#Gardening #BalconyGarden #ContainerGarden #SouthOfFrance #Hydroponics #GrowYourOwn #Plants #France #GrowOwnFood
#myphoto #flowers #plants #planter
The Social Hall Planter, Salt Lake City, Utah From 'The Last Bus to Ogden.'
For five years, the planter was filled with glorious plants and flowers, in every season.
And then - it all ended. Everything in all the photographs, all the buildings, were destroyed to make room for new construction of yet another gigantic, tall building in Downtown.
#myphoto #planter #writing #flowers #plants
The Social Hall Planter. Photograph from "The Last Bus To Ogden'.
- It took several months to remove a lot of the old soil, and bark, and then replace it with new, good soil from a garden center nursery. I hauled it all in by bus. I also transported the plants on bus trips. I transported the rocks (except two large ones) in a backpack from the Research Area where I worked - to the planter. I hauled water from my apartment to water the plants.
People started to have some respect for the planter, and the amount of garbage I had to clean out of it was greatly reduced.
#planter #cleaning #city #bus #stop #Myphoto
These are photographs from my story 'The Last Bus Ogden.' I live in a building next door to this Downtown, Salt Lake City planter. It was in front of a bus stop where I took buses, and also where a bus took me from Research Park where I worked, to this stop, right by my home. Many people waited for buses, and sat on the edge of the planter. It had been totally trashed. A horrible mess, neglected and abandoned by the property owners. I was disgusted to see it every day. I had called the property owners and asked that they clean it up. I learned that a water pipe in the planter no longer worked. I waited for them to clean it up. They never did. Cigarette butts were thrown in the planter - the planter would catch on fire from all the garbage. The Fire Department would arrive and put out the fires.
So, because I couldn't ignore the sight right in front to my eyes, I adopted the planter and cleaned it up myself. It took weeks. I worked on it after I got off from my job, at night, and on weekends. I wore gloves and a mask. I scrubbed the dirty concrete the best I could, and I also scrubbed off years of graffiti. The side walk in front of the planter was also a mess. I called the City about cleaning it up and they told me it was the responsibility of the property owners by the sidewalk. Well. I already knew nobody was going to be doing that. I cleaned the sidewalk myself. Because there wasn't any water to clean anything, I hauled water in a bucket back and forth from my apartment next door.
Of course people continued to throw their garbage in the planter, and I continued to clean up after them. That's just the way some people are. There could be a trash receptacle right in front of them, but they are too lazy to use it. The graffiti also continued, and I continued to scrub it off.
#ToWrite #flowers #planter #city
The Last Bus To Ogden
Last year I wrote âThe angels were up in the night casting handfuls of pearls on neglected and forsaken groundâŠâ
That time is here again, and I saw beautiful Morning Glories, also known as Moon Flowers, this morning while I was on a campus shuttle bus going to work. I said to myself,
âThe angels were up in the night casting handfuls of pearls on neglected and forsaken ground.â
When I look at them, I can always hear sweet, high, little voices singing, like flowers in a beautiful Walt Disney cartoon-
âGood Morning! Good Morning! We love you. Have a wonderful day.â
As I looked at them, I remembered an old drunk man I met one night in front of a UTA bus stop, when I was working in the Social Hall planter in downtown Salt Lake City. I had adopted this forsaken planter. He rode up on his bicycle, huffed and puffed, and said it was a steep hill. He was wearing shorts, his legs were tanned, and he looked to be in good shape in spite of the fact that he was old, drunk as a skunk, and stinking to high Heaven. I thought if thatâs what riding a bicycle can do for you, I should buy one and get my own self in shape. He sat on the edge of the concrete planter and was taken aback, and then delighted when by the light of a streetlight, he saw all the flowers I had planted in the planter. Thinking that he must be in the middle of some kind of alcohol induced delusion, he asked me what the names of the flowers and other plants were, and why was I out there late at night working in a flower garden? I told him the names of the flowers, and how I had adopted the abandoned Downtown planter, and it wasnât my property. I explained that it was better, and easier to work at night when it was cooler, and there wasnât a crowd of people around the planter waiting for their buses. He asked if he could help me, and plant a flower. I said he could, so he dug a hole in the dirt with his hands and planted a flower.
He enjoyed it all so much that I suggested that he should plant a garden where he lived. He explained that he once had a home and a wife, and back then he also had a garden that he tended. He said his wife slept during most of the day, and working in the garden was how he kept busy. But she died. He put his head down and was silent. Then, he told me that now he lived by a river in Ogden, and it wasnât his property so he couldnât plant anything. I got the feeling that he must live in some kind of tent, or lean-to. I pictured him being cold in the Winter.
