Kiss the Earth

Today is the first day in a week that I've awakened feeling like myself. Despite the dark and gloom of this rainy first of February, it's a happy day. No more food poisoning. I'll leave the details to my readers' imaginations, but it doesn't take much to imagine how miserable this week has been. Now, the idea of real food...drinking pot-brewed tea...sleeping through the night. All such simple pleasures that, when taken away, are deeply missed.

Yesterday, when I was only half-me, the day was sparkling cold and sunny. I trekked over to The Spring Gardens, that incredible community garden that occupies the square city block bounded by 18th and 19th, North and Wallace Streets. If you haven't seen this garden, you should drive by sometime, preferably when the season's in full swing.

But even now, it's the quintessential urban garden. The skyline spreads magnificently in the background, so close it almost feels like scenery on a stage. The garden, which has 100 plots and ample room for picnicking and socializing, is ringed by row houses like the ones that used to occupy this lot. Imagine having such a view from your front stoop.

And it's not just the garden that you ought to come see. It's the fence, a work of art. Steel, eight feet tall, designed by Toronto artist Alex Bak and architect Stephen J. White, who lives nearby and heads up the garden. The tines are close together, creating the sensation of peering through rushes and some are topped with curlicues and birds.

There's a cherry orchard, a bamboo stand, piles of compost, wood chips and Belgian block. As I stood there, a catbird alighted on a pole. The whole scene was a portrait of dormancy, yet it had life and potency, as well, for there are still bushy rosemary plants, even a rogue spinach on display.

One thing I always enjoy about community gardens, and it's a sign of how fertile the soil is, is to walk the woodchipped paths. They're spongey. Your feet don't so much walk as bounce along. It's such a pleasant sensation.

You can tell a lot about people by the way they garden. Spring Gardens has its share of neatniks and more than a few less organized souls. Some have straight fences outlining their plots. Some spill over. But standing there, you can almost hear the conversation and laughter, the industry and cooperation - and competition - among all of the gardeners. Recalls my days as a community gardener, the fun of heading down there and meeting up with neighbors and new friends, the sharing that took place, the joking, the admiring of others' handiwork.

Today may not look or feel or smell like spring, but in the next few days, we're going to be tantalized. Temperatures in the 50's. No doubt a few Spring Gardeners, unable to restraing themselves, will be sneaking a first peak at their plots, as I did.

I've made no secret of my dislike for ornamental cabbage. I think it's just plain ugly and can't imagine who thinks it adds anything to a garden, flower bed or landscape. Please explain it to me if you're a fan.

But today, walking through Center City, I stopped in the rain to admire this. At first I thought it was cabbage. Then it looked more like a variety of ornamental kale. Its leaves are serrated and interesting, it's open, almost like it's floating under water, rather than a closed bowling ball-head.

And grouped like this, it's lovely. This was in front of Three Parkway, and on such a dismal day it was bright and arresting.

Nicely done!

In keeping with a New Year's vow to take more advantage of all this region has to offer to lovers of gardens and animals, my husband and I headed out yesterday to visit the John Heinz National Wildlife Refuge at Tinicum in Southwest Philly/Delaware County. It'd been more than 20 years since our last visit - how did that happen? - and it was surely time.

The day was sublime, a pinch of a chill in the air but bright sunshine all 'round. Barely 200 yards into the trail, we were treated to the sight of a red-tailed hawk up in a tree feasting on a fresh-killed squirrel. Out came the binoculars, a must-have for this place, and we watched this magnificent creature devour his lunch entree with brutal gusto. (Actually, I'd like to invite him to my place next time. We have a few squirrels to offer for the luncheon menu.)

That was breathtaking, especially considering the site ... tank farm on one side, I-95 on another, jets taking off and landing overhead, the airport train line whizzing by, sirens in the distance, Marriott hotel straight on. Sadly, in Darby Creek, which runs alongside the path, tiny islands composed of nothing but discarded cans and bottles floated by. No mistaking where we were. I'd just as soon do without these ubiquitous reminders that human beings are such spoilers, but the creek's filth wasn't the only one. We saw several signs warning against eating any fish caught in the refuge. (Care for some PCBs with your sunfish, Madame? I'll take mine on the side, thanks.)

