January 25, 2014 – 6:50 P.M. – The campus of Rutgers University

My son and I walk into the Rutgers Athletic Center (The RAC) to watch a college basketball game and this overwhelming feeling, overwhelms me.

It had been a long time since I had been in a college atmosphere like this and damn, have I gotten old quickly. The students looked like they could have been my own children and that made me want to grab my son and physically prevent him from aging another day.

My son is in sixth grade and I would be happy if he stayed there forever. We can have adult-like conversations and hang like two buds, yet he still waves to me when he leaves on the bus each morning. The best of both worlds. I can’t envision the day when he is on his own at college (shit, we have some serious life skills training to get on) and doesn’t need us any longer. I felt a lump in my throat as I typed that last sentence.

But enough about him, this is supposed to be all about me.

After successfully pushing the age issue to the recesses of my brain so it could be reconciled another day, I began to study the faces of the college students as they went about their merry way. Every single one of them had that “It’s all in front of me” look and it kind of pissed me off. Lucky bastards. I have no desire to go back and be 19 years old again, but I would love to go back in time with my true passion in tow. I would like a shot to pursue that passion professionally from a much younger age.

I entered college in 1990 as a journalism major with a semi-mullet and a few pairs of pegged jeans (look the term up). I was going to expose wrongdoings on campus. I was going to rail against the PRC and censorship of music. I was going to get the great locker room interview.

Didn’t happen.

I wrote a few fluff stories for The Signal, the Trenton State College (now known as The College of New Jersey) newspaper but it ended there.  

By my sophomore year, I some how managed to convince myself that I would be doing nothing more than writing obituaries when I graduated from school. I needed to find a major that would allow me to walk right into a fantastic job fresh out of college. Mistake number one. I would love to go back and slap my early 90’s self and remind him that you work your way up dumb ass and that you should enjoy that process. Nothing comes easy and it shouldn’t.

Quick aside – I’d also tell my 90’s self that jean shorts don’t work.    

I eventually graduated with a B.S. degree (pun intended) in Criminal Justice and also minored in Psychology. I didn’t want to be a lawyer or a cop; something in between. Like Jodie Foster in “Silence of the Lambs”. I ended up taking the LSAT’s for law school any way and did get “wait listed” at Seton Hall Law School. However, within seconds of getting that letter in the mail, I knew I wasn’t going to go down that path.

My first job out of college was working for a serious private investigation firm and it was never dull. True story, my biggest “mission” was to present a “summons to appear in court” to some ridiculously wealthy dude who had apparently knowingly passed on a disease to a woman he had “met” (wink wink) on vacation. I volunteered to drive hours to make that delivery. Big ambition guy. When I arrived, the house was guarded by a number of nasty looking dogs barking from every angle. I quickly rang the door bell once, making the legally required attempt and got the hell out of there. My first and only mission was complete.

Fast forward to today and I work for a great company as a project manager. I cannot complain. But damn if I don’t wonder what could have come if I had some cojones and stuck with the writing. And if I also knew that this passion for gardening was simmering beneath the surface at a younger age? Well that would have been nice. I think we need to rethink this college thing, specifically the timing. I was a dope coming out of high school and my own future wasn’t even on my radar. If I could go back to college now at this age, I’d get it right. I haven’t figured out the logistics yet, but give me time. I don’t think my employer would be OK with me taking a sabbatical to study horticulture and garden writing.      

On the car ride home after the basketball game, I never turned the radio on. I enjoyed having a conversation with my son and did my best to reinforce the message of “do what you love” (Minecraft not included). I don’t know if that means anything to him now, but it will be a theme for the next decade so he better get used to it.                                                 

January 19, 2014 – 8:17 A.M.

My family and I are all homebodies and I am the worst offender.

But it isn’t my fault. I come from a long line of homebodies and it is all I ever knew. In fact, if you trace my lineage back a few generations, you will see that my great great grandfather, Herman Homebodinski, was the first Homebodinski to come to the U.S. from Poland and he laid the groundwork for what we commonly known as the “homebody” today. I’ll do my best to share the old time pics with you if I can dig them up. I have some of him sleeping on a couch in front of a fire, others of him sitting at the kitchen table eating perogies and a few others of him just staring longingly at his bed. Once you see them, you will better understand me and where I come from.

So Sunday morning we were all sitting around debating what we were going to eat for breakfast (the kids vote for “mom’s pancakes” 100% of the time – even knowing they are made with some mix of sweet potatoes, carrots, pumpkin, wheat germ, coconut oil – sorry, a story for another day) when my wife went all wacky and suggested we “go out” for breakfast. Really? Like get dressed and move about in the eight o’clock hour? On a weekend? Are you off your meds my dear?

The kids and I all chuckled heartily and went about our business of chillin. Crazy mom. Ha.

But then that all changed when she uttered the words “Lovin’ Oven”. Within seconds we were all dressed and headed out the door, time and frigid weather be damned. In all seriousness, those may be the only two words that could have elicited that type of reaction from all of us.  

