Raccoons love tomates

They look so cute - little furry creatures with dark masks and ringed tails.
But they are INFURIATING little critters!!!!!

There is at least one raccoon hanging around my garden - you know, the one that is fenced 7 1/2 feet tall to keep the deer out - and he/she has wreaked havoc this year on (in order of disappearance) 1) strawberries 2) grapes 3) tomatoes 4)whatever is next on his/her dinner menu.

I am beside myself. Not only do I fight rain or drought, bugs, fungus and leaf spot, moles and voles, mice, rabbits, birds and squirrels, now there are RACCOONS! Argh!

Last weekend, I wound a second layer of fencing around the tomato beds (two of three anyway) and I actually harvested three, count 'em THREE regular sized tomatoes this week! Woo hoo! Sounds great, except for the dozens I have already missed because of that midnight marauder! Grrrr.

Even the Juliet tomatoes weren't immune from his/her destruction. So I covered them with bird netting too. What a PAIN...not only to drape but to reach into to GET those ripe tomatoes.

What I don't do for a little organic food each year!

Astilbe in bloom

I know I need to keep a garden log so I know when things are blooming - then I could plan for planting next year, right? But I am usually surprised by blooms, with the exception of daffodils and crocus.

So today, June 25, 2010, the wispy astilbe are starting to bloom. They last only a blink so I try to enjoy them every day. The pale pink spears almost don't qualify as blooms. No individual flowers are visible. But a collection of their tiny blossoms is almost ethereal.

Have to look up the name of this shorter variety - I know I had to special order it, but didn't label it. Next task: putting permanent garden labels on all my plants!

Planting in the dark

I planted green beans in the dark last night.
For fervent gardeners like me, it was a no-brainer.

I had already uncovered one of my raised beds (yes, yes, I know I shouldn't use black plastic in my organic veggies but I hate weeds), started to turn over the dirt, got distracted and never quite made it back to the garden to plant that silly bed.

Then, late in the day, it rained. Rained on my open bed, soaking the soil, turning it into muddy clay that will turn to clay bricks when it dries out. Ack.

I agonized for a few minutes, then ran out to the garden without my shoes (barefoot gardening is the best, don't you think?) and started turning the soggy soil.

Turns out I have done a pretty good job of amending the dirt in that bed so it wasn't quite as mucky as I feared. In fact it was pretty light and sandy. Cool.

I found my new garden scissors laying beside the lettuce bed (still wet from the rain), cut open a bag of Black Hen (ah the smell of chicken poop at dusk!) and sprinkled the whole bag on the bed. A fat momma spider jumped out of the bed, scaring the bejeebers out of me (I think her egg sac was buried in the dirt) but I ignored her and raked the chicken poop into the bed.

Since I was barefoot, I was digging, raking and fertilizing while standing on the edge of the bed - not great for my center of gravity. Mrs. Spider and I had a couple of close calls when I lost my balance and stepped down on to the garden path. Ouch. She survived. My tender feet hurt.

Finally, I grabbed the hoe and tried to draw four semi-straight rows. Uh, not so straight I'm afraid. Let's just say that when the beans come up we'll call this the "creative" bean bed. Abstract. Wavy.

I'm glad I had white bean seeds -- I could see them in the row! I thought that visual cue would help when I sprinkled the bean inoculant into the row, but I couldn't see the dark powder and it dumped out in one spot. That will be a VERY productive corner, I expect.

By the time I'd planted, inoculated and replaced the tools, it was pitch black. No moon (too cloudy) and no light from the garden shed (it's aimed in the other direction).

This morning, I visited the garden and voila! The bed looks pretty good. A couple of white seeds peeking out, but otherwise the bed looks....well, planted! A good thing, too, since it rained again overnight.

Perfect for my new bean bed --- three cheers for planting in the dark!

Rhodies are at it again...

I can never remember the exact time my luscious pink rhododendron likes to bloom, but, apparently it's early May!

