I Did It!

I've been carrying around a bag of dirt all semester. Well, ok, if you're a soil scientist, then you would say I've been carrying around a bag of soil all semester. This was for my Soils class, which if you've read in a previous post, has been occupying a greater part of my existence.  My soil was in a ziplock bag and that ziplock was in one of those plastic grocery bags (because you never know), and on some mornings I wasn't sure if I was carrying around a bag of soil or used kitty litter, because they look, feel and weigh about the same when they're in those grocery bags, and when I leave the house early every morning, well, anything can happen. Some days I'd be lugging it in my backpack, and some days it would be in my lunch bag, but it was an enduring part of my day to day life. During the course of the semester we would all pull out our bags of soil and examine them, run pH tests on them, wet them and roll them up into balls, etc. I discovered that my soil had a pH of 7.4 and was either a sandy loam, or a loamy sand--seriously.

That class was a kicker, and even though I had my reservations, hang-ups, insecurities and doubts,  I am writing to say that I have made it. Good golly, hallelujah, I am done with that class. Tonight we had our final exam. It was in three sections, and periodically the teacher would collect our answers and then go over the results, and I feel quite confident that I have passed the class, and maybe even gotten an A.

Did I tell you that the only person who got a 100% on the first exam was, uh, let me check, oh, yes: ME! Yes! Me! My teacher actually had to do a double take and yes, the numbers don't lie: ME!

Ok, I don't want to sound cocky. Because really, if I took that exam again I wouldn't have a snowball's chance in an aridisol (ha!! That's a soils joke! Get it? Snowball? ARIDisol? How about an OXIsol! Ugh. I'm am a geek! And I'm being cocky! Ha ha! Ha ha ha!).

But all joking aside. That class is done. It kicked my ass. I learned a lot.

And so, dear reader, I am taking Plant Nutrition.

Ha ha! Who is the joke on now? Yes, me! I need to take Plant Nutrition, and yes, the it's the same teacher, Mr. Rochester, er, I mean Professor Brennan. But it will be fine. Perhaps I will struggle and despair and the whole nine yards, but I know I will learn a lot. And to balance it all out, I am also going to take Botanical Drawing! What fun! Stay tuned for more adventures!

Chemistry, Literally and Figuratively

This semester I am enrolled in a class called "Soils." While I can't tell you quite yet whether I love or hate it, I am making some interesting observations.

1) This is a heavy science class. Heavy. I haven't taken any hardcore science since high school. I remember being completely overwhelmed by my physics class back then. The teacher confessed that he was teaching it at a college level. I just remember spending countless hours with my calculator and going through the textbook until it was fuzzy. I also remember that my Dad had gotten me an electric pencil sharpener and a few boxes of Ticonderogas (which I LOVED!) and I wore those babies down to nubs. The teacher kicked our butts but we learned a lot and I do remember that I dedicated more than a usual amount of time to that class. To this day that was my most favorite and memorable class in high school. "Soils," in the meantime, is bringing back an awful lot of flashbacks to that time. Tonight was only the third class but I've whipped out my calculator and am digging deep as we are learning formulas and mass and volume.

2) I am intimidated. Very intimidated. So, after high school I concentrated on the humanities. In college I focused on literature and creative writing. I was interested in the world of words. I read and read and read. I wrote essays with clear (eh, or not so clear) arguments about this or that character and this or that theory. I can string words together or wind them around in knots until I come to any old conclusion that I so desire. But science? The world of hard facts and clear arguments? Black and white? Right or wrong? Answers measured in decimal points and theorems and mathematics? It's not like I could argue my way out of an algebraic mis-calculation and get points for that. And one of the components of the class is chemistry, which I never took in high school. Want to know why? Because I elected for more literature classes! I want to say that I don't regret it, because I don't, but maybe I'm just feeling the buyer's remorse of having spent impressionable, flexible, youthful brain cells of my high school days reading Beloved and writing bad short stories in my first creative writing class. It's not like I'm not capable of learning chemistry, and the teacher is spending a lot time teaching the basics to us, but I am definitely feeling the overwhelm.

