A NEW MOVE 

    During the fifties our family moved from Pittsburgh to Miami. We eventually settled in North Miami where my father bought a house from a friend he had known for a long time. It was our new home for several years until my brother and I went off to college. After that my parents sold it and moved back to Pittsburgh.

   Our new home was situated on high land about 16 feet above sea level (high for South Florida) in an ancient copse of giant live oaks where the air was humid and dense especially after the daily rains that saturated the sandy sea sand earth that contained very small fossil seashells from even more ancient seas. Air plants, ferns, and  waving Spanish moss grew among the heavy almost horizontal-stretching tree limbs. It was a Nature lover's paradise for a young boy, with various tropical lizards and the occasional snake.   The humid gently moving air and earthy scented heat made any degree of physical activity almost impossible.

   My father bought new appliances for our home; a washer and clothes dryer, a kitchen stove, and a refrigerator, and they were delivered from Sears and Roebuck in a big lumbering van driven by a white boss and a Black helper. The moving work was hot and sweaty. The Black man did most of the laborious lifting and moving of the appliances into the house and into the garage where there was some relief of coolness and shade from  burning sub tropical sun.

   At the end of the appliance installation,  the two men were wasted and drenched in sweat. They slowly walked back to the van parked under the moss laden oaks, and both workers sat down for a short rest on the bench seat before driving back to the store.

   My father saw how exhausted they were and offered them some cold water. The white man drank off the water poured out by my Dad from the ice cube tinkling pitcher first, but he didn't make a gesture to offer any to his Black helper who was sitting next to him in abject silence.

   Then Dad said, "What about him, your helper? Doesn't he need some too--here, give him this glass of water."  The boss man said, "He don't need no water."  Dad was intensely silent for a moment, staring at the ground. Lifting his head to eye level he said, "Well, if he doesn't get any water, you don't get any more either." 

    Dad walked to the other side of the truck and poured out the water and handed the cold, sweating glass of water through the rolled down truck window  to the helper who waited for a long time as though thinking, and then drank the water.

   The boss sat there stunned and motionless.

   Dad took back the two glasses and pitcher, and he walked up the front red tile steps of our home.

                                                                              Frank La Rosa Mazza        May 2022

 

                                                    Gardening From the Ground Up

                                                                           by

                                                          Frank La Rosa Mazza

                                                                          and

                                                              Franky Caracia, guest gardening advisor.

                               

   During the forty years that I have gardened here in Del Mar, California, I have built up a very deep layer of top soil above the native clay or hardpan.  This created precious earth is  a rich, black loam at least a foot deep, and in some areas of the garden, it is fourteen inches deep. I truly cherish it like a cherished antique of beauty and value beyond dollar value.  As you know, our basic "earth" here in coastal California is impossible to thrust a spade into, so we have to create the "ground" of  our gardens by continual gardening effort.  And this takes a long time, even years as in my case.

   I collect every particle of leaf and plant detritus that I can get my hands on. I also chop and grind up the bigger pieces of  plants and shrubs. Egg shells and coffee grounds also help. This can be laborious especially with the plant and shrub remnants, but this is what making compost entails. This is the basis of good gardening.

   The tree leaves are the easiest to use. Simply rake them up (no leaf blowers allowed) and spread them around the plants and put them in the beds. Encircle these leaves with bricks, chunks of stone or small pieces concrete medium pieces or even with heavy pieces of wood as short piece of railroad ties or pieces of concrete,  or even short pieces of old, aged railroad ties. This keeps the detritus in place and the rest of the garden looking neat and well kept. Keep the detritus well watered to help in the decomposition process. This moisture is essential for bacteria. These containment rings of stone or brick make what Alan Palmer (lived to be 100) called "Plant Islands", and they work very well in retaining moisture, stopping weed growth, providing gentle nitrogen, and best of all making that rich black compost that is so loaded with nutrients and food for birds. I admire Palmer, a self made man, who left school at 16, who could do many things with his mind and hands.  This created earth will have the rich texture of Devil's Food cake and smell almost as good! Over the years, this compost evolves into the gold of gardening, and here in Southern California it helps make a true garden.

   I complain all the time that I have rake  up the leaves that fall from the neighbors' uncared for, unpruned trees that drop voluminous amounts of leaves on my property. But instead of complaining I should really thank them, write a handwritten letter that says how valuable their proliferated leaves are. So, I rake them and place them in the plant island-rings. Sure, this takes work but this is what creates  that relinquish acids organic compound, minerals, and best of all, create a beautiful texture, that is really pleasing to the eye in contrast to excessive to water guzzling lawn.