The old man said all he had left was the VA Hospital he goes to, and thatâs where he was earlier in the day. He had been in the Army in World War II. He showed me the battle and surgery scars on one knee, and said he lived in pain all the time. I thought perhaps his physical pain was one reason he had turned to heavy drinking. His doctor appointment was the reason he had traveled from Ogden to Salt Lake City on the bus. A trip that took an hour or longer. Now, he was waiting for the last bus to Ogden. That sounded like the name of a song to me, or a movie title. âThe Last Bus To Ogden.â He asked if he could plant another flower and I told him no because he was much too drunk, and would accidentally damage them. He asked me why I was so mean. I could almost hear him gently saying those words to his deceased wife. I told him it was my job to care for the flowers. Understanding the responsibility of having a job to do, and the condition he was in, he shook his head âYesâ and didnât argue with me about planting anything.
Then he said,
â⊠most people think of them as weeds, but I really liked themâŠtheyâre little, white, pretty flowersâŠâ
"..Morning Glories?"
âYes. Thatâs them. I really like them.â
âI like them too. Shall I plant some here for you?â
ââŠNoâŠI used to work for the Forest Service for many yearsâŠwildflowers are the most beautifulâŠout there where they belongâŠin their own natural settingâŠit wouldnât be right to have them here.â
He spoke in a sober, serious, intelligent Forest Ranger kind of way, deserving of respect, and not like an old, drunk man, on his way alone in the dark, to finally fall down beside a river and go to sleep.
The next day as I was walking with a co-worker to a Deli for lunch, I mentioned to him, because he knows about trees and gardens, that I really liked Morning Glories. I said I had been thinking about digging up a few plants from the nearby open field where we worked, and planting them in the Social Hall planter. He replied,
âNoâŠyou donât want to do that. Theyâre weeds, and their roots go way, way down. Youâd have a hard time digging up one. Why would you want to put weeds in a flower garden? They sell ornamental Morning Glories-they look good.â
My co-worker was correct. Ornamental Morning Glories are very pretty flowers, but somehow they remind me of a bowl of plastic apples, oranges, bananas and grapes that sat in the center of an auntâs dining room table. Real-but not real. But maybe Iâll get over that one day, and plant some orientals in the Social Hall planter. Itâs silly to keep an unreasonable thing in your mind. You know, get over it!
My co-worker was also correct about the wild Morning Glories having very deep roots. I did get out there in that dusty, dirty forsaken field, and dig up some plants, with their long vines, and the flowers that I loved so much. It took over an hour and it was hard work. I transported the wild Morning Glories home on a bus, in a large grocery store paper bag, with their roots wrapped up in wet paper towels. It was rather thrilling to have this treasure in my own personal possession-to be mine, to look at and enjoy to my heartâs content.
Once home, I put the wild Morning Glories in Mason jars and vases filled with water. I also filled up one side of my kitchen sink with water, and put more of them in the sink. They were all doing just fine, and I must have looked at them a hundred times.
I put the vines that were in jars and vases out on my second story window ledge of the Downtown building where I live. To see and touch this little bit of wild Nature was wonderful. When the Sun went down, the little Morning Glory flowers folded up and disappeared within the leaves of the vines!! I was thrilled! When my alarm went off the next morning, I raced to the kitchen to look at the Morning Glories I had in the sink filled with water. All the little white flowers were in full bloom.
âGood Morning! Good Morning! We love you. Have a wonderful day.â
Some had a slight touch of pink on them, and others had a touch of light blue. All-so beautiful to me. The flowers that were out on the window ledge were also in full bloom. I was very happy.
I kept the wild Morning Glories with me for over a week, and knew I would have to plant them soon or they would die. But in thinking about it, I had to agree with the old man, the Forest Ranger, that they were at their most beautiful in their own natural environment. It was selfish of me to have them. And, the Social Hall planter was no longer a neglected, forsaken piece of ground. It had me to love and care for it, so they really didnât belong in the planter.
I transported the wild Morning Glories, âa heavenly gift to barren and forsaken placesâ, back to the barren field where I had dug them up. I planted them, and watered them every day until I was sure they would be alright. I looked at them when I was passing by, and a few times I walked out into the field for a closer look. Winter snow covered them, and then one Spring day, bulldozers were bulldozing the large, empty field-smoothing it all out. The Morning Glories were plowed under. I walked out there and asked one of the workmen what was happening. A new medical clinic was going to be built there. I thought of the old Forest Ranger, taking a bus from Ogden to go to a doctor appointment in Salt Lake City. Maybe one day his doctor would send him to the new clinic that was to be built? And as he sat in the waiting room, he would look at the clock on the wall, and think about making theâŠlast bus to Ogden.
