Daylily Nights: Barrel Run Crossing Winery and Vineyard

This June evening, in the old township of Rootstown, just where the Norfolk Southern tracks transect Industry Road without regard for the Western Reserve's careful right angles, a stand of daylilies open their tawny throats to the sun.

From a stand of tawny roadside daylilies, Angelica archangelica raises its yellow umbels.

The common roadside daylily, a gift from the Orient, escaped cultivation. Its presence along country roadsides, often in a lowlying ditch, is a clue that a place has been settled a very long time. Somewhere nearby somebody once brightened a kitchen garden or a dooryard with progenitors of these same orangey flowers.

Heritage Daylily Farm, Peninsula, Ohio.

The genus name of the tawny daylily, Hemerocallis, means 'beautiful for a day.' Just after the solstice, when days are their longest, its orange trumpets blare just for one day, reminding us to live each of these long summery days, to cast aside care. These rampant field flowers, perhaps the ones chosen so long ago to illustrate truth to those gathered on the Mount:

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

In this rural corner of Portage County, Ohio, we are at that point in the Western Reserve where all the corners are square. Roads, townships, county lines: all platted on regular rectilinear quadrants. Mantua Center is right smack dab in the center of Mantua township. Palmyra centers its eponymous township. At the center of Nelson, the main roads converge in a diamond: a Methodist Church, a town hall, and Greek revival houses of the better sort let you know you are at the center of things.

An old maker, in the churchyard of St' Luke's Lutheran Church, in what is now Cuyahoga Falls, marks where the townships of Stow and Northampton once converged.

And so it goes: it's how the wilderness was tamed, it's how Connecticut sold off its rangy Western Reserve.  Intrepid surveyors, with chains and markers, through the swamps, ravines, and gorges, without regard to terrain, made their way west from the point where stone markers delineated Pennsylvania's western edge.

Back East, in the old state with its thin stony soil and long winters, you drew your lot, and based on your losses in the war, you received a plot, graded  1, 2, 3, or 4, based on a surveyor's snapshot perception of the quality of each  plot.

Due west, the fabled region, Connecticut's Western Reserve: an "earthly paradise," with rumors of fat loamy soil, and endless stands of black walnut, hickory, oak and chestnut. In winter dreams, a poor man in Connecticut becomes a landed gentleman on the Ohio frontier.

A stone marker, at the Norfolk Southern tracks, in Rootstown.

This June evening, we sit near those tracks, as trains rumble on the Norfolk Southern line, bound toward Ravenna, laden with coal. The perfect sound of summer in the Western Reserve: a distant train whistle, the clang of a rural roadside railway signal, the lowering of a red and white striped gate.

Barrel Run Crossing Winery and Vineyard, a new venture for an old family farm just outside of Rootstown, sits just off those tracks.

If the tawny trumpet of the daylily signals summer's peak, so, too, the startling rampant growth of a grapevine on a sunny slope. Its leaves unfurl to alarming proportions, its tendrils grasp out, attach themselves to whatever will pull its broad leaves closer to the sun.

As Galileo once said, "The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do."

The magic of this season, and each summer's abundant growth. On this night, on this terrace, with trellises laden with ripening bunches of Frontenac, Marquette, and Vidal Blanc sloping out toward the railroad tracks and the old rectilinear roadbed lined with orange lilies, you can almost hear the swelling of those sweet grapes, you can almost feel those broad leaves stretching, those tendrils grasping, ever closer to the evening's still warm sun.

There is nothing wrong with sophisticated undertones, or notes of tangerine or oak or licorice. But on this summer night I relish a sweet grapey white wine of Niagra and Frontenac Gris, grown right on these slopes, reminisccnt of wild grapes you might pluck from a low hanging vine.

Daylily nights: we turn our faces to the evening sun, just as the abundant broad leaves of the vineyard outstretch for yet more rays, the sun in no hurry to slip from the Western Reserve's horizon, at which point the daylily will shed its orange trumpets, that blared just for this one perfect day. Summer's very essence, in this sweet chalice of life.

Of Red Bricks and New Vineyards

It is said, Rome was built on seven hills.

North Hill Viaduct, Akron, Ohio.

