest I have been completely crazy to get into the dirt but the weather has prevented me. This week there is supposed to be more rain but I will be building my raised beds anyway. Once I have those filled with the kind of soil and compost that doesn't compact just from looking at it cross-eyed I can garden in the rain all I want.

Our move is complete now. Philip and our friend Jim got everything from the old house over here. My feeling is...we have too much crap. Other people should have more crap than us (this is an arbitrary opinion based on nothing in particular but a desire to be able to smugly say that others have a lot more than we do.) I have to admit that part of why we have so much is because we are still hauling around the inventory from our defunct retail business. So it's not exactly like we have been hoarding crap because we want to or anything.

In fact, we all know how hard I worked to sell off all my inventory. I'm not going to use that term I used to use to describe myself and my relationship with money. I've decided to embark on a new relationship with money in which it comes to me like a dog when I whistle.

I managed to get to the Hillsdale farmer's market with my friend Nicole yesterday and got some fabulous produce. I really wanted to buy some ricotta but as I mentioned before, they are charging a ransom for it and so I'll just have to learn to make it myself. I got tons of cilantro (HEAVEN!!!), lots of dark leafy greens, three small heads of cauliflower, one tiny bunch of asparagus, and best of all....six tiny heads of tender Romain lettuce!

For dinner last night I made a cilantro pesto with home made fettuccine, canned corn (brought as a gift from our friends), home canned diced tomatoes, black beans, and Parmesan. It was wonderful! Oh, and roasted potatoes. I have missed fresh cilantro and wanted to put some seeds of it in one of my small pots but discovered this weekend that I haven't got any cilantro seeds.

We have had a full week-end. There were some sketchy bits like when the toilet overflowed (always a favorite moment) and we had to call a plumber to unclog it which Philip had to help with. It turned out that there were leaves helping to clog the line which must have accumulated quite a while ago since there are no trees on our lot at present. The line wasn't old though which is great news. There was some challenge hooking up the washer and dryer as well and it's very important that it was finally successfully hooked up since I am officially on my last pair of clean underwear today. I would rather go commando than wear dirty underwear.

I almost just made forty comments about the unsavory sight of large butts without the genteel confinement of undergarments but decided that perhaps that might finally truly gross the world out beyond recall.

My studio is now absolutely completely packed to the brim with stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. I'm going to have to face it soon since I'm hoping to get a little sewing done before my trip. The carpet in their is a pretty pink and grey Victorian style fancy number and I was considering painting the walls either a spring green or a dove grey. Nicole votes for dove grey. I have been wanting to do a grey wall for a long time but have been a little afraid. My writing/sewing room is going to be my personal sanctuary from which boys will be largely excluded, unless it is to come in and admire how feminine and awesome I am. I loved my orange studio but I am ready to do a really girly room. Dove grey is a color that is supposed to look great on me and so I would look good in it, in theory. Since my ego has been stupidly fragile lately, that's not a bad plan.

We are off to Lowe's now for fencing materials to keep the dog from terrorizing the neighbors and wood for raised beds! Ha! Wonderful! And I will get more paint chips too.

*Secretly called "Thistlewilde" by me and M.S.S. at Zanthan Gardens.

**Four layers of non permeable heavy duty black plastic. Non permeable weed solutions are not healthy for your soil, in case you find yourself tempted. Be sure you're putting down something that lets water through.

Welcome To The Asylum

(well, I can't name it "rose cottage" can I?)

Philip doesn't think "The Rose And Thorn Farmhouse" is a good name for a house. So I suggested "The Sanatorium" and he's actually thinking that one over.* Though, truth be told, he's not too keen to name our house at all. He said "Why can't we just call it 'The Farmhouse'?" and I promptly told him it didn't sound enough like a special place that someone might write a book about.

This is a picture of our front porch. It faces the back yard. It's big and will be hung with Chinese lanterns I think. There will be a table and chairs to sit at and drink coffee plus pretty pots of growing things to welcome the weary (us).