But I am determined, and I mean absolutely determined, to see this class through. I don't care if it kills me, I am going to pass this class. Yeah, hand me a box of well-sharpened Ticonderogas and hold on a sec while I replace the batteries in my calculator, and I'm gonna make it!

Summer School, 2011

I signed up for a great class at Merritt College this summer called "Plants of the Mediterranean." I got the thumbs up from the bosses to take the time off, negotiating use of personal vacation time to make up for the difference, paid my tuition and everything. It's taught by this professor I've been wanting to take a class with for a while now. Only thing is, the class was under-enrolled, and in this economic climate, and in California's community college system in particular, this is a recipe for disaster. The class got cancelled at the last minute. My entire summer schedule got thrown off, and in the end, I was sitting there with a great will and thirst for knowledge, but nothing to show for it. What's a girl to do?

So what I did, and I did without quite knowing it, was create my own class. More of an independent study you might say, overseen by none other than, yep, Me! I didn't start off thinking I'd be taking a class, but now that it is August, it's becoming more and more obvious that I actually am, with my own nebulous syllabus, great texts, and one of the most fantastic classrooms that a novice like myself could hope for. I haven't given my class a name, but since I am blogging about it now, I shall christen it: Plants of the Mills College Campus.

During my first semester at Merritt last fall I did a project for my Horticulture 101 class that tried to document as many plants as I could, given the time-frame, and create herbarium specimens of them. A herbarium is a collection of plants that have been collected and pressed (think: flower petals pressed between the pages of your phone book) with extra documentation and a little bit of scientificism (yes I think I just christened another concept!) thrown in. After the project was turned in, I knew I was nowhere near being satisfied with the amount of plant material I collected. One of my limitations for the original project was in being able to identify the plants I collected. I am such a newbie at plant identification it's not even funny. I could probably tell you what a rose is, and maybe a tree, but identifying and providing scientific names for plants? Uh-uh. No way. This spring I looked at all the new things popping up and not being enrolled in a plant identification class, I despaired at the thought of missing out on documenting all that I saw around me. It didn't take me long to come up with this thought: Oh, to hell with the identification part--just grab whatever you can before they all disappear again! And so.

Spring turned to Summer. Things found their way into my plant press. I bought a pair of small hand-pruners, which I dubbed my stealth-pruners, which I could pull out and to gather plants without being obvious I was pilfering the wildlife (for some reason I feel a great shame in actually being caught--by whom?--I don't know). I began to walk around during my lunch hour with a plastic bag. I carried a notebook. My eyes changed: they began to see things that used to just blend into the landscape. Flashes of color became great shining beacons of discovery. Green wasn't just green anymore--it had new and certain degrees of gradation. The bright, untouched lime green was a sure sign of something new. And there were flashes of color, pinks, oranges, and all shades of blue and purple--all these I would collect for my press, trying to gather parts of the plant that would aid in identification. Every discovery was a joy, new and undiscovered. It didn't matter what it was--if it was new to me and if it was growing on the Mills College campus, then it would be fair game for my herbarium.

True, there were a few places off-limits to me, on a moral level. For instance, it seems very unfair to go to the Botanical Garden to collect things. After all, people are lovingly cultivating the things growing there and there are signs for godsakes, telling you exactly what the plant is. That's cheating. Outright. That's like going to a zoo with a rifle and claiming to bag new species. Wrong. And there are also a few designated demonstration areas--places on campus with fabulous plants growing for the benefit of passerby who care to stop and read the lovely, detailed-filled signs describing them. These I considered clues, not entirely off limits, but shunned upon, for sure. And for the record, dear Botanical Garden Co-Ordinator, I did not collect from your demonstration areas, I merely used your beautifully identified plant species to collect from other areas on campus where the plants were growing in their natural states. Clues. Scout's honor.

