Oops. I think this was the first time since I started this blog that I missed a GBBD. I’ve been a day or two late before because I was busy or forgot, but never almost a week.
When I realized last night that I’d forgotten about it, I thought, oh well, nothing to be done about it now… but then I woke up this morning to sunshine and flowers, and I decided to post after all…
In the living room, the Begonia albopicta is blooming more than it has in quite some time:
And I kind of accidentally bought two little Schlumbergeras:
I only wanted to buy a broom, but they were so pretty. I couldn’t remember if I had a pink-and-white one yet (but my pictures suggests that I didn’t), but I definitely didn’t have a white one yet.
Snapdragons at the kitchen window:
Moving out onto the balcony – my ‘Amethyst’ passionflower is finally blooming, and it’s really interesting to watch how the flowers have opened wider every time I look at them:
Passiflora citrina, one of my most reliable bloomers:
A Chlorophytum, outside to enjoy some bright light before another dark winter on top of the bookcase:
Always lots of Abutilons:
A morning glory – I think the variety is called ‘Light Blue Star':
A rather unimpressive picture of a nasturtium (one of many reasons why I spent a part of yesterday looking at new cameras):
Oxalis vulcanicola, which was not cooperating with my camera at all – this is the least horrible picture.
So, a very belated post, and a very belated thank-you to Carol of May Dreams Gardens.
My bathroom does look pretty like this…
But not so much when I’m done and the tub looks like this…
I’m finally finding the energy to do something about the mealybugs that find some of my plants so delicious, which means dragging everything into the bathroom and spraying it with neem. Just because I don’t see mealybugs on everything doesn’t mean they aren’t there, and so everything is getting sprayed. And then dragging everything back and dropping more leaves and dirt all over the Nettle Nest. On the other hand, it gave me the perfect opportunity to rearrange my plants a bit, since Squirrel – my best friend’s son and thus my honorary nephew – has learned to crawl, so I had to move as many plants as possible out of reach. There’s just nothing I can do about my Tetrastigma and the big mixed planter in the living room, and of course that was the most interesting thing when they visited today (or technically yesterday, since it’s long past midnight, but it still feels like today to me.)
I just sent this in… applying for classes to become a master horticulturist (the next level up from a journeywoman, which I am now.)
Wish me luck that I filled everything out correctly (that form was not as easy to understand as it should have been), wish me luck that I heard correctly that we can send the applications per e-mail, wish me luck that I sent it early enough to still get in.
Although, I’m not too worried about that. If I don’t get in this year, I’ll try again next year.
And most of all, if I get in, wish me luck that I’ll stay sane. I always expect too much of myself, and drive myself crazy about exams and papers I have to write, which was part of the reason why I dropped out of university and started an apprenticeship instead. The other part of the reason was that I just wanted to work, and not sit on my butt and study for another few years. And I still wouldn’t want that, but I think I can deal with a few weeks of classes during the next three winters.
(And, hm, should I write them another e-mail and tell them they have a typo in their header? It’s a little embarrassing that they misspelled “Lehrling” (“apprentice”)…)
I still buy new passionflowers whenever I get the chance.
Some of them haven’t been blooming a lot (I’ll just blame the weird, cold summer we’ve been having), but when they do, it’s fantastic.
Wilgen K. Verhoeff (which the tag spells as ‘Verkoeff’, but Google suggests that’s wrong):
The leaves in the background, by the way, belong to Passiflora trifasciata, which has a lot less impressive flowers:
It blooms frequently, but only in the mornings, so I rarely see the flowers. I actually took the picture at work, on one of the plants I brought in to sell. (We even had one customer come in this year and ask for them (I’d brought some last year, too), which was pretty awesome for me.)
My most reliable bloomer – which has flowers pretty much every day, even if they’re small, is Passiflora citrina:
Passiflora aurantia is not quite such a constant bloomer, but still quite reliable. To be honest, though, I don’t really find it pretty. Just interesting and unusual.
And lastly, Passiflora murucuja, which blooms a bit less often than P. aurantia (or maybe I just don’t notice it as much, because the flowers are usually rather high up). Another one with rather small flowers, but so pretty.
‘Amethyst’ looks like it’s going to bloom any day now (it sure took it’s time, but as I said, I’m blaming the weather), but ‘Sapphire’ (which I love a lot more than ‘Amethyst’ just keeps aborting buds… I don’t know what’s going on there…
I really wanted to write another post – anything that’s not a Harvest Monday – last week, but apparently I still haven’t found the energy for it. And now you get another very quick post, because I spent all of yesterday fighting mealybugs, and all of today fighting the mess I made yesterday (that is, all of today that was left after work)…
As always, a thank you to Daphne, but I have too many things still to do before bed to write proper sentences.