I love lilacs. The French name is so much prettier: syringa. I have wanted lilacs in my yard for years. It was the lilac that first made me understand the deep satisfaction in picking a glorious vase of flowers to scent and decorate the house. My mother gave me huge bunches of them from her lilac tree when we all lived in Petaluma together. They grow wonderfully well up here and are all over town.

I had planned on planting one in my current garden but would have had to remove some giant rhododendrons to do it and risk getting reported to the local garden club tribunal for my rhodie crime. At the farmhouse garden there are six of them already planted!! Two are purple, two are white, and two are a mystery as yet to unfold with spring.

This one is a total mystery. The actual size of these leaves and buds are under half an inch. I have no idea what it is.

A pretty camellia. Although I doubt I would ever plant a ton of them, we do love camellias and this one has grown on me quite a bit in the time we've been purchasing the house. Something else I'm very excited about is the Viburnum by the porch: a snowball tree!!!!! Ooh, I've been wanting one of those for so long!! What luck to have one already established. There are also two giant hydrangeas in the garden but I think they're the lace cap kind and I like the classic pom-pom kind.

This is the the landing of the staircase. What pretty light comes in.

The front of the house. As seen from the garden. A ubiquitous Japanese maple is in the foreground trying to lay low because it knows I will dig it up. Don't worry, it will find a good home. They are extremely well loved in this town.

The dining room built ins. Lots and lots of kitchen and dining room cabinets and drawers. Closets are a small sickly affair in this house, but there is no shortage of storage space for kitchen and dining things. The furniture is not ours. The sellers staged the house for selling.

A view I will see a thousand times a year or more. How pretty! Kitchen window; like looking out through the soul of the house.

Well, it's time to bath and get packing again. I got a start yesterday but not a very big start. The new house is only about a mile from our current house so I think we will not pack things in a careful meticulous fashion but in a haphazard quick way. Why hasn't someone developed a teleporter for moving yet? Whoever does it will make their fortune.

*He immediately rejected "The Rose And Thorn Sanatorium". What's he got against roses and thorns and thistles anyway? I'd love to call our house "Thornyfield Sanatorium" but I suppose he wouldn't go for that either. I'm rewatching the 1970's Jane Eyre production with Timothy Dalton in it who I normally dislike but who is the only actor I've so far seen who can play that character. I've read the book many times too. I love it. The reason I thought up sanatorium in the first place is that in the old days sanatoriums were not only places where crazy people were stored, it was where people went for rests to prevent them from completely losing their nuts all over the place and killing relatives. I have, since I was a very young teen, fantasized about going to an asylum to rest. Although, real asylums are not restful peaceful pretty places. I mean, if there were any actual asylums left, which there aren't I think. The modern asylum is the city street.

Hey, how about "Thornyfield Asylum"?!!!! A good mix of hard modern with Gothic romance.

When Houses Speak

We chose the pink paint. I loved my pink house with the dark green trim. I don't have a better picture of this house because most of my good ones were stored on my old hard drive that crashed right before we moved out of state. Seriously, California was shoving us out in every possible way.

After writing yesterday's post about putting my feet on the ground I got to thinking about my obsession with houses. It is, perhaps, particularly on my mind because of a post I read about someone else's adventure with her house and the fact that houses speak to her. I share that experience. I believe that the house you live in is like a spiritual shell and therefore one should choose their homes carefully. Some houses are sorrowful, some full of happy memories, some have wild stories in the walls, some carry a thousand unanswerable questions, some are toxic, and some don't speak at all.

Back when I was thirteen or fourteen my parents were looking at houses in our town. I don't know why. At some point I decided it was an effort to make change in hopes of saving their marriage but that may be wholly untrue. They found this really big house on top of Wimer Heights and took us to see it. It was modern and had wall to wall carpeting. It had big windows which might have been impressive had it not been for the bleakness of the neighborhood it was in. It was a house for wealthy people. The kind of large showpiece you buy when you start to make money. To this day I can remember the cold sunshine washing over the grey carpet and the howling wind outside cutting a hole in my happiness. I felt the fiercest need to never go back there. I knew that if I had to live there I would die. I knew that the wind would never stop whistling through those windows because it never stops blowing on that hill.

