The Rainbarreling!

So you already know I am kind of a moron when doing handy-man type stuff. But that doesn't stop me. Today I strode confidently across the lawn again, in that way that makes my husband stop and take notice. Because that is exactly the stride I hit when I am about to poke my eye out with a power tool.

The stride was followed up by my brandishing a hacksaw with a brand new blade for this occasion. This occasion being, the rainbarreling!

Pinellas County extension sold me the rain barrel yesterday along with a class. These are big blue industrial-type barrels that used to hold foodstuffs, usually fruit juices. Mine smells like fruit punch. And now the car, my clothes and my hair all smell like juicyfruit gum. Here I thought hippies usually smell like patchouli.

I already have 3 barrels out back and I've seen the class before, but I wanted pointers. Because this rain barreling was going to be different. Challenging! It was going to involve cutting the downspout.

This is something I've managed to avoid so far. When we moved in, most of our downspouts were already in pieces held together with spit and rubber bands. I'm not sure why all those downspouts were mangled by the previous owners, but it makes me aware that I'm not the first handyman-impaired person to take up residence in this home.

So anyway, here I go, hacksaw in hand, striding gamely toward my next emergency room visit. Andy jogs after me, asking what's up and convincingly acting like he is interested in rain barrels and not just trying to save the ER co-pay. I beat him to the downspout, jump into the thick hibiscus and porter's weed and start lining up the saw.

"Have you taken measurements or anything?" he asks. I laugh at the thought and take a swipe with the saw. Paint flutters off the metal spout.

I was settled in, sizing up my saw angle when I hear it.

"Hold on" was all he had to say. Immediately I jumped out of the bushes. He pointed to something under the downspout, then knocked on the tin. Out jumps a Wolf spider the size of my fist. Big knobby knees, gray fur on a brown body, holy crap!

It's Nature Boy's job to scare the spider away. While he shoos it through the brush, I wonder at the moment. His words weren't loud, but they possessed a tone that made me jump out of the way. It was my first (only) act of self preservation today. It lasted two whole seconds.

Together we managed to remove the downspout and set up the rainbarrel without an ER visit, yippee! With any luck all the hibicus blooms will smell like juicyfruit this year!

Trellising III: Revenge of the Poo

Scroll through the other posts recently and you'll find I am trellising wuss. Long story short, we lost some shade tree coverage that left some stuff with a sunburn, I can't be trusted with a circular saw and I almost lost an eye, blah blah blah.

It will surprise no one that my shade sail / frost cloth / staple-gun-adventure fell down almost immediately in our summer rains. After three hasty repairs in the rain, the idea was abandoned and the frost cloth took up it's usual position draped pathetically across the sunburned plants, stuck to their leaves like dejected wet t-shirt contest losers.

I researched, I hunted, I scoured the interwebs for an answer. And in the end, my research paid off:

I found a great price on a compost tea maker, I saw a bunch of LOLcats and I watched too many failblog crotch/skateboard accident videos. Have you ever tried to research anything on the web? There are too many other cool things to look up. Do you know the difference between a crack pipe and meth pipe? Huh? Well now I do. Very helpful when watching COPS.

So this weekend I got sick of looking at my Trellising Fail reminder and just transplanted the damn things. I could see from a mile away that it was a tangled mess of boston fernlettes and Monstera in mud.

What I could not see was the fact that it has been mistaken for a Possum Potty for some time now. Sick possums by the feel of it. Yes, tactile contact was made before visual contact had been established. Now I could have gotten gloves at this point, but why? It was already under my fingernails, what's the freaking point?

As you may have guessed, this is when the transplant turned ugly. I'm not known for being good at transplantation, and a slippery (oh God) hand trowel was not helping my mood. I was ready for this to be over ASAP.

And suddenly I realized that every DIY'er that I had seen do this on TV was full of it. FULL OF IT. Every time it's on TV, it's always some plant in the middle of a field moving to another place in the middle of a field. Never have I seen Paul Freakin' James squatting between a fence and a possum sewage pit in the middle of a sea of flies, mosquitoes and (new!) hornets.

Needless to say, my transplant involved a good deal more yanking and cursing than is usual. The monstera made it, though I ended up removing most of it's two big branches and doing a lot of apologizing. To make up for it, I plopped it in my best worm-y area in the center of some new mushroom compost. I was so tired after all that I didn't even run to the bathroom to cleanse myself of the experience. My husband found me slouched in the backyard, staring at the plant in disbelief. I looked pitiful enough that he bought me my favorite ice cream at the store.

So I guess it wasn't all that bad.

He also mentioned that - while he avoids the room when I watch my gardening shows - he would be more interested if Paul James involved more possum feces in his show. Just a suggestion for the Gardener Guy.

Area Woman Held Hostage by Rowdy Hibiscus

I love hibiscus. I don't care the variety, colorations, single or double blossoms, I have them all. Why? Simple. They're on my side. But sometimes they turn.

When I started gardening, these were the only plants I could count on to make it through Florida's punishing summer. Sure, they always bit it in the winter, but they came back. Better. Stronger. Faster. The 100 million dollar hibiscus.

In fact, after the first or second season, they begin to get a little rowdy. They crowd others, they block sidewalks, their branches scrape the cars leaving the garage. The situation demands action. A trimming! Hedge clipping! Time to take them on, to do battle, to show them who wears the gardening gloves in this yard!

And that's when I blink.

It's not because I think they'll be damaged if I cut them back. Forever scarred, telling Dr. Phil about my misdeeds on a talk show in 10 years. I know they're tougher than that. I've seen them burned to the ground by frost only to come back, a little trim isn't something they'll get all bent out of shape about.

It's the blooms. The amazing six inch flowers, the colors, the vibrancy that makes them such a fixture in Florida gardens. These flowers only grow off new wood. The same wood I'm thinking of trimming off, thus reducing my flowers. Now you see my conundrum.

I think they know about my conundrum too. Last fall I knew the ones in the back were getting too leggy and needed a trim. BUT, there were these full flower buds at the end of the branches! So I'll trim next weekend. Well, they finally rewarded me with a show a good 2-3 months afterward. December. They know, I'm telling ya.

So I'm seeing Garage Hibiscus peeking around the corner of the house. He knows he is out of bounds. He's an old one, going on seven years, the "presidential" variety. Super tough and resilient with a trunk that's 3+ inches in diameter. He's seen it all. He's not afraid of the hedge trimmers.

Tomorrow, it's on. Yeah, yeah, tomorrow.