Collection requires a few supplies. I am a little, uh, economically challenged by the way. To create an herbarium requires a nominal amount of equipment. I insist on purchasing archival paper to mount my specimens, as well as archival glue (I may be just an imp in the herbarium world, but I must say that these things are absolutely non-negotiable, or rather, non-reversable. I may not be the best plant presser, but at least my specimens will last into perpetuity). I splurged on cute little jewelry tags, pre-punched and strung with neat, white string (oh so tidy and beautiful in their conformity). These I would assign notes on the plants--where-collected, date, habitat information. But to press plants requires "flimsies" (aka 11 1/2" x 16 1/2" paper that the plants are actually contained in during the pressing process--these I pilfered from old copies of the school newspaper):

"Ventilators" (aka, cardboard cut from the same dimensions used in between the flimsies, sandwich style--might I say how hard it is to find cardboard without creases in the allotted area?):

And now that I am in the depths of summer, "coin envelopes" (aka seed/carpel packets). I say necessity is the mother of invention (yes, I am recycling my cliches too), and so portions of my lunch hour were dedicated to also collecting and creating these oh so necessary materials. I pride myself, not on my miserly-ness, but on my green-ness in procuring these supplies. This is recycling to the max. Talk about saving a tree for the sake of scientificism!

Paper used to pad boxes for shipping . . .

. . . invested with a few cuts, folds, and a drop of glue became . . .. . . envelopes for saving seed in!

And then comes the great task of identification. I have to say that when I was collecting, I had no hope of actually identifying any of these plants until I was enrolled in some great plant ID class at some point in the distant future. But since I have been trying to be economical about everything, I have been utilizing a great resource here on campus, available to me as an employee, namely: the Library! What a great place!! They've got all sorts of books there on every topic under the sun, and get this--they let you take them home with you--for FREE! What a concept! True, you do have to give the books back, but they let you extend the due dates over and over--for free! The mystery of this class keeps revealing itself to me. I'm not sure how I am learning how to identify plants, but as I flip through books I realize--hey, I've seen that one before! And hey, I've seen that one too. Maybe it's the freedom of not actually being enrolled in a class, or bearing the pressure of having to absorb certain information, that makes me all the more, uh, absorbent! At first I checked out books about rare wildflowers and native plants. But as I began to understand what I was seeing, I have come to a few conclusions:

1) Some of the plants that are growing so freely and readily and which are capturing my attention now are not rare, botanical jewels--they're weeds. I have to admit at this point in my botanical undertakings that I am a blunt tool. I am seeing the most gaudy, numerous and environmentally obnoxious plants.

2)Being a blunt tool is not such a bad thing. After all, being able to identify what is common in the landscape only hones my skill in what I hope to be able to identify what is uncommon. Hopefully I am just sharpening my skills by using the rougher grit first, seeing first the forest, then the trees.

3) And also, just as importantly, pressing botanical specimens meant to be preserved for all eternity is a skill that ought not to be taken upon using blunt tools. I am learning a craft here. There is technique involved in pressing delicate flowers and collecting plant material. Better to make and learn from my mistakes on common plants and weeds rather than those jewels.

4) After scratching through the weeds and invasive species and common ornamental plants, I have come upon what I consider treasures in themselves, namely, the native plants of California. While the Mills campus may not be a hotbed of plant diversity, there are some really important and interesting plants growing here. I have discovered among our native species: California buckeye, ceanothus, laurel, flannelbush, coyotebush, oaks, redwoods, toyon, elderberry, box elder, Big leaf maple, redbud, mimulus, and manzanita, to name a few. So far most of the native species I've discovered (or rather, identified), have been hardy perennials. Someday I hope to develop my eye to spy on those elusive, ephemeral annuals--those delicate little plants that pop up, flower, and return to the long dormancy that is the trademark of California flora.

But summer is reaching its end--academically anyway. School starts in a few weeks. I still have plants in my press that need to be mounted. I need to label and identify. I am giving myself a deadline: I need to be done with this season's work by the time the new semester begins. This is good. Deadlines are good. Now I just need to do the work.

There are still a few good months of heat, the hottest and most severest kind, and the curling into dormancy. Things will dry, transform into golden hues, die back; the sun will burn through the fog and lay down heavily--clumsy and masculine--upon the grasses, upon the leafed-out canopies of trees, leaving its musky scent behind in the earth. Dust settles on all things. The world sounds different then: it rustles and cracks. Seedpods break open and surrender themselves to the baked, parched earth, falling into deep sleep until the rains return again.