We noted the signs, felt crummy about the litter, then tried to focus on the birds. Perhaps because of those two things, rather than despite them, you're filled with thoughts of how precious and fragile these winged creatures are, how vital to our world and gardens. More than 300 bird species have been sighted in the refuge and environs and recorded by birders, including swans, geese, ducks, loons, pheasants, cormorants, herons, egrets, ibises, vultures, osprey, eagles and hawks. More than 80 species nest here, and you'll see nests, bird- and man-made, everywhere, from houses perched on poles in the water to carefully woven stick nests atop poles on land.

The beauty of a place like this is that all you do is walk and watch and chances are you'll see a great number of birds. They come to you, in a sense, as they make their way along the the Atlantic Flyway in spring and fall, stopping here to rest and feed.

After the red-tailed hawkfest, we ambled on and just a short way down the path we came upon a great blue heron standing still as ice, his spindly legs planted in the mud of the marsh. What an elegant figure he cut as he waited for the right fish at the right moment. Such patience. Such cunning.

We stood transfixed, passing the binoculars back and forth, admiring the racy black feathers edging off the back of his sleek, aerodynamic head and the ruffly gray ones on his chest. "He looks like a gentleman going to a party," my husband said, his best anthropomorphic comment of the day.

Altogether, we saw four or five herons and egrets and probably missed a dozen more, and lots of ducks and geese. Part of nature's genius, obvious here in so many ways, is the way these creatures blend into their surroundings, whether to protect or hide from predators or prey. Our heads were full of such thoughts, communicated silently.

We walked along the boardwalk, out into the water, noticing that even the reeds in this special place seemed part of nature's design. Bent over, cut off, sticking up straight, their reflections in the motionless water created dozens of geometric shapes, like Miro sketches. Some even looked like fish, and once you saw one, you saw them all. We noted that other visitors seemed not to see what we were seeing at every turn - there, there, over there and there. Amazing patterns.

There are hundreds more birds to see - hummingbirds and finches, orioles and blackbirds, tanagers and warblers, along with turtles and frogs, raccoons and red foxes and more kinds of mice than I care to count.

It was a sparkling day, filled with wonder. The most wonderful thing of all is that it's here, in the city, run by the federal government - the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. It's free, in other words.

"At least till April 15," my husband said.

It somehow felt fitting that on the morning the Flower Show gets its official send-up, the temperature outside is flirting with 70. At least it seemed that way to me. But no, Sam Lemheney, the show's director, had the opposite view. "I hope it snows!" he said. That way, come March 2, we'll all troop down to the Convention Center in our boots and parkas, starved for the warm, moist, floral blast only those first few steps into the Philadelphia Flower Show can provide.

Ah well. It wasn't the most auspicious beginning to the festivities. A marching band from Camden failed to show this morning. The event's freebies - gumbo and cornbread - seemed a bit early in the day even for journos. And speaking of journos, there weren't many.

But no matter. Jane Pepper stepped up in her bright fuschia blazer, cheery as a tulip, to get things going. The show does sound like fun ... and you know it's a ton of work. Floral chandeliers hanging overhead, "more bromeliads than you've ever seen in your entire life," Sam says. Secret gardens, hidden courtyards, balconies riffing with cascading greenery ... I could deal with this!

And good news for those of you who loved the Celtic Gardens exhibit that ran way with so many honors last year. This was the haunting scene of the chapel ruins. It was one of my favorites. They'll be back, Sam says. It'll be interesting to see what they come up with.

Michael Bruce's exhibit will be all hanging stuff with sound pockets to get us dancing! He's a clever fellow. Can't wait to see that. Robertson's, another perennial, is planning an oversized piano room. And the Men's Garden Club is doing a juke joint in a bayou.

