The color of August in the Bay Area

It's August already. 
And around here where summer rain is rare...
this is the color of August. 
Grass is the color of spun gold 
on hills dotted with the deep olive green 
of stands of California Live Oak.

Finding my own Tuscany

I'm a little bit embarrassed to admit that until today I had not ever been to the Japanese Tea Gardens in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. Despite being a native of the Bay Area and having gone to the museum adjacent to the gardens, I had never gone in until Hubby took me there today. Today was a typical summer day in San Francisco--overcast and cool... perfect conditions for shooting photographs.

Hubby and I like to listen to podcasts in the car whenever we take a road trip and today's short drive into the city was no exception. One podcast featured an interview with one of my favorite writers, Frances Mayes (author of Under the Tuscan Sun). I rarely read a book more than once but this is one book that I've read multiple times because of the way I'm drawn into Frances' memoirs of restoring an old villa in the Tuscan countryside. As I listened to the podcast interview today, I realized that it was the first time I'd heard her voice audibly. As she described her love of Tuscany with a hint of a soft southern accent, I had a few epiphanies. One epiphany that struck deeply is one that has tried to resound ever-so-softly in my inner core for some time now.

And it is this...

I live in an area that many non-locals see as a vacation destination. For some, a trip to San Francisco may be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Just as I've dreamed of visiting Tuscany for the past 13 or so years since I first read Frances Mayes' book, there are others living around the globe that dream of visiting the San Francisco Bay Area. The land of my birth; the place I often take for granted and consider to be so ordinary; the horizon I've spent a lot of my life looking beyond... this is the very place that others dream of visiting in person.

My next thought was, "Why am I looking beyond the horizon then?" Yes, indeed... why am I?

Then a wave of wonderful epiphanies came as I realized if I was in Tuscany there is so much that I would miss.

I would have missed the first flight of the fledgling sparrows this past weekend as the little birds flapped their wings and took off from their nest under the eaves right outside my studio window--a wonderful small miracle I was blessed to witness just by chance.

I would miss the screech of barn owls soaring overhead in the midnight sky, their ghostly white silhouettes dancing against the backdrop of August's Perseid meteor shower.

I would miss the soft hoarse meows of a little feral garden kitty calling to me from the back garden as I return from an afternoon away. She doesn't need to trust me, but she does. And her meows are her way of asking me to sit with her in the garden just to pet her for a few minutes before she goes off on her way to do whatever it is she does when the sun sinks low in the sky.

The final epiphany then came... what am I waiting for? I need to embrace the reality that I am here. My roots have begun to take hold, and they're going deeper than they ever have in any place I've ever lived. So why not embrace it and live every day as fully as I live each day that I'm on vacation somewhere else?

Yes, indeed... why not?

So I'm on the precipice of starting a journey that isn't really a journey. I still don't know if it is worthy of writing about here. I know I will be toting my camera with me (that's just what I do). I may just share photos and not so many words. I don't know. Any thoughts?

Having a blue spring day... and why

With blue skies and some blue flowers blooming around Rosehaven Cottage, yesterday and today are "blue" in the good sense of the word. I've been out weeding around the rosebushes where the bulbs are sprouting and blooming at their feet. The heady fragrance of the first hyacinths are intoxicating. And, for me, the blue color is even more intoxicating...

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I didn't do any color correction to the above image... that's the brilliant blue that my eyes see. Isn't it amazing? I have pink, "red", and white hyacinths too, but none of them take my breath away like the blue ones.

Also to my delight, the plum tree is blooming!

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The blooming of the plum tree heralds my favorite part of spring. I live and garden in the San Francisco Bay Area in California. Ornamental pear and almond blossoms arrive first in late January or early February. The rest (like the plum) start coming around now. The neighbor's nectarine and peach are in bloom right now too.

Our micro-climate is much like the south of France or Tuscany--a Mediterranean climate with just about all our rainfall in the winter months, leaving us with hot and dry summers. So right now, our hills are green (they'll be golden in summer), and spring has begun.

I know I reference "micro-climates" a lot when I'm trying to describe our climate. I've decided to finally show you how complex this whole thing really is for gardeners in our neck of the woods. Sunset magazine (also the publisher of Sunset Western Garden Book) has divided the entire U.S. into zones (click here to see them online).

The state of California is long, taking up a large portion of the United States' western coastline along the Pacific Ocean. It has bands of hills and mountain ranges running north to south that start at the western coast and move eastward interrupted only by a large flat plain called the Central Valley (a former ancient inland sea with wonderful loamy soil where much of the U.S. crop production occurs).