My Dad once told me, Akron was, too. I know each of those hills, as well as how, if I am stuck down in the Cuyahoga Valley in low gear on an old bike, to get back to the top: you go halfway up the Howard Street Hill, terrace laterally across Glenwood, and then portage up the crumbly back steps to Waters Park, from whose precipice we watched them take a wrecking ball to the North Hill Viaduct decades ago.

I am from this place: born in Sister Ignatia's St. Thomas Hospital, on the North Hill of Akron, where my people settled after Germany, and made a go of it.  I know this place: its hills, its river, the way the canal was forced to elevate itself to its hardscrabble summit, by locks and by channels.

Of course some things change with the decades, but not the soil. Not the clay. Not the bricks.

The little house I grew up in, built the year before my birth (and just in time) was on a piece of an old farm. The red brick farm house, next door, was built of Metropolitan Blocks. They are still fired, by the fifth generation, down in Canton, right here in Ohio, from our substantial red clay.

I like that. A lot.

For some reason, the Mays, who lived next door in the old red house, had a lot of extra old bricks. Each week Mr. May threw away exactly one Metropolitan Block, in each steel trash can, to weigh it down.

The red brick farm house, and metal trash cans, 1970.

Eventually, I convinced him to give me the extra bricks, and I lined my first garden with their substantial red clay bulk.

This week I sojourned down to Canton, and saw a beautiful roadway of Metropolitan Block, at Gervasi Vineyard and Winery.

It is fifty five acres of sun-drenched vineyard: artfully composed vistas, a majestic old orchard, a swan filled lagoon, a sun dappled Boccie court, a dining room of rough hewn barn timbers buffed to a loving sheen. But, they had me with the Metropolitan Block.

Reclaimed barn timbers and re-purposed barn stone, some from the old Massillon State Hospital, now burned.

A Metropolitan block roadway: a small detail among many such grace notes, on a picture perfect June afternoon, where harp music wafts from the pavilion, down this lane of red fired clay, to an Adirondack chair on the shore of a spring fed lake. In this chair, on this shore: a glass of Vidal Blanc never tasted so sweet. A perfect blend of place, taste, tone.

Willow trees ring the lagoon.

In every direction, a composed vista.

A gracious, hospitable lawn.

Northeastern Ohio is full of surprises, to one who is seeing it anew after several decades away. This, the last working farm in in the city limits of this old industrial burgh, which after bricks and ceramics became known for steel and bearings.

All around, things decades ago we would never predict:

In the valley where a smoky metropolis once dumped its untreated waste, Blue Herons now swoop majestically from tree top rookeries, skimming the water and emerging with beaks full of fish.

On the craggy sandstone banks where the Vaughn Machine company once banged out its wares and then its turbines rusted for decades as its brick walls slowly crumbled, a restaurant and lounge overlook a raging torrent. Walkways to the original Glenns have been restored, and there is talk, increasingly viable, that the big dam is coming down, restoring the Great Falls of which these impressive rapids are just a vestige.

On Saturday mornings, police officers and park rangers have to direct traffic, in the meadow across from the beaver pond just south of Szalay's farm, because the demand is so great for local berries and honey and Swiss chard and peas. Earnest young farmers and wizened old pros preside over stalls of produce grown right here.

It is said we are losing our sense of place, that our kids are addled by too much screen time, can't tolerate peanuts because they have never played in the dirt, don't know that a cherry is a fruit that grows on a tree.

Not quite. There is hope. At the last working farm in the city limits of Canton, owners have burnished and artfully placed bricks of our local clay, the same bricks my neighbor once tossed as ballast for his garbage cans. They have planted new vineyards in an old industrial town.

New vines on an old farm.

And at the old red brick farmhouse, next to my childhood home, three little girls take turns on a giant rope swing looped over the bough of a silver maple I planted three decades ago. Their giggles and shrieks fill this old neighborhood as the fireflies come out, the train rumbles down by the river, and the scent of baking bread wafts up from the Schwebel's plant.

I like to think, in a few years, we will also be hearing the distant roar of the Great Falls, released from their slumber, behind a superfluous dam built to power electric trolley cars abandoned many, many decades ago.

This place where the river bends: to see this familiar place with fresh eyes, and to imagine what it might sound like one day when its dammed up potential is released, that is the gift of time, and perspective. The patience of one who plants a vineyard. The faith of harvests to come.