Until I found our stucco house in Santa Rosa I had a continuous dream of returning to my childhood home in Ashland on Scenic Drive. It's been in my dreams almost non stop since I had to suddenly move away from it when my parents divorced. There were lots of bad memories to leave behind in it, but the house itself wasn't sad. The house took care of me. It had good bones and the wonderful details you can only find in homes built before the forties. I loved it completely.

Several years ago when I found our dream house I knew it the second I walked into it. I just knew I was meant to move into it. It was an almost impossible transaction. A desirable house in a great location about fifty thousand dollars out of our price range. It was a gorgeous stucco early thirties Tudor style house with gorgeous original windows- the living room window was almost floor to ceiling, a great big curved multi paned affair. The light in the house was wonderful. The layout was great. The yard was big. I walked in and knew it was the house I wanted to grow old in. Somehow the house also knew it and against the odds, we got it.

Our current house.

Is it possible to be in love with a house? And if you have to leave a house you're in love with, is it possible for your heart to break? Because that's what happened. I came to McMinnville to find us a house. There wasn't a lot on the market in March 2006 and very little of what I found was vintage. I don't like new houses. I actually really dislike them. I like old houses. Old houses with fine bones. Ones with the original wood paned windows still intact. The only ones on the market were either in really bad repair or had postage stamp yards. When I found the house we're living in it was the shiniest best thing out there. The yard is almost twice the size of our old one. The house is solid, it's been extremely well cared for, and it was a reasonable price.

But it lacks fine detail. It has mostly hardwood floors which is nice and a brick fireplace and a brick gas fireplace. However, most of the windows in the house are typical mid century ranch style and are tiny. The air circulation in the house stinks. The layout is awkward. Many of the rooms are dark with inadequate light fixtures. The bedrooms are tiny and the ceilings are not high*. The kitchen is ridiculously small and poorly planned for someone like me who spends so much time in it. While some mid century ranch houses boast interesting roof lines and cool funky details, ours is as plain as they come.

The question is: how do you fall in love with such an architecturally mediocre house? Every time I start to feel alright that I live in a boring house, I see pictures of other people's old farm houses, or their thirties cottages and I feel a physical pain in my heart. Every time I walk through the vintage neighborhoods and see the pretty windows and the lovely arched doorways, or the big old porches, I feel my spirit reaching out.

Can the house I live in be so important? Can a person who's only ever been happy in old houses find real happiness and joy in a featureless fifties ranch house? Will I always pine stupidly for an older home? I realized yesterday that it is my lack of enthusiasm for this house that has made it difficult to settle into it. The truth is, I'm still in love with my old house. I feel like there are questions that need answering such as: did we lose the dream house because we didn't deserve to have something so elegant? Is the lesson I'm supposed to learn to be happy with whatever I have and let go of what I thought I wanted? Yet, I had already been happy with what I had.

Or was it all just bad luck with no attached lessons? A part of me keeps thinking that some day we'll find another wonderful old house with a big yard. Maybe an old farmhouse on an acre or two. Yet if I let myself wander around with those desires in my heart then how will I ever settle into this one? A part of me doesn't believe I'll ever be able to love this house because it isn't the kind of shell my spirit needs.

What if I really invest myself here in this ranch? What if I put all my energy into somehow (how?) making it fun and pretty and interesting to live in and then life pulls me out of my house again?

I'm not depressed right now, by the way. My happiness from yesterday has not diminished. It's just that these questions have been lurking under the surface all this time. I am just realizing how I have not been able to stop loving my old house and longing for my old kitchen and my old gorgeous living room and my pretty bedroom from which I could see the whole back yard and watch the weather turn.

I don't miss or long for my old city in my old state. Moving to Oregon was (for me) an act of pure dream fulfillment. I belong in Oregon. It didn't even take thirty seconds to love being back in this state. This region, the people here, the landscape, the weather- all of it I cherish. It is only a question of houses.