My 4th of July Staycation

Spent a most heavenly 4th of July weekend enjoying a mini staycation. Couldn't have asked for better weather--even though they kept threatening heat wave it didn't quite materialize and I was happy in a tank top and shorts. With three long days and my dear Coke, we set off to do some of our favorite things.

Saturday Coke dropped me off at Annie's Annuals, which some have described as a mecca for the plant world. Annie's is absolute heaven for anyone who loves plants: acres and acres of rare and unusual plants all set out and just patiently waiting for you to pick one up and take it home. I actually didn't want to go to Annie's. I'd only mentioned to Coke that they were having a massive 20% off everything sale and that my garden was already overflowing with plants and I would only get in trouble if I went there. "Nonsense!" Coke replied, and she threw me into her car, me kicking and screaming the whole way. Right before we got there, she pulled up at Starbucks, got out of the car, and handed me the keys telling me take as long as I wanted. Geeking out with the plants isn't exactly her cup of, uh, coffee, but golly gee!! What could be better than giving someone the time and space to be absolutely indulgent in their nerdihood??? Thanks Coke!

One of the great things about Annie's is that she has little signs that show what the plant will look like when it grows up, as well as other useful information. While I want to take every plant I see home, I can't. These salvia 'Hot Lips' are beautiful and while I didn't buy them, I did remember seeing them on one of my little lunchtime walks throughout the Mills Campus. I hope to grab a cutting of them soon and grow my own. Don't even get me started on my love for plants in the mint family!!This is another plant I didn't buy--the elusive Romneya coulterii. Actually it's not elusive, but they are really difficult to start and establish, but once you get them started, they really put on a show. Apparently they produce the biggest flowers of any native plant in California. I've got one started on my porch and I hope I can make it grow.While there were so many plants I salivated over and did not buy, I actually went home with a whole flat. This was more than I had set out to get, but less than I have gotten in the past. It actually took great restraint to walk out of there with just one flat. But I got some good ones!

Spent the next day in the yard getting my hands dirty, pulling out some of the old, tired plants, making room for new ones, and getting the soil ready. Look how happy the plants are:
Coke helped too, and I totally appreciate her OCD coming out in the weeding process. She must have added a whole foot to the depth of my garden--more room for plants!On the 4th of July, we went to the beach. Coke was sure that we had plenty of ono snacks. Have you ever tried wasabi mayonaise from TJ's? OMG!! Mix it in with some tuna and eat it off triscuits!! And frozen grapes? Is that a brilliant idea or little drops from heaven, or both? Yum! I swear that Coke is a snacking genius.
Here are my feet in the warm water of Alameda:And as the fireworks were blasting off into the night, Coke finished off the weekend with a grand finale of her own: Ramen!!So good! And yes, that's kim chee. Not just any kim chee--Kohala brand. Biting into that brought back a flood of memories from my youth. I was never a big kim chee eater when I was a kid, but we always had it around at dinner time, and I think as I am getting older, my taste buds are evolving. That's some good stuff!

This post has been as lazy as my weekend was. But it was the best kind of lazy. The days lasted forever, nights were long and restful, the food was bountiful and delicious. Not a care in the world. No stresses peeking out from anywhere, no lurking performances or exams or studying to do. Just pure, blissful relaxicating!

Heaven and Earth

I think that there is a little slice of heaven here on earth for all of us. It's a different place for everyone, all your own, discovered or revealed to each in different ways. It might be a park bench or a mountaintop or a kitchen table, but whatever it is, I hope that everyone finds their own place like that. I know I've found mine and it's called Point Reyes. Point Reyes is a triangular chunk of land that, on a map, appears as if it is being torn off the coast of California by the great San Andreas Fault. It's so other-worldly and beautiful that it seems that the entire weight of a continent can't hold on to it. I think of the word cleave. In one sense, cleave means to separate, to split, but in another sense, cleave may also mean to cling. I think of fingers futilely entwined--in someone's hands, in a handful of fabric of the clothing of someone who can not stay. It's a sad word, a pulling in opposite directions. It is the way the sound of a mournful song sounds beautiful, and the particular way beauty can be mournful. Maybe beauty is a form of mourning, loving that thing that is transient, fleeting, moving away.