Stalking the Fragrant Catalpa

Just north of the village of Penninsula, alongside the winding riverside road that parallels the turgid mud brown Cuyahoga, in front of an old Western Reserve farmhouse, I spy them: four perfect specimens.

Arrayed evenly across a rolling front lawn, thick stout trunks and round leafy canopies, they have the perfect proportion of a tree a child might draw in front of an idealized house. Except instead of the perfect round red apples a child is wont to draw, these graceful rounded crowns are studded with creamy white orbs of vaguely vanilla scented blooms.

Catalpa.

The name rolls off my mind's tongue in a honey-sweet Southern drawl.

One of the sweet pleasures of returning to your homeplace after 22 Junes away is seeing familiar terrain through the lens of a life's experience.

I have a vague memory of identifying, using a dichotomous key, a Catalpa on the grounds of an old, overgrown arboretum during my horticulture school days. But I am fairly certain I have never seen one in bloom, and I had no idea the extent to which they studded the banks and mud flats of the river that wends its way crookedly through my old home grounds. Like Stuckey's Pecan Logs, Goo Goo clusters and Moon Pies, I considered them, for some reason, a purely Southern pleasure.

As with many things, my first acquaintance with the Catalpa was literary, a story I read in fourth grade. A child's beloved horse is grievously injured during a fierce storm. Stranded on the muddy bank of a steeply-gorged creek, immobile with a broken leg, the child watches helplessly as an overhanging creek bank, with a small catalpa sapling rooted in it, collapses in a muddy rumble, entombing his loyal steed.

Each spring he visits the spot, where the tree grows and blooms with abandon.

Even viewed through a windshield on a winding country road, at some distance, I knew with a certainty that is not quite rational, that those four perfect specimens with the giant heart shaped leaves, bigger than my outstretched palm,  with strangely graceful trunks and branches, were the Catalpas of my adolescent memory.

And then, like most things that have been there all along but you never before noticed, I see them. Everywhere:

On the banks of the old beaver marsh across from the Botzum farm.

Beside the Everett Road covered bridge.

Next to the glacier-carved lake where I spent so many carefree summer days.

On the steep ravines of the Cuyahoga's deepest gorge.

In the front lawn of a house not two blocks from my old childhood home.

A Great Blue Heron silhouetted against stark branches in the old beaver marsh.

 I had never before set out to stalk the fragrant Catalpa, but I felt an urgent need that afternoon. Like the trilliums that are our state wildflower, and other spring ephemerals, I knew the show they put on would last but a few days.

I traded the car for my trusty French racing bike, which is stuck in low gear, and descended toward the river, into the Valley that is now a National Park. I knew if I wanted to see Catalpas, the lower and wetter I took myself, the better.

Alongside the old canal towpath which I remember as overgrown and sapling-studded, before it was paved into a recreational trail, and all along the twisted muddy Cuyahoga that seeps listlessly beside it in a sandstone flecked gorge, I saw and smelled the creamy white panicles of ruffled, yellow-throated Catalpa blossoms.

Across from the old Greek Revival Mustill Store, an 1840s stop on the Ohio and Erie Canal, they grow in the crevices of the old stone Lock.

Old stone Lock at the Mustill Store

An artist has set up an easel on the precipice the lock forms, and paints a bend in the river decorated with the Catalpa's lush green leaves and trumpet-like blooms.

Following the towpath's winding, level path, I am rained on by the fluffy seeds of unseen Cottonwood trees. A visceral memory of summertime on my friend's block of 9th Street, where each year at this time a giant cottonwood rained down on us and our banana-seated bikes, while we invented a game called Dodge the Fuzzies. I stop to watch the seed fluff land and float on the inky black surface of a dark, boggy pool, and look up to see that same pool shaded by a graceful Catalpa.

This is also the time the mulberry trees drop their messy purple fruit, and every so often I scatter a gaggle of voracious, perhaps slightly inebriated, cat birds who seem oblivious to my presence, until I am almost on top of them.

I take a back trail to a little pond I know, which is filled every spring when the Cuyahoga predictably overflows its banks. I see a tangle of abandoned bikes heaped in the tall grass, their riders so anxious to get their fishing poles in the water they let their bikes fall where they may. I pause for a moment to take in this most Tom Sawyer-like scene, boys and bikes and fishing poles and and croaking frogs.