Over the past few days, the tight buds have swollen, burst open and unfolded fat fluffy blossom that look good enough to eat!

I took pictures of one bloom as it uncurled itself over two or three days and look at it now!

No clue what the cultivar might be, but I think I'll name it: Pale Pink Ballerina in honor of its delicate tutus that dance at the end of its stems!

I love this time of year!

Obama's organic veggies

Grow veggies on the White house lawn?
All I can say is: "It's about time."

As an organic veggie gardener for more than 30 years, I'm delighted that the Obama family has decided to "eat the view." A wide expanse of the brilliant green lawn will be tore out, amended appropriately to enrich the soil and more than 55 varieties of vegetables will be planted.

Michelle Obama promises that Sasha and Malia will be weeding regularly! Wow. I guess I should have expected it, but I assumed the garden would be tended by staffers.

What happened at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue will soon trickle down to our own lawns. And that gives me an idea. With so many new vegetable gardens out there, it might be a good time to dust off my gloves and offer classes in Organic Veggie Gardening 101.

Stay tuned... I am taping the classes so you can see them online.


I think it's about time to dust off the garden gloves and start teaching organic veggie gardening 101. Welcome to the club everyone!

Picking up Victor from Duke Hospital this morning - he needed IV antibiotics for his CF. He's a trooper.

Um...the battery was dead on the van today. Called AAA, got it charged, left it running to recharge. Forgot it for SIX HOURS. ADDiva moment!

Greenhouse in 2009!

I can barely contain myself -- I ordered a greenhouse that will be delivered after the first of the year!

A GREENHOUSE!

I have yearned for a greenhouse since I was a sophomore at Michigan State taking "Horticulture for Non-majors" and fell in love with that loamy, fresh smell inside the glass houses. Even though I have had gardens and more gardens since then, I have always pooh-poohed the idea of buying a greenhouse a being 1) too extravagant 2) unnecessary 3) undeserved.

Well prompted by a Costco sale email, I did some (more) research and found that the greenhouse they had on sale was indeed a good one. But I found it cheaper at another site with free shipping!

Details tomorrow, but I can tell you this: I WILL be teaching organic veggie gardening this year at GardenSpirit...and I am SO excited!

Worked in a.m. with my organizer Erica to clean GardenSpirit garage and voila! Started rearranging the INSIDE too. Ah, my distracted mind...

Autumn at GardenSpirit

Camellias.
Until I moved to North Carolina, I'd never really known much about them.
Now they are my favorite fall bloom. And winter bloom. And early spring bloom.

These gorgeous puffy flowers started blooming two weeks ago - Snowstorm, I believe is the name of the cultivar - with double white frothy flowers sprinkled in between the rich glossy green leaves. Ah.... it makes me want to to look at them again just for a moment.

Yes, they are as beautiful as in my mind's eye.

Not that spring and summer flowers aren't beautiful. It's just so unexpected to find something thriving, bursting into life, when everything else had faded. Even the brilliant leaves have passed their prime. The branches are more bare than adorned today. Perhaps that's why I don't love fall the way some people do. I crave the potential of new seedlings and raw earth.

So, today, I will drink in the sassy I-dare-you-to-freeze-my-blossoms camellias. Knowing that we all bloom in our own right and perfect time.

GardenSpirit video tour

Genesis of GardenSpirit revealed

Finding me, finding you
By Linda Roggli ©2006

I had everything a successful entrepreneur could ask for: a corner office with big windows that offered a view of the treetops, national awards on the wall, great employees and happy clients. So why did I cry every morning on the drive to work, dry my tears in the parking lot, paste on a smile and steel myself for another day?