But lucky for me, since I am a mere mortal, plate tectonics and geology are slow forces, and that bit of land I love so much will take several millennia to finally rip away and float off into the ocean, lost to the continent but born anew as an island, surrounded by vast black water that glints blindingly in the sun, a lonely place visited only by sea-birds and the occasional seal. The submerged lighthouse will exist only as a trick of light and shadow beneath the crashing waves. The roads that once criss-crossed her soft belly will be faint scars visible only from above, so that, in the slanted sunlight of an afternoon, the sky will caress and trace those faint lines on the naked flesh of the land and ask, how?, and the land may reply, distracted, her eyes looking off in the distance from where she came, Oh that? I couldn't say, it happened so long ago I can't even remember.Saturday morning we awoke early. We dressed in layers to be peeled off one by one and put back on again at the whimsy of the sun. I packed a few simple things I could find in my kitchen: a packet of crackers, cheese, a long forgotten apple that I sliced into quarter moons, a bag of trail mix. Along with dear friend Coke, we got in my car and headed off, out of the city, over the Richmond Bridge, through the small towns that dot the way to the coast.

At Point Reyes, most people stop at the visitor center, a big red barn staffed by people who love what they do. They have a little gift shop that I find completely irresistible. Yes, if heaven had a gift shop, you wouldn't be able to resist either: art prints, guidebooks, patches, bandannas, histories--all on the topic that interested you most. We stopped mainly to get a map, but I couldn't resist a slim volume on the common wildflowers of the area. With our trusty map in hand, we set off, down the road, left at the intersection, another left a little ways further. Our destination: Limantour Beach. If you want to continue with the triangle metaphor, then the base of Point Reyes lies along California's coast, tilts down a bit at a jaunty angle, and the apex reaches out into the Pacific, acrobatically balancing the famed lighthouse on its chin. Limantour lies on the southern side of the triangle. You drive through a brief forest of pine trees. At this time of year the trees were putting out their candles of new growth--one long finger sprouting up, surrounded by a couple of shorter fingers on either side. Coke said all the trees looked like they were flipping us the bird. A whole forest of them.
Limantour beach is a wide swath of sand lapped by the sea and naked save for tufts of grass in the dunes that line the shore. It was a bright day, but the air was cool, and a strong breeze blew in from the sea. Grains of sand hopped and danced, the grasses leaned, reaching and reaching, and whitecaps appeared here and there in the distance. We headed down the beach, the sand making a funny squeaking sound as we walked on it. We stopped to look at the washed up things, the shells of crabs, a glint of half-buried color. Every once in a while the wind would kick up and sting our hands and faces and try to steal our scarves away. Coke ducked into the dunes and found us a nice little spot, protected from the wind, bathed in light. It was like our own little room, grass for walls, heaven for a ceiling.

And it was heavenly, truly. The noon sun ran its fingers through the water, lighting it up all shades of blue and green. We saw something very large and very black rise up and disappear beneath the waves, twice. High above the clouds drifted lazily by, sometimes obscuring the sun long enough to reconsider a sweater that had already been shed, but not quite. We sat for a long time, enjoying the light and the ease. We breathed in the air, watched the shadows of the birds soar across the sand.

After a while, we remembered that we had left our picnic in the car, and our thoughts turned to where we should explore next and how long it would take to get there. I told Coke I didn't want to ever leave, was ready to leave my entire life behind and begin anew right there on the beach. But our bellies betray the best of our intentions, and we returned to the car where we sat in the warmth and devoured our picnic as the wind rattled and shook the car and tossed the seagulls skyward. We pulled the map out again, and I half-heartedly suggested a couple places. Part of me felt that since we had made it all the way out here that we ought to see as much as we could. Point Reyes has so much to offer, so many places to explore, but there was a tugging in my heart that wanted to stay. I suggested as much, and after little deliberation, we decided that staying would be just as nice as going somewhere else.

So, we set out again, more prepared this time, bringing the extra food and a towel and blanket. We found our way back to our little place in the dunes and spent the rest of the afternoon taking in the sunshine and enjoying this little slice of heaven. I can't wait to get back.