I've already interviewed Bob and Karen Lamsback, who're doing the central feature. They're cool cats at the moment, and they pretty much convinced me they'll stay that way throughout. They've organized the set-building, the flower-ordering, the temporary student-workers ... everything's ready to go. I'm curious to see their "rhythm rooms," each with a contemporary design and bold colors.

Which leads me to a resolution. This year, in addition to enjoying the color, scents and sounds of the show, to say nothing of all that shopping, I'm going to try to do what Sam and Jane and Bob and Karen and everyone else is telling me and all the other show-goers: Find new ideas, practical and beautiful, for my garden.

So, come to think of it, let it snow!

This lovely thing - a camellia - was blooming in my neighbor's garden this morning. I liked it better yesterday. Its shapely form, bright pink petals and shiny green leaves seemed so spring-like - and so did the air, which was almost 70 degrees. We ran around without coats on last night!

It was still there this morning, though the temperature had dropped by almost 20 degrees. I donned a coat this time and dashed over to the neighbor's house to take this stealth photo. Perhaps that's the point. Camellias are blooming all over this area, once thought too cold for them to survive past summer.

That's thanks to the warming trend, but also to all the new cold-hardy varieties now available to home gardeners. And that's the subject of a national conference coming to Longwood Gardens on Feb. 23-24. For info, you can visit www.camellias-acs.org or call 478-967-2358. (You need to register ahead.)

The conference is sponsored by the American Camellia Society, which unfortunately has no local chapter closer than Washington, D.C. Kind of surprising when you consider that Philadelphia was an important center for camellias back in the 19th century, whether the issue was number of growers, varieties originated or plants propagated. Some of the early standouts include Robert Buist, James B. Smith and David Landreth. Even Longwood has a camellia connection.

"Philadelphia, in the early days, was a hotbed of interest in camellias," says Barb Tuffli, a camellia enthusiast who called earlier this week from California to talk about the Longwood conference. There'll be lots for home gardeners to see and learn. She promised.

Camellia experts will be on hand. You'll learn about flower-arranging using camellias and making tea from camellias and what companion plants to use with them in the garden. Cost depends on how much of the festivities you care to experience.

Till then, take a spin around the neighborhood. You never know when you'll catch a blooming camellia in the middle of winter - when it isn't 70 degrees!

I guess I'm just a romantic fool. No better way to celebrate Valentine's Day than to take a walk through a cemetery. No kidding. Laurel Hill Cemetery in East Falls is a fun romp any day of the week but this past Saturday a group of about 35 of us gathered to hear the love stories therein. People came from Center City, New Jersey, the neighborhood (that's us) and elsewhere across the city to hear Gwen Kaminski, development and programming director, spin yarns about the many loves in the cemetery.

There was marital love, love of siblings and children, love of pets, love of self and knowledge, all of it explained in diaries or on tombstones and obelisks. And though you can see and hear the Schuylkill Expressway and all the city's other noises while standing in the cemetery, it's a surprisingly peaceful place. The residents are very quiet.

One of my favorite tales of the tour was the story of Jesse the calico cat. He belonged to David Horwitz, who was there on Saturday. Long story, but David, who teaches American history at Philadelphia Community College, had a tenant upstairs for 30 years. She'd actually lived there for 50 altogether. She was quiet and nice and all alone, so when she got sick with pancreatic cancer, David decided to let Jesse take the lead in hospice care. The tenant had a boatload of nephews but no one ever came to visit. And she was a cat person.

She died in 2001 at age 91 but there's no doubt in David's mind that Jesse made her last months a lot more bearable. "She called him her boyfriend. He was the friendliest cat I've ever had and the best caregiver ever," said David, and he's had cats since 1949. Jesse died of leukemia at age 9 a year ago, and not only did David bury his tenant in his own family plot at Laurel Hill, but Jesse went there, too.