The “stuck-ness” of life had ensnared me. I knew my company was killing me, ever so slowly. For two years I had fought off the distant urge to close the doors and walk away. But my employees needed me. The chamber of commerce had given me a plaque inscribed “1997 Micro Business Person of the Year” (which reflected the size of my company, not my physical stature). Who else would give my clients the tender loving care and attention that my company did? I had responsibilities, obligations, duties, an image to uphold (and quarterly taxes to file).

I was paralyzed between two equally untenable places: sticking it out, expanding the company, gritting my teeth (a stressed-out acquaintance of mine had cracked a molar doing that). Or leaving it all behind and striking out toward – what? I had no master plan, no inner drive that whispered my life’s purpose in my ear, telling me to get on with it. And I was no kid; I was in my late 40s with kids of my own.

But, if I didn’t know where I was going, I knew, finally, that I had to go.

The end of my tenure on Morreene Road was amazingly straightforward. It took only three days and drastic price slashing to pare my office equipment and supplies down to manageable, moveable volume. When the carnage was over, I sat alone in the dark office, grieving the loss of the business I had nurtured from infancy. And wondered Who I Would Be without it.

For two months I let myself unwind, unfrazzle. Rest.

And then, it started all over. The nightmares that woke me this time weren’t about missed deadlines or editing errors. I was haunted by my sense of failure. No one closes a successful business. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to spin the company back up again, find new office space, market to a new set of prospects.

But did I want to do that? Frankly the prospect of operating the business made me nauseous. At my home office I didn’t have to be cheerful. I could graze along the edges of depression as much as I liked without judgment. My two faithful dogs were delighted to sit beside me no matter how much I moped. But what did I want to be when I grew up?

The vehicle of my awakening surprised me. A friend had invited me to her “graduation” from a well-known personal development organization. The facilitator asked us to look ahead five years, paint a picture of our ideal lives, then tell half a dozen people in the room about our vision.

I was less than enthusiastic. I’d arrived with a massive migraine headache and was in no state to allow dreamy visions to appear. But I grimly played along: my ideal life? Surely it had something to do with gardening.

Working in the garden had become my salvation that winter. Despite freezing February temperatures, I’d been working long hours to reshape the landscape of our yard in preparation for my husband’s 50th birthday. I soon discovered that physical exhaustion chased away my mental demons.

So gardening was on my mind when I reached out to shake hands with the first person that night. “Hi, great to see you again! Listen, I finally have my own garden center on 40 acres. We’ve expanded in the last six months and things are looking even better for next year!”

The more I said it, the less I liked what I was hearing. Running a garden center meant taking care of other people’s plants – watering, keeping them alive, watching for pests that could wipe out an entire greenhouse. And it meant employees. And dealing with the public. Ugh. When I returned to my seat, I knew I didn’t want to open a garden shop.

But what did I want to do with my life? Ah, Scarlett, I’d think about that tomorrow. But tomorrow never arrived. So, in the midst of my migraine, while the leader gushed on and on at the front of the room, I mentally forced my own hand: “What WOULD I like to do with my life?”

I considered: I wanted gardening, something spiritual, something that served women and a place for me to write. Almost instantly four words popped into my head: “Women’s Garden Retreat Center!” I chuckled inwardly. I’d never heard of such a thing. Yet it felt right. I went home energized and lighter than I had been in years. I had a goal, a destiny.

I knew from working with affirmations that I needed a specific vision of my new dream. I imagined a serene place that was self-sustaining. Organic vegetable gardens and a community kitchen. Secret gardens for reflection and calm. Bubbling hot tubs on the property. Frank Lloyd Wright type buildings – simple pine structures with private rooms, pristine white linens and fresh-scrubbed cleanliness.

Women would work in the gardens in the mornings – sweating and letting go of their own mental demons. Then, after a shower and lunch, we’d gather in a communal meeting room for soul refreshment and support. There would be massage and reiki, perhaps facials and pedicures. But everyone would work as well as play. I saw myself in a small English cottage, the caretaker and facilitator, who also wrote books and traveled the world to remind women that their own wisdom is a deep reservoir within them. That they could trust themselves to live their lives fully and passionately.