I have had a plan to apply a little vintage 40's kitsch into the decor. A little vintage Hollywood version of life in a ranch house. Back then a ranch house evoked something specific like the wide open western skies beneath which you moved hundreds of heads of cattle by day and lived rustically comfortable by night underneath the dim glow of your wagon-wheel chandelier. Angela coined the style name "Lucy Goes West" which perfectly captures what I plan to go for.

As I wade through all these thoughts, uncomfortable with how sentimental it makes me sound (I'm not), I feel bad for this house. It has no bad stories to tell. We are keeping the linen closet door inside which the growth of all three of the Meyers' children was recorded over the years. It was loved and it feels like it was loved. We wouldn't have bought the house if it didn't have a good feeling in it. It's plainness means it's more humble which is perfectly in keeping with our circumstances. Can I bring it alive in such a way that I stop feeling pangs of envy every time I walk into someone else's charming vintage home with all it's sweet details?

Can I make it charming enough that when I pull into the driveway I feel pleasure just sitting there looking at it as I did with my old home?

I am fortunate to have my own home at all. If I sit around worrying about the very real possibility that we may have to sell it if our income situation doesn't improve then I waste time. Who has time to waste? My new quilt makes me happy. This house just needs lots of attention and paint. It needs to be given the benefit of the doubt that it can be prettied up enough to make people with cute cottages kind of wish they had a charming funny simple ranch house.

That's my cue to get into the studio and put together the two orders I'm working on, because every penny means a better chance at keeping what we already have. Then, I will work on a backing for the quilt. Oh yeah, and a slip cover for my chair in the living room... and kitchen curtains...and paint chips to pore over...


*I don't care for the 15' ceilings that new houses often come with either-too much wasted space to collect cobwebs in.

It's finally (mostly) done!

I think moving is the kind of activity that never quite feels done, which is why most people try not to do it too often. Even after everything is moved out, it's never completely moved out. When we moved into the house my parents bought in Ashland Oregon there was all kinds of minuscule detritus left behind such as scrap wood, vintage receipts on closet floors, and the best treasure of all: a tiny antique doll tea cup. Moving makes you face your crap both literally and figuratively, and for many of us, that's not very comfortable and involves copious shots of ouzo.

I'm sitting in a (mostly) empty store front. A space all at once magical to enterprising imaginations and crying out that another business has bit the dust. Because that's what most people are going to think: that we went under in a flash. We have become another cautionary business tale. Young hopeful couples with stars in their eyes are going to tell their friends that they want to start their very own little vitamin boutique and their friends are going to shake their heads and say "Remember what happened to that store that was here before, you know, what was it called? The one with the weird name...Tinpan Alley? They were only there for a year and they tanked. It is so hard to make it in business these days!"

How sad it would be to become a cautionary tale for entrepreneurial spirits. It's not what I want at all. As I sit here in the emptiness that used to house my colorful vision of commerce what I'm thinking is that it's been one hell of an adventure. I wouldn't trade it for the world. I didn't learn that I will fail at running a store; I learned how to run a store pretty darn well. My business was increasing. I had finally developed a reputation and people were seeking us out because they had heard about what a cool shop we had. That isn't failing. That's succeeding.

The money was getting super tight but if I had thought I could run the store and be a healthy person with a healthy family life, I could have gone further out on a limb to keep it going. And I'm confident we would have become financially successful. The highest cost wasn't in loans (though those are fairly daunting) it was going to take too much of a toll on my mental health, on my relationship with my son, and probably with my husband as well. So I'm happy we cut it loose.

It bothered me a little that some other shop owners might be watching us move out with a little smug "I told them so" kind of thought tramping across their brains. I no longer care. I don't have time for annoying smug people who get satisfaction out of predicting failure for others and enjoying being right. Especially when they're actually wrong. So I've let it go. I feel benevolent toward all feeble minded smug people right now.

It must be the beer.