Another tale that warmed my heart came from Daniel Dailey, an electrician from Denver, Pa., who came with his wife Donnamarie and nine-year-old twins Jacob and Maddie. In keeping with the wacky sense of humor everyone connected to this cemetery seems to enjoy, the Daileys have a hobby they call "dead Dailey hunting."

It started around 1990 when Dan's grandfather died. He'd told his grandkids tales of the family and Dan's interest was piqued. He started going to Laurel Hill to research his great-great-great-great grandfather John Birely. He found wills, deeds, all sorts of burial records for the 32 family members who were buried here between 1867 and the 1920s. John Birely, turns out, was a shipbuilder in Fishtown and a veteran of the War of 1812. His gravesite, however, was in need of repair and Dan bought a new bronze plaque, stone and shrubs for it. Total cost: $1,500.

"Everybody should have a tombstone, no matter if you knew them or not," he says. The family has been "dead Dailey hunting" in Maryland, Tennessee and Georgia, too.

Fun tales, and though they revolve around death, they're also about life. And this being a gardening blog, I couldn't resist asking Ross Mitchell, the cemetery's executive director, about the trees and plantings in this place.

He warmed to the topic. John Jay Smith, who founded the cemetery in 1836, was president of the Philadelphia Library Club and an amateur horticulturist. He planted 700 species of plants from around the world, desiring, as Mitchell tells it, for Laurel Hill to be a cemetery and arboretum. Not much remains today but there are massive gingko trees and beautiful magnolias and, while most "rural" cemeteries (which this was, in its day) had ponds and lakes, "We have the river," he said.

That makes a beautiful vista for thinking and it's also a grand metaphor, none better, for a cemetery full of people who've crossed over to the great beyond, traversed the River Styx and all that.

Fast forward past years of benign neglect and construction along Kelly Drive, and Laurel Hill now is thinning out some of the trees that over time have grown so large they block that vista. And a popular vista it was ... Mitchell says 30,000 people came to the cemetery in 1848 to picnic, walk around and enjoy the view, so many, they had to issue passes.

The cemetery is 78 acres, with only about one acre left for gravesites. But it's still a fascinating place to walk around and enjoy. In fact, Mitchell says he wants to build up the cemetery's arboretum aspect, replanting and landscaping as money permits.

You should go! Laurel Hill has wonderful programs. I've been to its Halloween walk a couple of times and the Dec. 31 birthday (and wedding anniversary) of Gen. George Meade, who is buried here in a simple grave with his beloved wife Margaretta. Next program is on Sunday, Feb. 24 at 2 p.m.: The Victorian Celebration of Death. Another comes on Saturday, March 15 at 2 p.m.: In Heaven B'fore the Devil Knows You're Dead, a tour and toast to St. Patrick. Give the cemetery staff a call - they like reservations for some events - at 215-228-8200 or go to www.theundergroundmuseum.org.

I have chattered on far too long. Happy Valentine's Day! and see you in the cemetery.

Some gardens, like mine, look pretty desolate in winter. Bartram's Garden in Southwest Philly is one that has so much more going for it ... it looks haunting and beautiful when the weather's cold. It's at 54th Street and Lindbergh Boulevard, next to Bartram Village, a housing project, and right up against the Schuylkill. Access wasn't always so easy. Where a 15-acre wildflower meadow exists today, there once was a concrete company. There are two other former industrial parcels next door that are cleared and awaiting development.

It would be lovely news if this very special place were to be rediscovered for what must be the 500th time. This is the home, after all, of the famed botanist John Bartram, the self-taught naturalist and farmer who is considered "the father of American botany." On his adventures up and down the East Coast and west to Ohio, he and his son William discovered and brought back many unusual and rare plants.

George Washington and Thomas Jefferson visited this place. John was good friends with Ben Franklin. These guys hung out right there off Lindbergh Boulevard, which I'll bet most Philadelphians couldn't find with an atlas.