As if by magic, opportunities to lease land appeared (40 acres, of course). My dream was manifesting itself. Yikes. I wasn’t ready.

So I took a detour. I was invited to publish a small real estate magazine. It fit my skills perfectly and it looked like a financial windfall. It was another deadline business, however, and I soon returned to my frantic schedule. But the publishing company and I were on opposing tracks. It demanded pure profit; I demanded quality. I stayed the course for 12 months before I called a halt to the madness, more exhausted than ever.

Finally, I began to listen to myself again. I was a writer. I needed to write. With the unflagging support of my husband, I set out a two-year plan to complete my manuscripts. I dug in hard: writing classes and workshops, critiques that stung and praise that buoyed. I wrote fiction, essays, went to writing retreats, read in circles.

At the end of the first year, I had a lot of promising beginnings with precious few completions. I was losing hope. Even when I had complete freedom and financial support I wasn’t fulfilling my potential. I revisited the old questions: Who am I, anyway? What am I doing alive on this planet? At this time? In this place?

The answer re-appeared in the form of an email that I quite nearly deleted. The Conversations with God foundation was offering its first retreat facilitator training program. There it was! My Garden Retreat Center was back on track again!

But there was a slight hitch – the program cost more than $10,000. Our bank account wasn’t quite that robust. After a lot of talking, a lot of waffling, a lot of encouragement from my husband, I borrowed against our home equity line, paid the tuition and got started.

The 90-day program was intense – three classes a week, papers, conference calls. The day after Christmas 2002 my classmate and I convened for four weeks of on-site training. It, too, was intense. We were together from 7 am to 11 pm seven days a week. We had one afternoon off – New Year’s Day.

I learned so much during that soul-searching month. I had never been away from home that long since I had been in college; found that I could survive loneliness and stress. I forged friendships that will last a lifetime. I honed my skills in talking about the concepts of Conversations with God. I took courses in spiritual coaching and comparative religions. The thing I did not learn was how to be a retreat facilitator!

The CwG program, however, set me on the path toward “right livelihood.” I enrolled in a certified life coaching training program. Then I became the first person in North Carolina to be certified as a Speaking Circles facilitator – which helps people connect at a heart level. I trained and trained and trained.

My husband, bless him, continued to support me, emotionally and financially. “As long as we can afford it,” he’d say, “Go for it. The world needs you.” So our credit line groaned a lot. And I began to sleep better, wake up with a smile, look forward to each day.

It wasn’t easy. I spent a lot of time agonizing over whether I had made choices that were really in my best interest (or in the best interest of our marriage). But gradually I began to attract coaching clients. I took a bold step and scheduled my first retreat. And I allowed myself to go through the whole range of emotion, always landing back in the space of quiet assurance that this IS my path.

Today the women’s retreats I lead are more spirit-filled and more transformative than I ever could have imagined. It’s amazing to me that living MY dream is about helping other women live THEIR dreams. There is some kind of balance here, a satisfying yin-yang.

I talk to women who say, “I can’t change my life because my (fill in the blank:
husband, job, house, children, clients, church, etc.) would fall apart. I can’t do it. ”

And I tell them, “Yes you can. If I was finally able to let go of my company, with my anxiety and migraines and hyper-responsibility and miles-long To Do List, then you can, too. You are not your To-Do list.”

So if the “stuck-ness” of life has trapped you. If you know in your bones that staying in the place you are right now for another year, another month, another day means shriveling up and blowing away in the wind, you are ready.

Ready to be that woman you thought you left behind. Ready to shuck off the Have To and the Should of your life. Ready to turn around and say “No” to the situations and people who imprison you. Ready to cry and cry until there are no more tears.

Ready to shed your own skin and reveal a sturdy soul skeleton onto which you can rebuild yourself into a woman who is fleshed out and warm. A woman who is full of herself, a woman who glories in the days and nights she lives on this Earth. A woman who looks back from you in the mirror and says “I love who you are!”

