“Platero es pequeño, peludo, suave; tan blando por fuera, que se diría todo de algodón, que no lleva huesos. Sólo los espejos de azabache de sus ojos son duros cual dos escarabajos de cristal negro.

Lo dejo suelto, y se va al prado, y acaricia tibiamente con su hocico, rozándolas apenas, las florecillas rosas, celestes y gualdas… Lo llamo dulcemente: «Platero?», y viene a mí con un trotecillo alegre que parece que se ríe, en no sé qué cascabeleo ideal…

Come cuanto le doy. Le gustan las naranjas, mandarinas, las uvas moscateles, todas de ámbar, los higos morados, con su cristalina gotita de miel…

Es tierno y mimoso igual que un niño, que una niña…; pero fuerte y seco por dentro, como de piedra. Cuando paso sobre él, los domingos, por las últimas callejas del pueblo, los hombres del campo, vestidos de limpio y despaciosos, se quedan mirándolo:

–Tien’ asero…
Tiene acero. Acero y plata de luna, al mismo tiempo.” – Juan Ramón Jiménez

Most of this I typed from memory, some 15 years after having to recite it as part of a college course. One of my final classes as a Spanish major was a course in Spanish phonetics and phonology. Very difficult and scary course. I was one of only a handful of *Anglo* Spanish majors at my college; I always thought this to be a good thing because school was the only place for me to practice Spanish and I was able to practice with and learn from native speakers of the language, rather than other *gringos* like myself.

In addition to learning the phonetic alphabet (which is like a whole other language) a large part of the coursework was recitation of poetry and prose. We used many of the literary works that I had been forced to analize bit by bit in my literature courses. Only now I had to tear them apart bit by bit, re-writing each phonetically and reciting them over and over to get the pronunciation of every sound just right. Each of us had to stand in front of the class and recite. At any slight mispronunciation my professor made us start over at the beginning. Over and over we did this, day after day. Some of it was awful, tricky stuff (akin to Shakespeare), but others, like this piece, were great fun and almost a joy to recite. I dreaded taking my turn in front of the class each day and chuckled quietly to myself at the mistakes made by the native speakers. It might sound mean-spirited, but it gave me a lot of confidence to realize that their pronunciation wasn’t perfect either! This course did wonders for my accent and I’d always wished that I’d been introduced to the techniques sooner. When I was teaching high-school Spanish, I sometimes made my students do recitation, which they *enjoyed* about as much as I did. I’m sure they hated me for it, but it was good for them… and maybe they learned to love the story of Platero the donkey the way that I once loved it.

“Platero is so little, so hairy, smooth, and so soft to the touch that you might say he is made of puffy cotton, all light and boneless. Only do the mirrors of his dark eyes seem to be hard, jet-black, like two beetles, like two scarabs made of brilliant glass.

I turn him loose and he goes off straight to the meadow, fondling, caressing the blossoms, his muzzle barely brushing the tender flowers, sky-blue as the air, golden as the sun, pink and red as the sunrise and sunset… Then softly I call to him, “Platero?” and he comes to me with a happy trot, running with such a merry jingle that it seems to me like a vague tinkling, a laughter he makes…

What I give him he eats. He loves the taste of amber-colored muscatel grapes, mandarin oranges, and the deep purple figs as they burst with their crystalline honey, a sweetness of warm, golden drops…

He is tender and finicky like a young boy, a small girl, a child… but inside he is strong, he is dry like rock, like the land he walks. When I ride him on Sundays through the outskirts of the small village, down the streets, the narrow lanes, field men, the strong men, all dressed in their Sunday clothes, stand and look; slowly they watch and speak of him:

“Steel, he’s got steel…”

Yes, he’s got steel. Steel and the silvery sheen of the moonlight, and all at the same time.” – translation by Myra Cohn Livingston and Joseph F. Dominguez

I don’t do well with house-
plants. I keep trying, though. I bring home a pretty little plant, like this African Violet, to replace the last one I killed and hope to learn from my mistakes.

I’ve always wanted to be able to grow African Violets. I was successful once with a plant given by my sister-in-law at Easter. I was very careful not to kill it and had it re-bloom for me. Then last summer I thought it might like a vacation on the patio and baked it with late afternoon sun. Silly me!

My mother grew African Violets. I remember the windowsill in our dining room lined with them in pretty pastel shades of purple and pink. I came across an old pic the other night of the first Thanksgiving after she passed away. My father, newly responsible for laying out the feast, stands at the head of the table with my mother’s violets neglected and dying on the windowsill in the background.

I must have been thinking of that photo when I brought this happy little violet home from the market this weekend. With the right combination of light, moisture, and luck I’ll line the windowsills here with violets to rival my memory.

Yesterday I took a drive to Cape May County to visit two gardens: Leaming’s Run Gardens in Swainton and the Model Backyard Habitat at the Cape May Bird Observatory Center for Research and Education in Goshen. I’ve visited both gardens in the past, but always early in the Spring before things are growing well. I went yesterday hoping to see each in its prime.

Leaming’s Run bills itself as the largest annual garden in the East and a *mecca* for hummingbirds in August. I had high hopes, since my visits in previous years were so early in the season that the gardens didn’t look like much, having been only recently planted.

The gardens were pretty enough, but my overall impression was that the plantings were repetitive and sterile. Granted I was less interested in the plants than I was in what was attracted to them, but I think they might include a larger variety of annuals in their 20+ individual gardens. I left having seen one hummingbird and a few swallowtail butterflies; disappointed that I had driven more than 2 hours to see many of the same flowers I have at home and fewer hummingbirds or butterflies.