I visited the other other day. It was very cold but the ground was still muddy. Louise Turan, the new director, apologized for the mud, but I just had to wander out into the wildflower meadow. Not many wildflowers in evidence this time of year, but it's so cool to stand in the middle of the meadow and gaze across the river to the skyline.

There's a new dock just at river's edge, and it's brought a few tourists over from the Walnut Street dock, but Louise is determined to boost the numbers big time. She's a dynamo, and while she clearly relishes the serenity this place affords, she also has big ideas for how to reposition it, enhance its public profile and attract a lot more visitors.

Bicyclists, birders, gardeners, artists, walkers, school children .. they all find their way here but not in the numbers they could or should. That, most likely, will change shortly. I hope so. This is one of those historic sites - of which there are so many in Philadelphia - that people consider off the beaten track or hard to get to. It's closer than the Linc. Parking is a whole lot easier than it is in Center City. And imagine taking a boat ride to get here. That would send me right back to the 18th century.

Visiting places like Bartram's Garden, which dates to 1728, always inspires me to read about the people who lived and worked there. Louise gave me a copy of William Bartram's memoirs, which I've already started reading. And guess what! I found the account of his discovery in North Carolina of the native red hibiscus I love so much and wrote about in summer 2006 - Hibiscus coccineus or scarlet hibiscus. I saw it growing in a tiny row house yard in Roxborough, of all places, knocked on the door and talked to the people growing this thing.

They insisted cars slowed down to look at it and people yelled from within, "What IS that thing?" It was huge, with poinsettia-type red flowers and (how would I know) marijuana-type leaves. A real looker.

So the Bartrams' adventures came home to me in vivid red in Roxborough that day. As they say, it all started here.

I came across this little gem over the weekend, down at Bartram's Garden, where I went for the second time in as many weeks to enjoy the solitude and view. You can see the downtown skyline clear as day here, and in weather like this, you'll never find a crowd walking the paths around the sleeping gardens.

But as I rounded the corner of John Bartram's simple stone house, there it was - winter aconite, which you sometimes see blooming in the snow. I've seen it doing that over at Morris Arboretum. No snow at the moment, but the aconites are up and running. One flower per stem, members of the buttercup family, it's a happy surprise to see them every year around this time.

They're only a few inches tall when blooming, but they have that bright buttercup-yellow hue that is so welcome amidst the season's brown and gray.

Took a drive up to Meadowbrook Farm in Abington the other day to see what's growing for the Flower Show. As I walked through the moist, warm "hoop houses," where hundreds of show flowers are being grown, it was snowing outside - big, fat, loopy flakes. It seemed so incongruous, given that I was sweating and peeling layers of clothing inside.

On the other hand, isn't this what the Flower Show is for? To tease us with an unseasonable spring even as it snows outside? You bet.

Outside, the statuary almost shivered as the snow settled. Inside everything was lush and colorful - ferns, palms, cannas, coleus, elephant ears, banana, orchids, bromeliads, passionflower, Carolina jasmine, brugmansia ... and row upon row of annuals like white and lavender impatiens and huge round marigolds.

I really loved the coleus here at Meadowbrook, the former estate of J. Liddon Pennock that's now owned by the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society. Sometimes as gardeners we "discover" plants that have been around forever but not on our radar. When I saw the coleus beds at Meadowbrook, I was astounded. Massed as they were, you were almost blinded by their wild colors - screaming gold, limey green, raging red and pink - I began to understand why there are so many coleus fanatics out there. I started imagining how they would look in my dark gray patio containers. Wow!

Speaking of tropicals, which we were at Meadowbrook recently, canna lilies are another plant that I've discovered long after most of you probably did. They weren't part of my landscape genetic material until last summer, when I bought a few dwarf varieties at Primex. (That's a place where I could easily spend my inheritance!) They were slow to get going but were a delight all summer long and longer into the cool weather than I would've expected, knowing that they're of tender constitution.

I had a yellow one with orange spots and a creamy apricot one, and interestingly, few visitors knew what they were. Had my visitors been from the South, no doubt they would've recognized them instantly.