It’s your turn.
Get ready to soar.

Baby birds and lots of guilt

How could I have done that?
How could I not have known?
How could I have drowned a helpless baby wren?

It was an accident, that's for sure. But I still feel just awfu about it. I even hate to talk about it. But I will, if nothing more than to honor his or her short life. I want to cry.

I was watering the newbie plants and flowers in the front yard at GardenSpirit this morning. I'd been there since shade filled the yard til the blazing midday sun was making it Big Self known -- drying out the soil instantly.

Almost done, just a few more creeping shrubs and–the hanging baskets! I took the hose and slathered water into both of them, one at a time, until the water ran dripping out the bottoms.

I knew a wren had built a nest in one of the baskets, but there was not a peep from inside...and it had been a long time since the nest was built. I assumed the babies were gone or that momma had abandoned the nest for a better location.

Finally finished and I went down the steps to turn off the spigot. I heard a soggy thud and looked over to see a tiny baby wren gasping for air on the ground. It was soaking wet, its little beak opening and closing trying to find some air.

I was horrified. This tiny baby, fallen from a height that might have killed it anyway, was struggling for air because of me. Me. Me and my big hose, my big plans. And there was nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing.

Picking up the baby would have guaranteed its death - the mother bird won't feed babies tainted with human scent. So I left it there...likely to die. The momma bird was back before I left, "Go down to the ground," I wanted to scream. "See if you can save your baby."

It was a bad place for a nest, let's face it. Even a heavy rain might have drowned the babies. But rain has been scarce in these parts for a long long time. They might have made it -- this one at least had survived. Until now.

I would have gladly sacrificed the hanging basket for these babies. I just didn't know. I didn't know.

Somehow, that doesn't make me feel any better. I'm gonna quit now. I wish I could take it all back. Baby bird guilt is one of the worst.

The blueberry wars

I like birds, really I do.
There are more than 25 bird feeders and birdhouse on the GardenSpirit Garden Retreat property.
But when they start harvesting my blueberries, I tend to get a bit, well, defensive.

All year, I tuck fertilizer around the roots of the bushes that line the fence at the front of my property - the sunniest place in the entire 7 acres. In the spring, tiny pink-white blooms peek out at the edges of the bare branches filling my heart with gladness: the hard tiny green berries aren't far behind.

As the days get warmer and the berries swell, I carefully erect my blueberry nets over the bushes. I'm kinda proud of the design; created it myself.

It looks a bit kooky, but I twisted together white PVC pipe to make a 4 x 4 foot frame around the bushes - it's 20 feet long altogether - and then drape bird netting from the ground, over the top and all the way to the ground on the other side. Protection from hungry birds with little beaks and big ideas about eating my blueberries!

Finally, some of those marvelous berries begin to change color from the sour green to a lighter pink-rose and finally a deep dusky blue. And it's precisely at this moment that those crafty birds, with their little bird brains, figure out that there are some gaps in my netting, some weaknesses in my defense of the blueberry bushes.

Unfortunately for me, the birds discover the gaps long before I discover the damage they have done to the current crop - drat! Foiled again!

Two years ago, I had blueberries by the bucket. This year, I'll be lucky to harvest a quart or so.

It's so frustrating - I only get one chance at blueberries each year. And - surprisingly, I really don't like to EAT them (never developed the taste) and I really don't like to PICK them (they take forever --the clusters ripen at different times forcing me to go over the same bushes again and again). But I do love to grow them, feed them to people I love, knowing that my organic fruit is healthful and appreciated.

But not this year. Grrrrr. Not this year. Maybe those little bird brains aren't so little after all. And for Pete's sake, birds need to eat too. Right?

Oh heck, next year, I'll try to think like a cardinal or a wren. I'll nail down those nets. Find the gaps. Early. Keep some berries for myself and my family.