I was glad to have a *back-up plan* for the day. Less than five miles away is CMBO’s model backyard habitat – full of pretty flowers and teaming with life. Maybe not as colorful or as neat, but certainly more interesting to the likes of me! The gardens are maintained by volunteers and are inventoried regularly for birds, butterflies, and dragonflies. Plantings are done with wildlife value as the focus. There is a wildflower meadow, dragonfly pond, Purple Martin colony, and the native trees, shrubs, and flowers are planted to benefit hummingbirds, butterflies, and other pollinators. All of the pics in yesterday’s post were taken in these gardens.

The most popular plantings yesterday were a few very large patches of mountain mint which were teeming with beneficial wasps and butterflies. There must have been at least a dozen hummingbirds in residence, each staking a claim to a particular feeder or flowering plant. A gentleman was there counting butterflies and told me he had seen at least 32 different species in just a few hours. The garden even caters to the taste of certain butterflies for rotten fruit. The picture at left shows a Hackberry Emperor (front) and a Question Mark *nectaring* on smelly rotting fruit. I’ve never seen either of these butterflies before and found it interesting to see how well camouflaged they are in this pic with soupy apples and peaches as a backdrop.

The visit to these two gardens, each with a particular focus, really brought home to me the value of planting with wildlife in mind. The first, while planted to draw a particular species (I never saw so much cardinal flower and that horrible red salvia in one place!) was so much less pleasing because it held no variety. The second, which represented a variety of habitats in its plantings was much more attractive and interesting – to me and the *wildlife* it provided for.

Note: The pic of the habitat garden (above right) is from CMBO’s website. Click on it for a link to one of many excellent articles on planning a wildlife garden.

NY Ironweed (Vernonia noveboracensis) is another native that I planted because of its attractiveness to pollinators. It grows quietly in the back of the moist border with joe-pye and swamp milkweed and then blooms in late July or early August. This aster family relative is said to get its common name from the rusty color of the seedheads. The misty look to this pic is not an artistic touch; my camera fogged up last week when I brought it from the air-conditioned house out into the 100 degree heat to take this pic. I didn’t have the wherewithal to stay out long enough in that heat, so decided I liked the effect.

All of the flowers in my garden have bloomed, save the goldenrods. The joe-pye is tattered and the milkweeds are ripening seedpods.

I’ve been watching these milkweed bugs for a few weeks, waiting for them to get big enough to take a pic. When I first noticed them I thought they were aphids, but with each day they are coming to look more like their adult form. These bugs feed on the tissues and seeds of the milkweed plant, and it’s thought that they congregate in numbers like this to increase the benefit of their warning coloration to possible predators.

I inadvertantly soaked this little baby a few times before I learned to check beneath the geraniums before watering them. He was convinced that he was so small and so brown that I wouldn’t be able to see him under there. Mother Nature’s camouflage at work!

Monarchs are the most numerous butterflies in the garden this year, I’ve only spotted a few swallowtails and not even very many skippers. I spend a little time each day searching for eggs or caterpillars, but still have found none.

Today’s attempt at a decent hummingbird pic. I envy those of you who can manage it. I’m glad to finally be seeing them in the garden, and love to watch them chase one another around! They’ve been visiting the sugar-water feeders, but also the salvias and the little flowering maple trees.

Great Spangled Fritillary on Butterfly Weed at Deep Cut Gardens

“More than any other group of animals, butterflies look as if they were designed in art school… Butterflies are two pairs of wings flapping about in broad daylight. They don’t have teeth or claws. They can’t fly very fast. Their abdomens make for a quick snack. Art is their defense.” – from An Obsession with Butterflies: Our Long Love Affair with a Singular Insect by Sharman Apt Russell

My PetBunny friend Michelle, has been sharing *then and now* pics of her family on her blog and it got me thinking and made me dig out my scrapbooks. I’ve got gazillions of photos that for years I’ve been trying to organize and scrapbooking is a fun way to do it. I started scrapbooking when my husband and I were first married and have only gotten up to 1995 or so (all of two years’ worth). Every year I get more behind. I haven’t done a single scrapbook page since I started this blog.

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to share some *then and now* pics of our little house. I have plenty of *nowish* pics, like this one above from 1995, but very few *then* pics. The house we live in was built by my husband’s grandfather and uncle in the 50’s. I have only one very large black-and-white photo that is too large to scan, but shows the orchard that used to border our property and the now busy road out front is just dirt. The pic at right is my husband’s aunt and uncle during construction. They lived here for 40 some years before my husband and I. We haven’t changed much at all in our years here, other than cosmetic changes to make the place feel like our own. My husband grew up playing here as a child and having Thanksgiving Dinner with his family here, and in his aunt’s later years after his uncle passed away took care of the lawn and anythiing his aunt needed. People who have lived in the neighborhood for years often comment on how much my husband resembles his uncle.

In the meandering sort of way my mind works, the photo of my husband’s aunt and uncle brought to mind this pic of my mom and brother standing on the lot that was to become the house I grew up in. My parents moved here *to the shore*, as they called it, from Jersey City in the 50’s. My dad told me how they used to drive down the Parkway on weekends to check on the home’s progress. Our development was also surrounded by farms and orchards in the 50’s – no more; it’s nothing but highways and strip malls now. My childhood home was sold last year after my dad passed away and I drive by whenever I’m in the neighborhood. It’s really very strange to see the place that I have thought of as *home* for so many years belonging to someone else. I am glad, though, to see children’s toys in the driveway and a sense of newness to the place where I grew up. Makes me wonder what my husband’s aunt and uncle would think of all we’ve done here to make this place our home.