Of course, the fishing hole is ringed by Catalpas, which despite visiting this very same spot innumerable times in my youth, I had never noticed. I approach the shoreline to view the blossoms up close, and out from the brush wades a sharp kneed and impossibly slender Great Blue Heron. It is all sharp beak and spindly legs, and unlike the drunken oblivious cat birds, it seems wise and aware of my presence but not particularly concerned.

And then, it holds its great wings aloft, and lifts off silently and gracefully, disappearing like a dream that vanishes at the cusp of dawn.

I was on quest for Catalpas but found so much more. Blooming after the magnolias and apples and dogwoods and other springtime show horses, in a bit of a late spring lull, they light the velvety green foliage of the season's new leaves, before they are scorched and munched on and subjected to the ravages of a hot and steamy summer.

I discovered despite I-pods and Gameboys and air conditioning, boyhood is still about bikes and fishing poles.

I discovered that you think you know a place, but can be humbled by enormous showy trees that are all around you, that you never took the time to notice, perhaps because you were never out three days before June's Full Strawberry Mon to stalk them.

I discovered that words and imagery from a book read decades ago can live in you, and come to you when you spy a perfect specimen of a tree you previously only knew in a story.

Thinking all these things, down in the lowlands of the canal and the river, it occurs to me that I somehow will need to ascend these steep valley walls, and my bike only has a low gear.

I trace the topography in my mind.

If I take a left at the old Mustill Store, I can likely make it about halfway up the Howard Street hill under my own power. I can then turn down Glenwood, and terrace my way midway across the Little Cuyahoga's valley, until I come to the old crumbly steps at the back entrance to Water's Park, from whose peak, across from the hospital of my birth, I watched so many decades ago a wrecking ball pathetically try to tap away at the old stone North Hill viaduct, to make way for the new Y-Bridge.

I portage my bike up those steep crumbly steps. I stand on the peak and look down on the valley from which I have ascended.

To know a place, to feel its topography in your bones, is a good feeling, even if you were unaware until this picture perfect June afternoon in your fortieth year, that the place is lousy with Catalpas, which always bloom at the time the Cottonwoods rain their seed fluff, and the cat birds get drunk on mulberries, and the Full Strawberry Moon is about to ascend this beautiful, fecund valley.

Must. Get. Hands. In. Dirt.

My horticultural library. Some rusty iron fence sections. A Charlie Brown collection castaway plants and roots awaiting a new garden and a chance at life.

I had barely unpacked these choice items from the back of my U-Haul before the familiar urge struck:

Must. Get. Hands. In. Soil.

It is how I know a place. And I think, how I know I am alive: feel the soil.

Inundated with all of the mundane details of moving, I made sure there would be an immediate horticultural job awaiting me once I returned to Ohio. So, I adopted a spot for beautification on the old state route that was once the main drag of my home town. A choice spot between the beer drive through and the abandoned Ponderosa.

As if on cue, I pull into my driveway with my big orange Uhaul, and ten flats of annuals, courtesy of the City of Cuyhoga Falls, await my attention. I hasten the unloading of my worldly possessions so I can go play in my native soil.

With garden fork I churn the soil, the thistles and mullein and crabgrass have already taken hold. But the soil turns easily. Earthworms squirm. Some clay, some concrete fragments, but not the worst I have seen. There is hope for these cosmos and verbena and begonias.

Neighbors see me filling milk jugs to transport water to the site, and leave me empties on my doorstep. The hairdresser at the beauty shop next to the beer store gives me her cell number so I can call her anytime to open the shop and fill my water jugs. It is good to be home.

As the cars whiz by and more than one acquaintance stops by to say hi, I enter the familiar zone, of working to bliss. I don't mind the full afternoon heat, did not apply sunscreen, and forgot the floppy hat. I will have to live with the ghost of a baseball cap singed onto the back of my skull.

It is elemental, at some level, this need to be in the soil. A friend says every year when her mulch pile is delivered, she has to restrain herself from rolling in it. I know exactly what she means.

No matter where I live, I always find a way to have some acreage, no matter how humble, in which my hands can immerse themselves in the soil. My plots tend to grow larger and larger over time.

In Kentucky, deep back at the base of a holler, I found the one spot in the front yard that got a little afternoon sun. I planted tomatoes. I didn't even mind too much when the neighbor's band of clattering Guinea hens pecked at each one the moment it turned red. What mattered was the cultivation, the working of the soil.