Or maybe I'll "forget" and let the birds enjoy the feast. Either way, those blueberries are sure tasty!

Memorial Day retreat for women

"Coming into full bloom - renewing that wild, wonderful woman inside"
May 26 - 28, 2007 (Saturday - Monday) Memorial Day weekend
GardenSpirit Guesthouse
Durham, North Carolina

Let yourself BLOOM into the amazing and magnificent woman you always thought you'd be. Live up to your own expectations - even better, change your expectations to live up to YOU! Join a group of women who are on the path to loving themselves more fully and appreciate each other, too. $450 per person includes shared accommodations at GardenSpirit Guesthouse, all meals, fresh flowers, labyrinth walk, hot tub, chair massage and retreat materials.

Click here for the exhilerating, blossoming details!

Snoopy factor

When people come to GardenSpirit Guesthouse for the first time, they usually "ooh" and "aah" about how the house is full of softness. There are soft pillows, fuzzy rugs that feel like blankets, blankets that feel like the softest fur imaginable (but no real fur, I swear), extra plush mattresses, fluffy towels.

It's like living in a pillow - exactly as I intended. Cozy, safe, cocoon-like and....soft.

This morning it dawned on me why I love the softness of life: it's my Snoopy factor. Long before I knew a thing about Peanuts and Charles Schultz's comic strips, I had a stuffed dog named Snoopy. It was an enormous stuffed animal for its time - Snoopy's body from tongue to tail was about as long as my entire child's body. He was created in a paws-splayed-out position with droopy eyes and long floppy ears, as if he was always drowsy, already ready for bed.

Every night I would perch him on top of my tummy under the covers and tell him my deepest secrets, my dreams, my nightmares. He became my first confidente; I could tell him anything. And he listened ever so patiently. I supposed it was my version of having an imaginary friend.

An imaginary friend would never measure up to the tactile pleasures of Snoopy, though. His two-tone brown fur was sewn together in a patchwork of fuzziness. His red plastic tongue stuck out at an endearing cock-eyed angle. His sad brown eyes were half covered with long brown yarn eyelashes.

The piece(s) de resistence were Snoopy's ears. Long and floppy, they were so long they could be pulled forward over his eyes - he looked as if he was wearing blinders; or piled on top of his head like Carmen Chiquita; or pulled straight out, ala Dumbo the Flying Elephant.

Best of all, they were lined with light brown satin that gleamed in certain light. I was in sensual ecstasy! I'd rub Snoopy's furry ear against my cheek ("with" the grain of the fur), then I would turn over to the cool, smoothness of the satin and caress my lips and chin.

I had always loved the satin binding on blankets. When my brother was just an infant and receiving a lot of baby gifts (hey, where were MY presents to open??) I co-opted one of his blankets as my own. "Blue Blanket" was an early predecessor of Snoopy. I loved the soft satin against my face...until one fateful day, Blue Blanket was accidentally left behind at a motel room.

My mother reports that I as a little girl I hated scratchy clothes -- no starchy, organdy dresses for me. To this day, when I buy baby gifts for new moms, I walk by the adorable fancy baby clothes in favor of a stretchy knit or, better yet, a blanket with satin edging.

So GardenSpirit is full of the Snoopy factor. And I am still in ecstasy when I touch those blankets and rugs and especially the satin curtain in the massage chair room. Ahhhhhh.....

Murder on the bridge

The massive red-shouldered hawk was perched calmly on the broad rails of the wooden bridge that crosses the creek at GardenSpirit. I watched in fascination as a squirrel darted across the bridge and several small birds swooped in to land on the new bird feeders I had erected in the back yard.

There was something wrong. Didn't those little creatures understand the danger posed by the hawk? Get out of there now! I took a closer look.

The hawk was craning its neck down between its feet, pulling out strings of ... my fascination turned to horror ... fresh meat. No wonder the woodland creatures were carefree - the hawk had selected another victim. They were safe. For now.