Late again, because yesterday, I spent every spare minute reading Harry Potter or writing my traditional September 1st post (and hit “publish” one minute before midnight. Every year I swear I won’t cut it that close, and every year I do.)
The last of the windowsill carrots, a balcony railing kohlrabi, the first of the balcony beans, a leek and a minuscule amount of broccoli from the community garden. I think all of this went into a big pot of stew.
A completely ridiculous amount of apples from the work neighbours’ garden again… so far I’ve processed about 12 kg (dried, apple sauce and one pie) and eaten a few for lunch, but that was half at best…
A couple of peppers for a pasta dish…
And now I’m off to sleep. I had two very late nights due to rereading/posting about Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix...
Thanks as always to Daphne, and good night!
In Honour of September 1st – Barbecue with Family Friends [Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J.K. Rowling]
There are some things I’ve had in mind since I started this project of rereading one Harry Potter book a year, and one of them was the comparison of Order of the Phoenix to a barbecue in our back garden.
It’s a comparison that works on several levels.
I always compare books to food, and Harry Potter books and barbecues work very well for me there. Because there’s meat, which in a book is the plot, the adventures. There are pork chops for the main adventure, for the inevitable encounter with Voldemort, and sausages for the smaller adventures and mysteries along the way.
There are potatoes baked in the coals, and potatoes are the world a story is set in, the foundation on which everything else is built. And just as there is a special deliciousness to these potatoes, even though they came out a little charred every time, there is a special deliciousness to the wizarding world, even though it’s not perfect and sometimes not entirely logical.
There are vegetables – corn on the cob, grilled zucchini and eggplant slices, skewers with onions and peppers, cherry tomatoes and mushrooms – and just as I will always want to eat those vegetables (they’d better get me good dentures when I’m old, so I can still eat corn on the cob), I will always want to read about these characters (which is what vegetables are, in my book/food analogies).
There are gigantic bowls of salad, which in a book is humour, of which there is no shortage in the Harry Potter books. And especially in Order of the Phoenix, there is so much that makes me laugh, that makes me think of all those bowls of potato salad, lettuce, tomato salad, cucumber salad…
There wasn’t always dessert at our barbecues (because often we were too full to want any), but sometimes we’d throw a couple of overripe bananas on the grill. Dessert, in book terms, is romance, which Harry is just starting to discover, even if it doesn’t go very well… I suppose I could say this particular banana ended up burned…
So that’s the food side of things… but another level on which the comparison works for me is because of the people who were there for such barbecues. It was never just my family, but also many of those friends who are as good as family, gathering around a table that reminds me very much of the Weasleys, and sitting around the fire pit afterwards, feet stretched towards the flames, watching the sparks and the stars, talking and laughing. There’s a feeling of ease and companionship to these memories, a sense of belonging, that I also associate with the Harry Potter books.
And just like the Harry Potter series came to an end, so did those barbecues, those nights in the garden, those gatherings of family friends. They belong to an era before my parents got divorced, before that house and that garden were sold, before that group of friends – friends of my parents, family to me like Sirius or the Weasleys to Harry – drifted apart.
And lastly, Order of the Phoenix makes me think of a barbecue is because that’s what we had the day the book came out, the day we had our first Harry Potter party. It wasn’t nearly as elaborately planned as the later ones, but it was still fun, still a fond memory.
I actually got my book a little early, because one of those friends-who-are-family worked in a bookshop and managed to smuggle a copy out early and send it along with another friend who came for the party. That friend – called Bone-Hard for the purposes of this blog – still didn’t tell us about it until nearly midnight, and then we had to fight our way through layers of paper and tape… but still, we had the book one hour earlier than most of the world.
I had school on Saturdays, and I have no idea how I managed to pay attention in my classes that day. One of my classmates actually skipped school to go to the bookshop to pick up her copy, which is pretty much the only acceptable reason for skipping school I’ve ever heard.
And then, finally, home to friends and barbecue and silly games, and above all, reading.
And the odd things is, I don’t actually remember reading the book for the first time. I look at this picture of me and … let’s call him Sherlock reading, and I don’t remember it.
I remember rereading, over and over. I remember the physics classroom the following Monday, classmates splashing each other during break, and one of them hiding behind my book, because everyone knew how murderous I would get if it got damaged.
I remember the sports field behind the school, that same Monday, sitting by the gym door, reading and talking about the book, while one classmate was running and picking up apples because of a bet with the maths teacher (a story I love telling, but it has no place here.)