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All of this interesting topography means that just because someone says they live in California doesn't mean that they'll be basking in mild sunny temps all winter long (that's more often the case in coastal Southern California). Case in point, California has high elevations that get large amounts of snow-pack in the winter which provide the rest of the state with water throughout the summer--and also provide a lovely winter playground for skiers, snowboarders, and other winter sports enthusiasts.

Almost in the middle of the California coastline is an inlet that the Golden Gate bridge spans which leads to a large inland bay--San Francisco Bay. This bay stretches north to south spanning an aerial distance of over 50 miles. The towns and cities surrounding this bay make up the greater San Francisco Bay Area that covers an almost circular area over 50 miles wide.

The Bay Area is informally divided into regions called the "Peninsula", the "North Bay", the "South Bay", and the "East Bay", so when we watch the weather forecast on the news we listen for our "region's" forecast because the weather can be dramatically different from one part of the Bay Area to another.

Sunset took things a step further and divided the San Francisco Bay Area into zones. Although helpful, the zones still aren't representative of the hundreds of micro-climates that exist within each zone. But knowing one's zone is at least a good start when one begins gardening here.

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Although the zone map says that we're supposed to be zone 17, we really aren't. Our adjacent zones are 14 and 15 but those aren't quite accurate either. So we have to take the definitions of all three zones and kind of morph them together through experience. Sunset's definitions are as follows with what is true for our climate highlighted in green and what is false for our micro-climate highlighted in red:

ZONE 17. Oceanside Northern and Central California and Southernmost Oregon
Growing season: late Feb. to early Dec. Coolness and fog are hallmarks; summer highs seldom top 75 degrees F/24 degrees C, while winter lows run from 36 degrees to 23 degrees F/2 degrees to -5 degrees C. Heat-loving plants disappoint or dwindle here.

ZONE 14. Inland Northern and Central California with Some Ocean Influence
Growing season: early Mar. to mid-Nov., with rain coming in the remaining months. Periodic intrusions of marine air temper summer heat and winter cold (lows run from 26 degrees to 16 degrees F/-3 degrees to -9 degrees C). Mediterranean-climate plants are at home here.

ZONE 15. Northern and Central California's Chilly-winter Coast-influenced Areas
Growing season: Mar. to Dec. Rain comes from fall through winter. Typical winter lows range from 28 degrees to 21 degrees F/-2 degrees to -6 degrees C. Maritime air influences the zone much of the time, giving it cooler, moister summers than Zone 14.

See how hard it is to get your head around it???

That's why I gauge things more by what I see going on in nature. When I see the first almond trees in bloom, that's a sign that spring is on its way and our plum tree will be in bloom soon. When I hear the twitters and tweets of birds (particularly the high-pitched Rufous hummingbird), I know that birds are migrating through from the south to the north. And when the hyacinths peek their heads out of the soil, I know it's time to trim up the rosebushes for the coming season.

Our first crocus blooming in among the green foliage of the California poppies

Juxtapositions of a Bay Area December

Yesterday's dark and dreary weather made it seem as if the sun never came out. The outside temperature never made it past 39F (3.9C) which is very unusual for this climate. But we were getting hit with one of the arctic blasts we get at least once a winter. The snow elevation dropped and there was snow on the higher hills around the San Francisco Bay Area. The rain was icy cold. The sky was dark. And the humid chill cut right to the bone.

So when today dawned bright and beautiful, I was glad I had an excuse to get out of the studio. I had an appointment for a routine mammogram this afternoon (I've rescheduled it twice over the past month). I toted my camera along so I could be on the lookout for pretty shots. I knew people would wonder why I had my rig around my neck as I headed into the Kaiser medical center, but frankly I didn't care.

I took a wrong turn trying to find the imaging center and ended up on the wrong floor down a dead-end hall with a beautiful floor-to-ceiling window at the end. This is the gorgeous view that I found...

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This is the quintessential shot to show the odd juxtapositions that exist in our wonderful (and weird) Bay Area climate. In the background, you can see the snow-capped tips of Mount Diablo peeking out. And in the foreground, you can see one of our rolling hills that turn green as soon as the winter rains come after spending a summer the color of spun gold.

The plantings around the Kaiser facility here in town are really beautiful. The gardeners have wisely chosen drought-tolerant plants that will subsist through our hot dry summers, while handling the occasional dip in temps during the winter. I was immediately drawn to this gorgeous salvia that is in full bloom today...

And then the gorgeous red of a geranium and the bold yellow of a marguerite both simply dazzling in the sunshine...


Yet, overhead most of the leaves have fallen from the deciduous trees with only just a few hanging on...

