Inside Out.

Last month the girls traveled to Sonoma and Healdsburg to see a few of the siblings - Joe put us up at the cottage at Toad Hollow and we were grateful for the accomodations: wine on the porch, wine at dinner.

When we travel to California -- we are always amazed . Amazed at the gardens. Amazed at the trees. Amazed at the trellising vines. Anything growing outside is amazing .

I can set my watch to when we begin the ooohs and aaaahs -- we are hardly out of the airport when we begin to practically faint over the verdant lushness - commenting on bamboo that grows like crabgrass and climbing roses that know no boundaries. We promise to pay more attention to our gardens. We endlessly list the trees we will plant, the arbors and shrubs we will prune, the beauty we will cultivate.

Why do we think that Zone 4 will ever deliver? We know disappointment. The zone will never satiate our lust -- just because we have promised anew that we will be diligent and persevere. We haven't learned from 20+ years of experience in the gardening department -- coneflowers: YES, frangipani: NO.

Now, where can I get bamboo that is Zone 4 hardy?

Muir Woods

It's hard to believe that Muir Woods is less than a half hour drive out of San Francisco. A national monument, devoted to all things natural, will not be a disappointment.

Something about John Muir: He was a Philosopher, Scientist and Author. His family emigrated from Scotland to Wisconsin in 1848. He had a lively interest in nature and after brief studies at the University of Wisconsin - you knew he was a Badger! - he left school for what he would call "the University of the Wilderness." On his lengthy wanderings Muir contemplated man's relationship to nature, concluding that all life forms have inherent significance and the right to exist. Humans, Muir decided, are no greater or lesser than other forms of life. Muir eventually won public acceptance of conservation as an environmental ethic and inspired generations of wilderness advocates. Go hug a tree in his honor.

Morning at the Vineyard

Birds of Paradise

One afternoon we ventured south just past Tacoma, specifically to hike through the Nisqually Wildlife Refuge.

We were on the trails early, but by the time we headed out the crowds had shown up –– after all, it was a beautiful sunny day in Washington State. And it wasn't only families and cub scouts –– the delta was teaming with birders.

Consider this: a gaggle of REI outfitted birders were scurrying down boardwalks, clutching tripods at least half their height, top heavy with binoculars, cameras and lenses –– desperately trying to photograph a red tailed hawk, poised to strike a small rodent burrowing through the tangle of brush on the river's edge.

But, while they were still en route to the perfect vantage point, the hawk rises up and out of an ancient cottonwood, swiftly diving, swooping and finally leveling off to skim just above their heads –– breaking through the fray of birders he turned out towards the open water, adrift on a soft murmur of air -- they hardly realized he was horizon bound until he had silently passed over their heads.

No vermin for the hawk. No photograph for the birders. Ah, nature.
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We also did a quick tour of the Museum of Glass -- brought to us by the incredible Dale Chiluly. What have you produced lately?

Queen Anne Hill

Roxanne and I ventured west for a long weekend visit with Dianne. We wandered through her neighborhood on and off all weekend - picking up fresh fish for dinner, hanging out in coffee shops and yarn stores, stretching and sweating at a yoga class. And constantly being AMAZED by the prolific zone 8.

But truly, the highlight of the weekend was meeting Lady Di's favorite neighbor, Harold. He's a 91-year old bachelor and a passionate gardener - actually, a passionate human being. He has tended his family property since the depression and both are locked in time - circa 1939 - nothing wasted. Nothing new. Save everything.

When we stopped by, he was camped on an overturned plastic bucket, pruning a venerable lilac tree. It was apparent he was recently perched atop the rickety ladder resting next to him -- sawing down a stubborn branch, barely tethered to earth or tree. Slight in stature, clothed in a threadbare quilted jacket, jeans crusted with dirt and sweat, he was bent over his brush pile, methodically cutting and stacking trimmed out twigs. It was, at the least, a week of work for him.

He held us captive for an hour while he gave us a tour of his estate and demonstrated the care and propogation of mason bees. He cultivates a small orchard of fruit trees - which must be spectacular in bloom - he has hand built a series of stone walls that surround the property. A tenuous greenhouse leans up against the backside of the house -- nurturing seedlings and serving as a storage facility for plastic pots, watering cans and miscellaneous discards.

The inside of his house is stacked with 50 years of nursery catalogs, fruit crates and boxes of cast-offs. His lazy boy rocker sits center stage, surrounded by bookshelves overflowing with encyclopedias and reference materials - an arms length away, critial distance for a voracious reader. (Dianne tells us he just finished a book about the former Soviet Union and is currently studying China during the early days of Mao Tse Tung.)

And yet, another example of a person that has aged well - open to new ideas, friendships and maintaining an acute sense of humor.

Alas, he is camera shy.