I couldn't pull myself away from the scene, wished I had my telephoto camera or at least a pair of binoculars. What was the bird eating?

As the hawk stepped up and down on its prey, holding it firmly as it stripped the flesh from the poor animal, I caught a glimpse of a long skinny tail, writhing in protest. With a shudder, I realized that the hawk's prey was still alive, being tortured to death by the sharp, highly effective beak and talons.

"Oh, get it over with," I muttered. "Kill it and put it out of its misery." I cannot stand to see animals suffer, or human beings for that matter. Yet, I was transfixed by the hawk's nonchalant and primal call to survive. There was no guilt in the kill; the body of the prey would nourish the body of the captor.

I was acutely aware of the proximity of the hawk's vicious meal to my own refrigerator, stocked with sanitized versions of the hawk's lunch: chicken salad, pepperoni pizza, cold sliced turkey. I was struck with my recent ah-ha realization that religious blessings before meals were actually an acknowledgment of the ultimate sacrifice paid by those lower on the food chain. A 'thank you" for trading their lives for ours.

Whatever was beneath the hawk's feet - a snake? rat? lizard? - apparently stopped fighting. The hawk ceased its deadly stomp-dance and even stopped feeding for a few moments, apparently satiated.

The clouds above made a madcap pattern of sun and shade as the hawk sat, contented, on the bridge - a full stomach, a brisk winter wind. I resumed my chores and when I looked outside again, the hawk had disappeared.

I couldn't resist -- I went down to the bridge, hoping for a clue about what kind of animal had died in front of my eyes. The carcass was gone. All I saw was a bloody stain on the rail. I lowered my head in sorrow and respect.

Life feeds on itself 100% of the time. And most of that time, I don't even notice...

Decadence

Ahhhh...
It is finally finished. The deck at GardenSpirt, I mean.

And the hot tub that inspired it is also fnished -- finally moved into place, filled with water, heated to just the right temperature (101 degrees F. to be exact)and crystal clear.

It was time for a test drive...er, swim...er, soak.

And it was all about decadence.

It started with my sugar craving last night. Not only did I buy a coconut cake from the frozen food section, but grabbed a pint of Vanilla Swiss Almond on impulse. I pulled it out of the freezer tonight for just a bite or two.

Victor (oh husband of mine) wanted a taste. Then he suggested crass decadence: taking the Haagen Dazs to GardenSpirit and eating ice cream while we were in the hot tub. I gotta tell you, it WAS decadent! We loved it --cold tummies and warm bodies -- a great combo. I recommend it, really!

The new hot tub is deep and wide - so much bigger than our personal hot tub. And there are two sets of jets -- luxurious. The blue light shone underwater; it even has a dimmer.

I can honestly say that the guests at GardenSpirit WILL have a wonderful spa experience -- I tested it myself. Next step -- fixing the fireplace so we can have a roaring fire to come home to after that hot tub experience!

Well, gotta go back and make some beds. Amy and I are working on finishing the decorating and soon...my first two guests will arrive for tea. I plan to invite small groups of people for a First Look at GardenSpirit over the next few weeks. If you'd like to come, let me know. I'd love to have you!

Hot concrete

"Can your guy be there at noon?" The man on the phone from Chandler Concrete was as pleasant as he'd been the first four times I had re-scheduled the delivery of a yard – no, make that two yards – of concrete.

By then, the square-ish box of pressure treated wood will be ready to accept the squishy grey mud. Randy Bledsoe. has been working on it since Monday, making sure that the dirt at the bottom is level. Four inches of concrete will soon support the GardenSpirit hot tub and give a little extra oomph to the new deck that will accompany it.