Cannas aren't really lilies, and like many gaudy, outrageously colorful plants, they were popularized by the Victorians. Those Victorians sure were repressed. All their wildness came out in plants! Cannas are now what publicists and hyperbolic garden writers call "hot," a characterization that makes me run the other way. But they are cool. Guess that's what makes them "hot."

With the container-planting trend, cannas have taken off. Tropical plants, too, have become very popular up here in the hardy North. People are growing them indoors, and planting them on patios in summer. They're a bit funny looking, but that could just be my cold-weather sensibility. I can see how you'd come to love them, even be passionate about them, given enough time around them.

And then, as they say, you won't be able to resist. In other words, you canna have just one.

Years after my husband successfully weaned me from the crass commercial desire for Valentine's Day flowers, suddenly an arrangement arrives at the office on Valentine's Day 2008. This was a shock. I'd long ago dismissed the holiday as he did, just an excuse to pressure guys into spending a lot of money and women (sorry, girls) to feel competitive with one another based on the amount spent, the size and price of the flowers or gift, etc.

Now what do I do? A vase of red roses, red carnations, white snapdragons and baby's breath appeared on my desk with a mushy card. Hey! Chalk it up to middle age, I guess, the idea that once you get to a certain age, if you're lucky, you realize how lucky you are. And I do.

That said, I was chagrined to note that the roses were all the way open and already darkening around the edges. Within two hours, petals were dropping on the desk. Colleagues suggested I call the florist.

So I did. He couldn't have been more gracious, although his first response was, "This is an open-flower arrangement. It's supposed to look like that." Why, I asked, would you sell an arrangement to anyone that has fully opened roses in it from the get-go? I don't think most men, or customers of any kind, take note of that or think to ask. Rose buds don't even last long.

This being Valentine's Day, my florist was beyond busy, but he promised to send another arrangement on Monday. Great. Thank you. Meanwhile, the roses on my desk shed petals like leaves in a wind storm. They were bare by (last) Friday.

Monday rolled around and sure enough, another floral box arrived at work, just like the other one except this one had prettier greens, white instead of red carnations and a black square plastic container, rather than a glass one. Once again, the roses were open, though not nearly as wide as the earlier ones were.

Open-flower arrangements strike me as a spectacular waste of money. I think it's unfair for florists to sell them to unsuspecting customers. Perhaps florists and decorators like the look, but for ordinary folks, paying all that money for something that looks like hell in less than a day is a scary statement on the love Valentine's Day is supposed to celebrate.

Perhaps, as one friend suggested, putting open roses in there is an easy way to get rid of flowers that have been hanging around the cooler too long. Time out! Flowers from the florist aren't cheap and they're especially not cheap on Valentine's Day.

Five days after the new flowers arrived, the rose petals are falling off just as the other ones did. Even the carnations are browning around the edges. Clearly, they weren't fresh to begin with. The red ones from last week are still doing fine.

So to my dear husband, I say, thank you for this sweet and unexpected gesture. I loved the mushy card, a clear sign sign we're getting soft in middle age. But next time, if you insist on being such a softie again, beware of florists selling open roses. Talk about crass and commercial.

Here's what the Wissahickon Creek looked like yesterday, in late afternoon. The sun was about to sink behind the trees. It shimmered silver in the sky, infusing the woods with a strange but beautiful white light.

Hardly anyone was afoot beyond a few runners (one in shorts!) and a couple of crazy x-country skiers on the muddy path. Did they notice the creek? Clear, clean, cold ... snowy branches hanging over. Brought to mind Thomas Fuller, the 17th century intellectual and collector of clever adages like "fine cloth is never out of fashion" and "hatred is blind as well as love."

He said something I've always liked: "He that plants trees loves others beside himself."

Talk about a good time! A bunch of us were talking in the office the other day and someone noticed that my vase full of pussy willow stems was sprouting green growth up above and roots below the water. That's a first. Been buying these every spring for years and don't remember ever seeing them root. Maybe I never put them in water before.