In Philadelphia, it started with the forlorn sidewalk tree in front of my first apartment.

I pulled busted up concrete from a crumbling sidewalk so it could have more water, and transplanted some vinca. A neighbor saw me and offered me a trial plot in the community garden. This plot doubled, and then quadupled, and then, one thing led to another.

I soon found myself tending an estate of many acres. On my keyring, keys to courtyard gardens all across the city soon jangled.

So, with this inauspicious start in my old hometown, this little Devil Strip plot on an old state highway that has seen better days, we begin again.

That is what gardeners do. We plant things. Things that will grow. Things that will die. Things that will surprise us. Things that will disappoint us. It is out of our hands. But the toil, the hope, the possibilities are what sustain us. That, and the way loamy soil crumbles in our fingers, and the earthworms wriggle, and the robins dance in the soil we churn.

The Kindness of Gardeners

This neighborhood is one for the ages. Bay windows jut out into enormous oak trees. Turrets rise on every corner. And, if you stand on your front porch, and you look down the block, you see porches until they disappear at the vanishing point.

I think this neighborhood must attract people who relish fresh air, and sunlight, and downright neighborliness.

The days I get to stay all day in this place are magic, and rare. Most days I leave his place, on the bike, chug five to ten miles away. But some days I am here, all day, and wonder why I ever bother to leave.

Today I labored for a favorite client. She is discerning. Particular. Hard to deal with, some might say. No, she is not. She knows what she loves and is impatient until she gets it. I respect that.

We started with crabgrass and a chain link fence, and overgrown, truculent hollies. I built her a cedar fence, wisteria arbor, paths, a trellis. I went on quixotic quests for white camellias she wanted me to espalier: pink or blush or anything more common just would not do. I separated my shoulder hoisting her cryptomeria, or Japanese temple cedar, over the wrought iron fence: the hazards of a one man show.

Today I hack away at an ancient pyracantha, or firethorn, a wicked shrub of menacing spikes. Its root mass was a tangle, dense, hard as a rock, at least 75 years old if not a hundred. It's time had come. A soft, ice blue, feathery cypress will replace it. The menacing barberry met a similar fate. For her, it is all about the texture.

For the limited time I spend in my own neighborhood, I marvel at how many people know me by name. But it is that kind of place. We all walk to the shops, and see each other at the Farmers Market, the brewery, the theatre that mounts shows in Calvary Church.

Today as I labored, it was a cavalcade. Of neighbors, and passersby. Everyone wanted to make sure on this sweltering day I was hydrated. I assured them a little sweat never hurt anyone, and was the body's efficient cooling system.

I still don't know how everyone knew. I have mentioned it but to a few. But one after another, they approached, wishing me well.

A neighbor I know by face, but not name, with whom I last conversed six years ago, brought me a tiny pot. A little seedling of Baptisia australis, or false indigo. She remembered from those many years ago that it was my favorite plant.

And as the day went on, the offerings continued: Assorted hostas. Hens and chicks. Rhubarb. Crocosima. And, I kid you not, a seven-foot tall, red-and-white dappled, All-American, Fourth of July rose bush.

It is as if they wanted me to take a piece of this place with me.

I am humbled.

Someone remembered how much I love old stones, and brought me a Philadelphia antique curbstone.

Someone else brought me a rusty old horseshoe, the kind we are always finding when we dig around here.

I somehow ended up with a seven foot section of wrought iron fencing as well.

The kindness of gardeners.

I don't know what the future holds, or for sure where I am living, or how I will earn my keep.

But all I know is when I depart this place next week, bound for the craggy sandstone cliffs above the Cuyahoga's deepest gorge, my U-haul will be packed with some rather unusual items.

Not the least among them, a gaudy, glorious, seven-foot tall Fourth of July rose. I'll shower the Turnpike, from one end to the next, with it's garish, jubilant, glorious petals.

Intense Urban Horticulture

I've been doing this urban horticulture gig so long, I sometimes forget my workday is rather peculiar.

So here is a day in the life of an Urban Horticulturist.

I awaken to squirrels scampering up craggy bark and birds chirp chirp chirping happy May tunes. My second story bay window juts out into an enormous oak tree, so it is like sleeping in a giant tree house. The night before, I fell asleep listening to opossums, coons and other critters of the night slink up and down that same tree. It's a whole world up in that oaken canopy.