Here is all that you need to know about “Lovin’ Oven”. We have taken five different trips to this establishment with family or friends over the past two years and without fail, all have said “this is the best breakfast we have ever had”. Not an ounce of hyperbole. It is that damn delicious. Check out their menu by clicking here. Even the kids go wild when we eat here. My future-food-critic-son can’t talk enough about the chocolate cherry scone. And to add to their street cred, check out this story from the Food Network about their ridiculously off the charts good chocolate caramel sea salt tart. You feeling me?

Because the “oven of love” is always bustling, there is going to be a bit of a wait before getting seated. No problem. Attached to the restaurant is Two Buttons, the store owned by Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love fame. Yes, she lives in our ‘hood. The shop sells antiques, goods and wares from Asia and was inspired by her story told in E, P, L. While I can’t claim to be all knowing about the world of gargoyles and Buddha, a visit to the store is an event unto itself. I am always searching for garden “ornaments” to break up the plant life and while my garden has never sniffed a style resembling anything Asian, who says I cannot mix it up a bit? In fact, I bought myself something there to be revealed in spring. I know, the suspense is overwhelming. Hang in there.                              

As we were about to be seated for breakfast, my wife picked up a copy of the always awesome “Edible Jersey” magazine and immediately handed it to me, noting the words “Native Plants” on the cover. Sold. Give me that periodical now. Inside I found the related story and let me tell you, I couldn’t be more excited. In nearby Hillsborough in the Sourland Mountains, unbeknownst to me, lives a couple with a native plant nursery, Wild Ridge Plants. After reading the back story about the owners and how they propagate the plants that they sell, I started dreaming about owning my own native plant nursery. Inspiration! While I haven’t yet committed to an all native garden, I have come to appreciate native plants way beyond their aesthetic appeal. Check out the couple’s two blogs and you’ll see why I got so excited:

Wild Ridge Plants

The Shagbark Speaks 

I cannot make it out to their nursery soon enough and if I am lucky, I’m hoping to snag them for an upcoming podcast. I vow to continue focusing on natives in my own habitat and spreading the word on this approach. This article reinforced that vision.

By the way, I had and egg scramble for breakfast with sausage/pesto/provolone, rosemary potatoes and a sweet potato biscuit. Another winner.   

So what is the moral of today’s – It is OK to leave your house once in a while.

You’re welcome.   

The following is an excerpt from a yet to be published (or fully written for that matter) memoir about the role gardening and plants play in my every day life. Everything you are about to read is true and really went down as it is conveyed. I can’t promise you it will be interesting, but we will keeps it real.  

January 12th, 2014 (Sunday) –

You know how the sound of rain hitting the roof warms the soul in spring and summer for us gardeners? Well that sound had me friggin livid when I woke up this morning. As I took the dog out at the crack of dawn (a 14 year old bladder will do that) my backyard looked like the Bayou with all of this rain … and not in a cool, creepy and Gothic way. Just plain wet and nasty.
  

I’m fairly certain I saw perennials (planted months before) floating down newly created streams and tributaries after finally heaving themselves out of the ground with all of these extreme temperature changes. Damn I hate January and February here in the Northeast. I can deal with snow cover and some cold temps but this wet and mild weather one day followed by single digits the next day, really shits the bed. Wake me up when the first crocus bulbs emerge in March.

Of course there is more to life than my garden so it was time to put my big boy pants on and enjoy the weekend morning with my wonderful family. The coffee was made and all four of us were on our electronic devices, not communicating with each other. Family bonding of the best kind. I reviewed last night’s hockey scores, scanned my emails to see if Fine Gardening wants me to write a column for them (spoiler alert – nothing of the sort) and laughed heartily at all the wonderfully silly cat pics on Facebook (hope the sarcasm was obvious here). Fantastic use of my time as the coffee ran through my veins.

I fancy myself a garden designer and I have a hard time caring enough about my spring garden planning quite yet. So in order to fulfill that desire, I’ve taken a bit to interior design. Yeah you heard me, interior design. My wife and I have been slowly piecing together our living room (formerly an indoor basketball room) and while I can’t do a thing like hang a door or put up moldings, I have strong opinions when it comes to color and texture and furniture placement. And that all comes from the garden design experience.

While hopped up on caffeine, we reviewed my wife’s stellar Pinterest boards to narrow down our search for wall sconces, chairs and book shelves. THIS is why Pinterest was invented and why my wife could be a spokesperson for them. Actually, she could be a professional pinner. I wonder if that exists? Does it pay well? Note to self: encourage wife to be a pro pinner. Anyways, Pinterest is as simple as see something you like, “pin” it and move on. Once your “board” is filled, simply review the choices and make a decision. Wait, this is my memoir so why am I explaining Pinterest? I need to work these kinks out if I ever want to publish this memoir. Tangent complete.           

So off we headed to the furniture store in search of a chair to work with our couch and other already purchased furniture. Three long hours later we had our chair purchased. We laid out twenty five fabrics samples against each other to find the perfect one and I was way the hell into it.

“This brown truly has hints of green and we don’t want to do that.”

“That pattern won’t work next to the other patterned chair.”

“If we want to get a leather ottoman, this fabric will contrast beautifully.”

Those exact words came out of the mouth of yours truly. It made me long for the days of grabbing plants at the nursery and grouping them together until the combo just popped. This wasn’t the same, but it still got the design juices flowing. You want to know how much it meant to me? I blew off the NFL playoff games.