   To create a viable garden requires work and most of all Care, not leaf blowers, chemical fertilizers, fancy pants tools, nor abstract ideas. Of course, one could go over to the garden center or supermarkets and buy numerous bags of compost from who knows where, but that would not be Care of a personal kind. Yet, it would show a Care of a kind, I suppose. But, that thin expensive layer would only last one season at the most, and then it would need to be reapplied over and over again. Re-coated like paint. By replenishing with leaves and plant detritus,  you create a living, renewable "Ground" of being for every green plant that you wish to grow. You create an Old Garden, a similitude to  Old People. Old Gardens have an almost apparent wise beauty.

   The word "compost" literally means bringing  together, a Unity, from the Latin componere) . Isn't gardening a Unity, a bringing together of Composts, plants, birds, animals, insects such as bees, and most of all,  people who have something to say,  to talk with other? 

                                                                                                                     

                                                                                                                             

 

   

                                             CELEBRATE THE WINTER SOLSTICE

                                                                  by Frank La Rosa Mazza

Years ago I planted  a few small gallon size pyracanthas, old variety poinsettias, Indian hawthorn,  and deep green needled conifers (Japanese black pines). White blossoms, red berries,  and green pine branches.

Now I have a natural winter garden of reds and greens that bespeak the Spirit of Christmas without my having to rely on commercial  store bought decorations and ornamentation.

The pyracanthas have grown into massive bright red berried  shapes that set off the front garden in Christmas, beautiful shapes of bright red, and the birds love the plump berries. Poised on both side of the front planter bed, they are seasonal flames. Everybody likes 'em

A long time ago (molti anni fa} I was able to get some poinsettia cuttings; not the hot house forced types or the varieties packed on shelves at Walmart. These cool poinsettias are the variety that were grown thirty or forty years ago by the old Italians in their Little Italy front yard gardens. Now, few of these jewel like gardens remain, alas--the condos are wiping them out. Every year developer does a scrape that obliterates the past.

These old poinsettias are hardy, tough, with brilliant red bracts that last a long time, and grow  ten to twelve feet tall. The plants themselves should be planted in full sun to produce full bracts of bright red color. They are perennial, of course, and are easy to maintain.

These poinsettia cuttings strike roots easily in gallon cans when taken in July and August and kept in a protected place, not too hot. Later on, they they can be planted in situ as and when you think they are big enough to continue growth on their own--now they will need attention and lots of water until they feel secure to continue on with their lives. They will then repeat the red bracts year after year--a remembrance of their former Italian owners. It's always a courtesy, respect,  to ask the original owners politely for a gift of a few cuttings. I have never been denied anywhere when I approached the old occupants with care and appreciation, and have had many an interesting chat at that. Plants too are social. Old world, eh?

As for the nuovo Walmart poinsettias, they too can be propagated from cuttings (not as vigorous and tall growing), hardened off, and carefully planted eventually in situ. Care, Sorge--that's the key, and one day they may reach heights of beautiful seasonal color.

The old ethnic inner city gardens are sources of Christmas treasures. I look out for them all the time while driving or walking around (sans cell phone of course) in those ethnic neighborhoods because I want to see who used to live there and maybe remember them. The owners are always generous and care that you care about plants: "Oh, my grandmother planted them years ago when they first moved here, from Italy, Mexico, Vietnam, or where ever."

A Natural Christmas is one that lives on.

Frank La Rosa Mazza Dec 22, 2021.

 

 

 

                                         Solstice Passing    17 December 2021                  

                                                       by Frank La Rosa Mazza

Deep blue cold sky and sunny bright air, crystal clear--

A burning sun compasses a low arch across the southern sky in late afternoon.

In the sea, deep shadows in the wake of its grey steely waves.

This time of year only a few days till the Winter Solstice--

      is difficult.

The angle of the sun, even though it is a bright sun,

      reveals darkness in me, a sad melancholy

     for all those I have known and have died, gone.

The light is intensely bright

      but ungivingly cold,. chilled.

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Care is a state in which something does 'matter'; care is the opposite. of apathy. p. 269

Heidegger 'thinks of care as the basic constitutive phenomenon of human experience.'

 p. 290 

                                                                                         LOVE and WILL by Rollo May

                             What does care for a garden mean?   By Frank La Rosa Mazza

   Most people in suburbia want the status, ownership (possession) and luxury of owing a house that is situated on a large enough piece of land to grow a garden. They want to be the quintessential Willy Loman who follows the American dream. But, they, unlike, Willy, don't care about maintaining a garden, or what that even means and they  live in houses that today cost two to three million plus.

   Nor do some homeowners care about living things that come along with the material possession of a home with a back and front yard.  The plants were 'popped in' by the builders.  So, it would probably be best for society and the few noncaring homeowners in mindless, middleclass America to live in apartments or highrise condos where you can't open the windows for the spring breezes, hear the birds singing, nor walk bare foot on the grass, and you have to call the garage valet to get out your car out to drive. Prison?