I'm thinking maybe they ought to go in the ground in a few weeks. They like sun and I have a sunny spot that's been tough to landscape. Nothing seems to grow there, even things like coneflower that thrive in other bright locations. Pussy willows have a tough constitution but beware. They come with warnings about invasive roots and, being fast growers, they need to be pruned, at least for height, to control their size.

Pussy willows are one of the early harbingers of spring, which is why so many people leave the Flower Show with an armful. It's an annual ritual for lots of us. I think the region's wildlife is happy about that ... deer, goldfinches, muskrats, red squirrels and ruffled grouse apparently love to munch on pussy willow buds. Wouldn't appeal to me - too fuzzy - but taste is such an subjective thing.

So is taste in wildlife. As in ... I wouldn't be too happy if a deer showed up in my city garden, but a ruffled grouse? Come on down!

Inside the Pennsylvania Convention Center, it feels like a combination of early spring and Santa's workshop. Delectable smells of dirt and mulch and lots of noise!

I stopped by this afternoon, my first foray into Flower Show madness, and things were well along. Mike Devlin, head of the Camden Children's Garden, was a cool cat. All his flowers had arrived and a smartly-outfitted crew was busily putting them in place. No nonsense here.

They had saw some rocket snapdragons that were loaded with buds, just beginning to open. They should hold off OK, given that the temperature in the convention center was pretty frosty. I ran around without a coat but Mike was decked out for a ski trip. (He was warmer.)

The French Quarter is coming together. This is part of the central feature, done by Bob and Karen Lamsback. I saw both of them there but didn't say hello. They were quite busy. Karen was up on a balcony. Didn't want to catch her off guard. Could be dangerous!

The central feature is looking fine. I like the oversized bass and the wild piano keys. It was hard to imagine just how three-dimensional they'd be from the drawings. Take it from me. They're three.

But mostly this part of the Flower Show process seems to be about boy toys. No, not that kind of boy toy .. the kind that rumbles and rolls, picks up big blobs of dirt and moves them from one side of the room to the other, little front-loaders with DEERE on the side and baby bulldozers moving huge trees.

It's fun to slip silently through the aisles before the show starts and people have their game faces on. To tell the truth, no one seems too tense, although it's only Wednesday ...

I'll pop in again tomorrow, see how the boy toys are holding up. Gotta get my fix of chainsaw sound effects. Go, guys!

Today at the set-up for the flower show opening on Sunday, the pace has clearly picked up. The convention center is noisier, there are more people around and the empty spaces are filling in. More vendors are here today, too. I say here because I'm filing this as I look down on the show floor. The lights are bright, the air even colder than yesterday but once again, no one seems concerned about deadlines. These folks ought to try journalism. Deadlines make us crazy.

I don't know about you, but the more I learn about plants and gardening, the more I realize I need to learn. On the other hand, I find this year that I recognize a heck of a lot more plants and flowers than last year. Over the last year, I've even visited a number of the exhibitors or at least talked to the owners and workers. That's called education. Very exciting.

I stopped by the Meadowbrook Farm exhibit just now, and realized that two weeks ago I saw the flowers they're using growing in the hoop houses there. I felt recognition - hello there, cosmos! (see photo) Same for the sexy 'Fishnet stockings' coleus, which a group of guys was unloading. I'll bet they have no idea what they're handling. These coleus really do remind you of fishnet stockings, though none that I ever wore in my wild youth. These were made for ... excusez moi ... ladies of the night, perhaps.

For all the excitement, one conclusion is inescapable. This is first and foremost a show. But this year I'm going to make it my classroom, too. Shouldn't be hard. I find these folks more than happy to explain what they're growing and anything about it you want to know. In fact, sometimes I forget I'm working. All I want to do is soak it up.

I used to go to the show just to gawk. Now I plan to take as much advantage of these folks as I can. It's for a good cause, after all.