And then there was the snow-capped peak of Mount Diablo hovering on the horizon as I drove around running other errands after my appointment--a reminder that despite the beautiful flowers I found here and there, it really is winter.

The "Fever" has come early this year...

Last year I wrote about the "illness" that strikes me usually some time in January. This year, it has come early. I've got Hawaii Fever.

Since I can't spend the next 2 months sitting here (can't afford that by any stretch of the imagination)...

...I have to improvise as best I can. I have a chaise lounge out in the back garden. On days when there's sun, I bundle up in as many layers as is necessary to keep the cold out (sometimes more than less) and I go out to the chaise. I position it to face the sun fully, and stretch out. I close my eyes. If there isn't any wind, the warmth of the sun builds up on my face and it feels like I'm really there in Hawaii. I've got the sound of the pond waterfall to even help with the ambiance.

I was chatting with a friend today at church about my having Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Hubby has filled the entire house with full spectrum light bulbs and bought me a SAD light box. There are evenings when I will sit on the couch with the shade of a reading lamp positioned right over my head like I'm the life of the party with a lampshade on my head. I sit there drinking in the warmth of the full spectrum bulb. Still, there is really nothing better than good ole' sunshine.

As the days gets shorter and shorter, I can feel the yearning for sun increasing. I count down the days until the shortest day of the year, and am so glad when it finally arrives because I can gleefully anticipate that each day from that point on will get longer.

Some may think that living here in Northern California should make SAD a piece of cake, but it really doesn't. It just makes it better than living somewhere farther north where the days are even shorter. We still live far from the equator, and we still get our form of winter (yesterday's high was 45F, and it was a humid nippy 45F at that). I know some colder climates that get snow but have much more winter sun than we do because the air is crisp and clear. Our Christmases are foggy ones with the night air coming in like a dense cold blanket. Looking at Christmas lights through fog is the quintessential image of a Bay Area Christmas for me.

Over 20 years ago, I lived in Hawaii for 3 1/2 months while going to school on the island of O'ahu at the campus of BYU-Hawaii. The days don't fluctuate all that much in length during the year--not as much as here. My fondest December memory was sitting on Temple Beach on North Shore under a full moon with my feet buried in the sand, while a group of us were gathered singing Christmas carols to the accompaniment of a guitar. It was wonderful... and strange too. When I came home halfway through December, I stepped off the plane into the cool reality of San Francisco--and promptly contracted a case of laryngitis.

Since that time, I get Hawaii Fever every winter. This year it has come earlier than usual, but I know to expect it nonetheless. "Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say..." man, do I wish I was there.

The Love Runs Deep (200th post)

I had already planned to write about these two photos today before I realized it would mark the milestone of being the 200th post. Now the post seems even more appropriate for the occasion.

The two photos I'm sharing in today's post are of my great-grandparents, El and Bill Munce. I am very fortunate to have hundreds of candid photos like this of them, their families, their outings, their lives, and their silliness.

These two particular photos are part of the early part of an antique album that is in the loving care of my aunt. The album spans the entire 16 years of their marriage (their marriage ended prematurely due to El's tragic death after the birth of their youngest son).

The photos were taken around 1910 here on the rolling hillsides of the San Francisco Bay Area with my great-grandparents' simple little portable camera of the time (hence the slight blur in the photo of El). If the photos were in color, the hills would probably be a lovely green because that's when the wildflowers that Bill and El were out hunting and picking would have been in bloom--probably sometime around March.

Bill was a lover of gardening, grafting, planting, growing, and roses. I love this photo of him with an armload of wildflowers. This is my kind of man. The photo of El with the armful of flowers seems expected, but not the one of Bill. It's literally a snapshot in time--a special moment between two young honeymooners captured in perpetuity. I can imagine them out as a couple traipsing these hills I love so much. I can imagine their excitement at taking the snapshots and then their anxious anticipation for when they would get the photos developed so they could relive the moment.

I'm glad they captured this moment. Somehow it gives me a sense of who I am. I feel a connection to them, to these hills, to the flowers. It all helps me feel grounded, rooted. My heart swells with a gratitude for the legacy they have left--a legacy of loving nature and gardens that has been passed down through their daughter to her daughter to me.

I garden in almost the same climate as my great-grandfather gardened in only a half-hour drive away from where he gardened. When I am out in my garden tending my fruit trees, pruning my roses, or tying up my climbing vegetables, I feel him near. I've seen so many photos of his garden, I know it is much like my own.

Thank you, Grandad, for being the man that you were. Thank you for loving all the things that I love, especially the roses. Thank you, Grandma El, for loving the flowers and for loving nature so much that you hiked the hills and valleys in those dresses you had to wear. And thank you, both, for loving each other as deeply as you did.

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