   Nevertheless, status, as a result of owning that house in suburbia, is indelibly stained into the middleclass mindset. And it is a good thing for a lot of us. But for some, owning is a powerful hierarchical obsession, for those who think they have made it, (moved on up) risen up in the affluent push button tech world.   And, they don't mind shelling out a lot of money, and not taking personal, down to earth care of their gardens. I like getting my hands into the rich earth that I have made from my own compost.  And, if they do care a little bit, to save face among their neighbors, they gladly pay the " mow and blow" so-called 'gardeners'   who are further proof of material status. These "mow and blow" guys never use a rake, touch the earth, or plant in the earth, and they blow allergenic, toxic dirt and dust into the air. Their blowers make an inordinate obnoxious noise, (like grunting bulls) especially when one is listening to music!

   Yes, there are those who can't because of serious reasons give care to a garden. I am aware of that. 

   But, on my daily walks through my suburban neighborhood, I observe many examples of the lack of care for living plants, trees and birds. The gardens are sere, dry, and almost dead.  These gardens are a symbolic microcosmic proof of the deficit of love and care for the planet Earth. The Green Earth upon which we all live and depend, and love. What I sometimes see on my walks is often similar to walking into an office (even a medical office) and seeing unwatered, dying plants. And nobody cares! 

   We are defined by what we care about. Soren Kierkegaard called this Sorge the Danish word for Care. I don't trust people who allow their plants to dry up and die. This makes me wonder what else they allow to die. 

   Even the people keep an African violet or a philodendron on a windowsill have Care. They have kindness.

                                                                                                                   Frank La Rosa Mazza 

                                                                                                                   26 November 2021.

                                                                                                                   

   

   

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                                                                   SEA SHELL ARCH

                                                                                   by

                                                                       Frank La Rosa

                                                              

   I've taken as the model or image for my my clay sculpture a small remnant of a seashell. That piece of shell must have broken off the main shell many years ago, and the sea tumbled and polished it for who knows how long--hundreds even thousands of years--rolled and caressed by the waves until one day it was cast up on the beach,  I saw it and picked it up. 

   This tiny remnant is the opening to the shell where the mollusk or sea creature goes out and comes back into its home. This passageway is long and spiral-ribbed like the rest of the shell, but it is polished like smooth porcelain.  The opening forms a kind of elongated arch  that leads out from inner security, a home, to the outer world of the sea which is the creature's outer home. All of our lives exist in and through arches.

   This creature's body is composed  mostly of water and some minerals, but in spite of this its somewhat amorphous, flaccid body has the intelligence to have created a very hard protective shell, a doorway, and even a door. This sea creature, like its fresh water cousins, created a smooth entryway, shiny and slippery, and of the right proportions for egress and reentry. It has also made its own hinged door called an operculum, a fitted lid that the soft bodied mollusk can open and close as it feels fit and that is appropriate to all occasions; to keep itself safely enclosed and keep out dangers of all kinds, except possibly that of mankind. The operculum is a finely made valve, if you think about it that way,  that the creature both shuts out and keeps closed securing it being. It can "Then- close the Valves of her attention- /Like Stone", to quote Emily Dickinson.

The soul selects its own society,  Emily Dickinson

    

                                                            A  GARDEN of REMEMBRANCE

                                                                       PLANT MEMORIES

                                                                             

   It is of significance to me that I live on a cul-de-sac named Recuerdo Cove. The word Recuerdo is 'ricordi'  in Italian and means the same thing--memories. Ricordi di Napoli and all that.

   Once many years ago,I mentioned to my clarinet teacher that we had recently moved to a new  house on a street called Recuerdo Cove. He mused for a long moment in his silent Icelandic way, held his chin, had a distant gaze in his eyes, and  said, "What a very fascinating name". I have never forgotten that. Only an imaginative artist musician would make a comment like that. In fact, I have never heard any persons who live here in this cul-de-sac say anything at all about the name 'Recuerdo'. This Cove is a magical place. I wonder if they feel that way also about it?   We have lived here for forty three years, within sight of the blue Pacific, on the rim of a canyon that is filled with animals and plants of many kinds. Sometimes these animals come up into our back garden: raccoons, opossums, rabbits, ground squirrels, foxes, snakes, many different and beautiful birds, and butterflies. Our garden is a sanctuary of the living.

   I have always thought that Recuerdo is a name holding a deep symbolic meaning. After reading Proust's great creative testament to life and memory I feel even more the power of Recuerdo-Ricordi. I often wonder what it would be like to live without a memory. Proust's life was almost all memory.