I remember my grandma’s birthday, and the Carpenter Brother and some other kids trying to pry the book from my hands and tearing the spine (it’s a miracle I didn’t drown them in the nearby lake.)
I remember a campsite in Croatia, lying in my hammock between an olive tree and a black locust, reading and thinking a lot…
And I’ve been thinking a lot while I reread it this past week, too.
I’ve been thinking about how I remember reading a lot of negative opinions about Order of the Phoenix, people claiming it was too long, and not enough happened, and complaining about capslock Harry, and about how I never found those things to complain about, but it wasn’t until now that I thought about why.
Because if you’d known me as a teenager… well, I was capslock Ivy. And I didn’t have half as much reason for yelling as Harry did. And I don’t think I quite remember how it felt to feel like I had to yell, I know I did feel like I had to, like it was the only way to be heard, the only way to make people understand how I felt, the only way to get out my rage.
And because I don’t mind slow books when I get to spend them with characters I love. And oh, how I love them. I love so many of them, I love them so fiercely, and Order of the Phoenix has so many of my favourite characters in so many of my favourite scenes.
I’ve been thinking about how I’m much more interested in the adults this time around, not just the kids any more (a shift I also noticed the last time I reread Memory, Sorrow and Thorn), in Petunia, in Molly and Arthur, in Sirius and Remus, in the teachers… Which is very similar to something that happened at those barbecues with family friends… growing up and realizing that I’d much rather sit and talk with the adults (while the younger kids were still bugging me to come play with them.)
I’ve been thinking about how I have to remind myself that for Harry, the events of the book come immediately after Goblet of Fire. There’s always this odd gap in my mind, because of the years spent waiting for Order of the Phoenix – like the first four are one big block, and the last three are another one (connected by parties and barbecues), and between them, my mind creates a big empty space, which just doesn’t exist in the story.
I’m thinking about how much I love to hate Umbridge, and how much I love McGonagall’s conversations with her. “Would you like a cough drop?” McGonagall is high on my list of favourites anyway, and I think I love her the most in this book.
And really, Umbridge is so awful, but she allows many of my favourites to be their awesome selves – Fred and George and their fireworks and the portable swamp, Dumbledore – “I could break out, of course, but what a waste of time”, or just all the teachers’ reactions to Harry’s interview in the Quibbler.
I’m thinking about Neville and his parents, and how much this story resonates with me. Not just because I have a disabled brother, but because I have a dear friend who has a parent with a disability, and who spent most of her life afraid that anyone would find out. Because even though it’s not something she could have inherited, people are going to make assumptions, and (especially when you’re still at school) people are going to tease you about it.
I’m thinking about Snape’s Worst Memory, about James and Sirius, and remembering that hammock in Croatia, looking up at leaves, silver and bright green, and the blue sky – why is that image still so strong in my memory, eleven years later – and thinking about the same thing. About how I wanted to like James and Sirius, and how I could not like bullies (especially not then, when the memories of being bullied myself were still much more recent). I remember writing page upon page in my diary, trying to work out my feelings. I don’t remember the conclusion I got to, then, but I also remember realizing, years later, that one of my classmates was a lot like what I imagined James to be like. Too bright for his own good, always a troublemaker, sometimes casually, thoughtlessly cruel, but also so charming when he wanted to be. And I’d liked that classmate (perhaps just because he was never cruel to me, perhaps because he also liked Harry Potter and so we had something to talk about), and thinking about him, I found myself forgiving James.
I’m thinking about how much I love all those whimsical details of the wizarding world, the entrances to the Ministry and St Mungo’s, firebreathing chickens and memos on paper airplanes, Headless Hats and Portable Swamps, feet-eating shoes and accidentally winged children and satsumas up noses, Charms lessons full of noisy animals, teacups with legs and fanged geraniums…
I’m thinking about Luna, how – even if I’ve never believed quite such weird stuff – I’ve often felt like her, the outsider, the one who dressed weirdly and said weird things, and how next to Hermione, she’s the one I identify with most.
And I’m not thinking about Sirius’ death, because I still can’t handle it. I thought I could, I thought I’d read it often enough that it wouldn’t affect me any more, but then I got to those last chapters, and from the time Harry dreams about Sirius being tortured, I could not stop sniffling and whimpering, chewing on my bookmark and burying my face in the couch.
And even though I’m heartbroken all over again now, I really, really love this book. It’s at the very least my second favourite, right behind Prisoner of Azkaban, and if I think about all the things that make me laugh (“It unscrews the other way,” just to throw a random line in there), they might even be tied.