Ah yes, the hot tub. Even my earliest dreams of GardenSpirit included a bubbling tub set into a secret garden - a place for women to luxuriate, chat, relax after a long day in the garden. So even before I put down the floor in the sunroom before the painters get started next week, I am installing a hot tub that will easiily hold 6 women and as many as 8 or 9 in a squeeze. I got great deal on it - bought it from a nice woman in Burlington who said she'd used it only 10 times in the three years it had sat behind her house. In almost perfect condition.

Right now it's sitting in the garage. Thank goodness the doors are 9 feet wide; it gave the delivery men (5 of them) a couple of inches of clearance on each side when they slid it onto THAT concrete pad. Like a lot of things during this renovation, installing the hot tub is a domino effect process: first I had the architect design the deck, then Glenn Parker, the contractor had to make sure the deck design would work. But he pointed out that one of the septic tanks was buried somewhere in the vicinity of the new deck. Oops. Can't build on top of that.

So yesterday, Clean Septic System came out to a) find the exact location of the tank and b) pump the septic system. Of course, when Tracey tried to remove the septic system cap, it cracked. He's gone to get another one and will be back today to pump it. And the concrete guys will be here at noon.

Because it rained Tuesday, the ground is damp and soft. Randy says he'll have to wheelbarrow the concrete from the driveway to the wooden box - the concrete form as it's known officially. Then a little screed action to level it (not smooth, mind you -- a little rough to prevent falls), a day or two of curing and then we can get the hot tub out of the garage and into the open air again. Just in the nick of time --the garage doors are being replaced in another week or so and there's no access with the tub sitting squarely under the door opener. Like I said -- it's a process.

Next up: an emergency trip to Raleigh to pick up fabric for the squeaky rattan chairs in the family room. Gotta get there before Friday. That's when Juan the upholsterer comes back with the loveseat he's finished. Whew!

Color my world

Paint chips litter my kitchen table, my mind, even my dreams. I'm trying to figure out the wall colors for the Guesthouse and I'm ready to, uh ... climb the walls.

There is a tiny bit of urgency to make these decisions, since the painters are coming next week (or sooner, if they finish up their current job early). I know that the woodwork and kitchen cabinets will be painted white. But I'm not a painter - do you paint woodwork or walls first?

That's crucial information, since the walls are the bugaboo. It's a backwards domino effect: in order to choose the wall colors, I need to know how the room is decorated. In order to know the decorating, I need the furniture (which is in place at last). But almost all the furniture is being upholstered, so I need to make decisions about fabric. Which brings me back to color.

Let me tell you, trying to envision colors for an entire house without any real sense of what things will look like, is a challenge.

I did it once, when we built our home. Everything in a new house is a blank slate. But in those days, I had control over the fireplace color, the rugs, the ceilings. And I bought new furniture. Over the course of several MONTHS, not days.

This is different. The fireplace is the fireplace. I don't love the color, but I'm stuck with it. The big massive stones are a bit incongruous with my light, airy garden theme. But hey, I'm plunging ahead.

I do have some help. A wonderful and extremely patient decorator named Amy Mannila is traveling with me to furniture and fabric stores. Yesterday, we spent an entire day at Mill Outlet in Raleigh, with a side trip to Discount Fabric Warehouse.

I bought 49 yards of fabric for the loveseat and sofa that will grace the sunroom - the main meeting space for Gardenspirit. It's wonderful -- white background with my favorite flower of all time: lilacs. Lucky for me, there was enough on the roll of fabric. I bought the entire stock!

But the polka dot fabric we found for the fireplace room. Oops. I think it's a mistake. I bought 18 yards to cover the two ottomans. At $14 a yard. Ouch. Fortunately, I didn't buy 40 more yards for the sofa and loveseat. So it's back to the drawing board. Or to the Mill Outlet store. Or Not Just Linens.

Funny thing is that I love shopping for fabric and decorating stuff. But I feel pushed. Which is why I made a hasty decision yesterday. Oh well. Maybe I'll like polka dots better in the morning light. Now where are those paint chips??