What would the world be like without people willing to go out on a limb? For themselves or for others? What kind of dark grey life would we all be living if no one ever took chances? If we all listened to cautionary tales and meekly followed the advice of the jaded, scared, conservative, or negative people who love to shred enthusiasm wherever they find it? Life would SUCK so bad we'd cease to have souls!

I may be overstating myself just a little.

What I want everyone to learn from my adventure is that it's always worth following your dreams-just be sure to let your dreams evolve and change to fit the reality of who you are and what you need. Don't be afraid to shift gears, it doesn't mean you've failed. It just means you're wise and getting wiser.


*Don't forget to enter the drawing for the fancy tea towel in the previous post! The drawing in on this coming Monday. Go on-leave a comment.

Don't Look At This Post!
Seriously, you're eyes will hurt.

OH MY EYES!!

I can't believe you looked anyway. I can't believe you don't listen to me. It's almost like you're my kid or my husband. That pile of trash is really worrying me. I have to deal with it. We have exactly five days to vacate and clean the store. I have to say though, that our landlords are the best kind of people ever and they will hardly throw all our stuff to the curb if there's still a few things left on Sunday, nor will they likely charge us a huge penalty for taking a day more than planned. However, the funny thing about really easy going super nice landlords is that the more accommodating they are, the less I wish to impose.

This is the growing pile of stuff to fit into my house. Somehow. Maybe with my incredible detritus shrinking ray-gun? Suddenly my house feels VERY TINY.

There is definitely something very sad about a store denuded of it's merchandise so that all you see is it's bones. I have to say though that some of this store's bones are pretty shiny. That card rack cost me a whole sky-full of pretty pennies and I'm loathe to part with it so soon after buying it. Plus, I know that no one will want to buy it unless I try to sell it for five dollars. So I'm putting it in my tiny storage unit for the time being.

Here it is. My 10'x7' cyber store back room. Is it weird that I really love it in here? I didn't really want to leave it when I was done last night. Look how orderly it is. All that Mrs. Meyers in a small enclosed cell makes it smell so good too. So calm and quiet in there with no pets or people or garbage or weeds. Just calm quiet.

A quiet that could be ominous knowing that there is a very stealthy fawn colored doberman pincer on the property ready to rip my head off. Those dogs are really highly strung. They actually radiate tension. The owners of the storage unit love this savage sleek bit of fur like a child. The husband came sauntering casually by walking his child-dog and directs her attention and direction using a large walking stick. I can only assume it's a walking stick. I hope it's just a walking stick. Anyway, I spent the majority of my life deathly afraid of dogs. I have been overcoming this fear quite well in the last ten years and for the most part, as long as a dog comes accompanied by it's owner, I'm pretty mellow and ready to have a good dog experience.

I have a lot of bravado to make up for any lapses in my new steadiness around canines. I used this yesterday when faced with this tense sniffing cautious fawn colored creature with yellow eyes. Her tail and ears were clipped in that way that dobermans get clipped to accentuate the fear factor. I asked if she was friendly and the guy tells me that as long as he's with her she won't hurt you. Thanks, I really needed that boost. He then proceeds to tell me that this huge devil doesn't like black people. Do you know, I'm as uncomfortable with people revealing their racist asses to me as I am finding out that their pets are racist. I really didn't know how to respond without revealing how awful it was to hear about how his dog-beast wanted to maul a black man in his office this week. I'm renting a storage unit from people with a racist dog. What can you say to that?

So I asked if I could pet her.

Which is like asking to pet Satan.

I couldn't do it. She looked at me and seemed to say "go ahead, I'll decide how I feel about your hand on my head when you put it there. Maybe I'll be fine with it, maybe not..." She totally dared me, the bitch!! Ha. I let her sniff my hand and then I very calmly went back to doing what I had been doing. I trust pit bulls way more easily than I could ever trust a doberman.

Does that make me a racist too?

So my storage unit is being watched over by a little fawn colored racist beast with vicious teeth and very pointy ears.

Even so, I love my small calm organized oasis of good smelling merchandise. May many people order from the website so I can visit it often!

Well, hell keeps rolling forward and so must I. Hopefully you are all in a calm peaceful space right now.