Breakfast: oatmeal with black cherries, turkey sausage, waffles, peanut butter toast, and a pot of coffee.

I load a few tools in a messenger bag, and prepare my trusty steed: a 1977 Motobecane French racing bike.

Heading north up 48th Street, the sky is a perfect blue with wispy clouds over Calvary's spire. Each day I gage the weather by how the sky looks against this stone tower. I pause to admire my neighbor's Ohio Buckeye, Aesculus glabra, in full crimson bloom against a Queen Anne turret, and snap a few pics. I am always looking for inspiration. 

Across the street, I check in on my client's Golden Raintree, Koelreuteria paniculata, planted last fall. It survived a brutal winter, a hit and run with a garbage truck, and is leafing out rather nicely.

I bike four miles to Center City, resist the urge to snap and shoot this stunning May morn. There is too much inspiration today, and I am on a deadline.

I chain the bike to a pole, and pick up my reserved Philly Car Share Prius. I make my way to Kensington, and an abandoned industrial site that is now a nursery.

Today I am picking up things for the Rittenhouse townhouse's summer window boxes. I have ideas in mind, but I design on the fly: what looks good. It is kind of like French daily marketing: you go to the market and end up having for dinner each night what looks freshest and best.

I was thinking big bold and tropical for this summer, but a few lacy leaved weeping Japanese maples catch my eye. So we will do something delicate. We'll balance their burgundy leaves with chartreuse and yellow. I load my wagon cart and keep trying different combinations until I find what works best.

I pay for the plants, and treat myself to a few early treats from their farmstand, rhubarb and honey are early season offerings.

Navigate back to Center City, double park the Prius, endure honking and wailing as I scurry to unload in a traffic jam.

I return the Prius, get the ladder, dismantle winter's plantings to make way for spring.

Summer plants are planted, numerous chats with curious passersby, attempt to fix the drip irrigation system (quick bike trip 5 blocks to the hardware store), but fail. Get some fiberglass repair tape, that will do for now.

Survey the back patio, try to assess why some things are dying, plan what is needed, chat with the homeowner, figure out the bill.

Job one completed, it is 11:00 AM.

Walk one block to the School of Psychoanalysis, clean up and water their boxes. The early spring plantings are holding up in the dappled shade of a  honey locust, that will buy me a few weeks before I need to put in summer plants.

Now, to the estate. But first, a quick siesta at Schuylkill Banks Park. On a grassy knoll next to a brown and slow-flowing rain swelled river, I lie down and rest my eyes, against the steady patter of recreational joggers, bikes, bladers, and Moms and nannies pushing baby buggies that cost more than my first two cars.

I awaken to a dropdead gorgeous blue sky with white fluffy clouds, and linger for a few moments taking it it.

Re-mount the steed, detour to fill the messenger bag with sandwiches, and embark on 9 mile journey to the Estate.

I navigate the beautiful piece of heartbreak that is Lancaster Pike and West Philadelphia, cross City Line Avenue, and am enveloped in the pastoral calm of St. Charles Seminary. I pause for a moment to take in all the green and the quiet, while the carillon chimes. I check in on the dogwoods by the gates, this is their final flourish. I have seen an entire season unfold with their petals over the last four weeks.

Finally, the estate. Park the bike, walk the perimeter. Take it in. Make mental list of all that needs doing. Realize there are not enough hours in the day.

And so, I set out, one task at a time. Chat with the property owners, adjust my priorities to accommodate theirs.

Work in the orchard, weed and edge the new plantings, repair some turf, move several shrubs, begin the endless task of removing the English Ivy and pachysandra that threaten to engulf every one of these old Mainline estates.

Labor in the grandmotherly sweet fragrance of lilacs, at their peak today, along with the azaleas. Pop more Benadryl to combat that selfsame pollen.

The half silver moon is visible though the sun has not set. The neighbor's carriage post lamps flicker on, signalling the end of a day's labor.

Seven miles in low gear (need to make time to get that gear cable fixed) back to 48th Street. Greeted by my nocturnal friends, the silvery opossum and the potbellied raccoons, scampering in the trashcans and stealthily lurking in their urban arboreal Eden.

Another day of intense urban horticulture.