   My garden is inhabited with with many presences, people that I have known and loved. I encounter them every day as I work in my garden, tend to the plants, and think about the givers of numerous plants. This evocation of memory is not a conscious or deliberate thing. It simply occurs as I see what each particular plant needs for its care and continued existence, as it stimulates and evokes memory almost unconsciously, I would suggest. 

   This consideration about memory is not mere sentimentality. And, some observers would say that the experiencing of memory is an actual living of sorts in the past. I do not think that memories  are only a regressive. Actually when we have memories we are experiencing a very powerful occurrence in our present lives, and this in turn stimulates and informs our present lives. So, memory in this sense is alive and in the present. When we read Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past", we are experiencing his memories raised to the level of art that stimulates our imaginations in the present.

   Botanically speaking, all plants carry with them a kind of plant memory. Botanic reference books tell us a great deal of information about each plant's history. Each plant has a genus and species, and we are given its place of origin, climate needs, growing conditions, and innate habits. This is a plant memory: a kind of collective memory similar to the collective or group memory of animals.

   The plants in my garden have all of that, but they have much more because they evoke something transcendent to the labeling of genus and species. In the 'Hortus Conclusus', our 'protected garden', plants evoke feelings and memories.

   As I make my early morning rounds through my garden, it is impossible for me to separate each plant's botany, new growth, condition, and blossoming from those who gifted the plant to me. There are so many plants that do this in my garden. Each plant in the truest sense is a Blossoming of Memory.". Each plant has a being, an emotional aura, a special palpable presence. Some writers would call this being an astral presence, but for me the plants are that presence and simply great stimulators of imagination and memory. I try not to think about it all too much--it simply happens.

   One of the most indelible plant memories in my garden is the Mermaid rose which is an offspring of Rosa Bracteata and the Macartney rose. The Mermaid is an extremely vigorous rose and even grew for many years in the hottest weather in Denton, Texas where my father-in-law once had it. He brought the Mermaid as a cutting wrapped in wet paper in his boot in the trunk of his car. Therefore, he claimed that he "bootlegged" it to our home in Del Mar, California. I think of this when I see the Mermaid.

   The Mermaid is one of the most beautiful of roses; large blossoms with yellow centers, creamy edges, and yellow stamens, and  the scent is fruity and the breath of springtime. And like the mermaids or sirens of ancient mythology,  this rose has a powerful dark side or shadow. "She" can grow to twenty feet high or more (mine is almost up to the second story), and "She" has backward curved lethal, protective thorns that will not release from skin or clothing, and they really hurt! 

   I have made many cuttings and air layers of this rose as we have moved from one home to another, and now on Recuerdo Cove I have two large specimens of this memory plant which is appropriately within view of the Pacific Ocean.  The sea breezes are to her liking, and she reminds me of my father-in-law's gifting every time I care for it. 

   Memory is an energy that resides where it wishes, but there is a dual energy in a living plant; that of  the plant itself and that of the name-energy that went into the gifting of the plant. The name is a residual memory of the giver and grows along side  the gardener as he or she cares for and remembers the person who gifted the plant. As the ancient Egyptians said, as long as the name is uttered, the person and the soul live.  In this case, the giver-the plant-the gardener- and the remembrance are united. For me they cannot be cleaved into separate parts in my consciousness, nor should they be. Remembrance.

   Seeds sent in the mail in envelopes from one person to another are veritable sparks of light. They scintillate with life. And, they will not acquiesce, nor will they be repressed. The seed will not deny itself! It rejects omnipotence in all other beings because each seed in itself is potentia. The very same can be said for tiny plantlets or sprig of plants, such as those of Spanish moss--Tillandsia usneoides.

   Many years ago, my father sent me in a letter from my childhood home in Miami a tiny sprig of Spanish moss. I remember Spanish moss and other air plants festooning the massive live oaks that surrounded our house.  This sprig refused to be overcome by the long journey in a dry envelope. The power of the Life Force! I placed this partially withered sprig onto the branch of one our trees, and it quickly sprang into life,  reproduced, and encircled the twigs and branches tenaciously. Now Spanish moss is a vibrant tenant growing in several trees of my garden, and so much so that I have to remove some of it from time to time.

   The trick to growing it is in placing  the Tillandsia spriglets on trees that receive moderate sunlight. But even more important, is to have a lower story or bedding of plants that are watered frequently and emit moisture upward into the trees and the Spanish moss.  The moss is caught between the moisture of the earthy plants and the leafy canopy of trees, and as I look up into the branches and moss, I have images of my father who wanted me to have the ambiance of his own Florida garden.

   These seeds and sprigs of tiny plants are living, orant vessels of life, and they carry with themselves the places and persons from which they have been given.

Frank La Rosa

September 10, 202