Colorblends offers bulbs in color and flower mixes you might not venture on your own. / Photo above and on the front from the Colorblends catalogue.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

IT’S HALLOWEEN at Costco and has been so since mid-August. Candy corn and miniature Musketeers are displayed in piles,  and those creepy kiddie costumes fill racks: Spider-Man, skeletons, vampires, Snow White. They have the same weird smell and feel they’ve always had, thin and crunchy, like organdy, but not. They feel like they could burst into flames from a wisp of a breath. 

Baby usually dressed out of my closet where, with a droplet of imagination, she could be anything from a dead princess to a cowboy-girl to your basic witch. Just like me.

No doubt, in a few days Halloween will be over (at Costco) and Thanksgiving will appear for about a week, and then be replaced by Christmas. It will remain Christmas until Christmas. At Costco.

It’s also bulb time at the megastore, with sacks of tulips and daffodils, hyacinth and allium.  The bloom time—early, mid and late spring—is marked, and the prices are fair. You can order online as well, never having to wander around the store and get sidetracked by a million other things you do not need in giant-sized containers. 

Buy bulbs now, but don’t plant them yet. Stick the bulbs in a closet and forget about them. In the DC area, planting time is not for a couple of months, when the air is cool but the ground still pliant.  

For decades, I’ve been quite content with Costco’s offerings: They’re perfectly pleasant bulbs in agreeable colors, and for 40 bucks or so I’ll have a gorgeous display.

Then, last year, I kept hearing about Colorblends, a bulb “wholesaler” with hundreds of spring bloomers, all the basics plus Darwin hybrids, which are the only reliable tulip rebloomers.  

The brilliant thing about Colorblends is that they have mixed colors and varieties and bloom times for you, so you don’t get a garish mash-up but waves of beautifully coordinated and frequently unexpected combinations of color and texture and height. Like the “Jacques and Jill” pairing that mingles mauve-pink with orange bulbs, which sounds like a clash but is a deliciously shocking combination. And, the important part, you look like a genius for putting them together. 

Among the daffodils are singular beauties that resemble pale yellow and peach hibiscus, others as refreshing as orange sherbet and vanilla ice cream, and some gorgeous pure whites. The alliums include 8-inch Globemasters, which make a spectacular cut or dried flower. For gifting (or keeping), there’s a delightful collection of showy amaryllis, and at a buck each, the sweetly scented premium paperwhite narcissus are as good a price as you’ll find anywhere.  

There are assortments timed to explode simultaneously and others that will bloom continuously from early spring on. You can also buy quantities of single varieties if you insist on trying your own hand.

Some are only offered in huge quantities, suitable for your typical baronial estate—or for splitting with every neighbor on the block. Though reasonably priced, given the quantity, I have no room for 600 yellow tulips ($252), or a collection of 500 white and cream bloomers ($210), as much as I might lust.  

Most, though, can be had in quantities of 25—for as little as $18 for both single varieties and blends.

I was about chewing my fingers to the knuckles last year waiting for my shipment, what with postal and Covid delays, but the company assured me that the bulbs would arrive at the right time for planting. Which they did, and the flowers were as magnificent as promised. 

The catalogue is a treat, witty and full of information on bulb planting and care. Visit the website for a taste, and order quickly, supplies dwindle fast (as I learned last year).

Excavating an entire planting area, shown left, then covering the bulbs with soil is how the pros get those extravagant borders, shown right, or even entire fields of blooms. Of course, the bulbs would be even better if they came with that little guy at the rear to plant them. / Photo from the Colorblends catalogue.

LEFT: The color is “erba” (grass in Italian), and this nice, trim Cashmere Shrunken Button Cardigan is $375 from Vince. It’s also available in black, heather white, pale walnut and sea stone (a pale gray).

TOP RIGHT: From Garrett Leight, Paloma glasses are tinted champagne/gold, with a stainless steel frame. They’re $390 from vince.com.

BOTTOM RIGHT: I don’t know how many more sandal-wearing days are left this year, but it may still be possible to amortize the cost of these luscious Marni Criss-Cross Calfskin Fussbett Sandals, $690 at Marni.com. In addition to green (shown), they come in powder pink, lilac, charcoal—10 colors in all.

By Nancy McKeon

IT MAY JUST BE that I bought way too many white shirts over the past decade. And I continue to regard them with a worship that borders on fanaticism. But.

But I find myself flipping through catalogues and browsing fashion sites and being drawn, strongly drawn, to deep, luscious color.

It began with a tank top I bought this summer that was somehow both deep and radiant teal. I bought it to wear under a crisp white shirt, of course, there being nothing as flattering against a middle-aged woman’s complexion as crisp white. But somehow that teal tank changed the whole dynamic. The white was still crisp, but the teal added a glow to my skin, the likes of which hasn’t been seen in quite some time.

So now I’m on the prowl for more flattering colors. I’m not locked into one color palette—you do you—just going where my eye leads me. So far it has led me here, above and below.

LEFT: Rustic Brick is the name of the color of this wool-blend Kimono Jacket, but its clean tailoring is anything but rustic. The hip-length jacket has two patch pockets and a side-tie. It’s $229 at Garnet Hill.

CENTER: The amber, burgundy and burnt-orange blooms on the weathered blue ground of this Mojave Rose Anorak are what got my color cravings juiced this season. The waterproof polyester jacket won’t ship till November. which means its roominess will allow for layers as weather sets in. It has a detachable hood and pockets and a two-way zipper and is $229 at Peruvian Connection.

RIGHT: Navy tracings on curry—I call that color. Also from Peruvian Connection, the viscose Yellowstone Dress has slightly blouson sleeves and is 37 inches in length, which may call for navy leggings. It’s $329.

LEFT: Lisa Corti grew up in Africa and now lives in Italy. Like her other textiles (scarves, quilts and table coverings), this Lisa Corti Wool Shawl was hand-block-printed in India. It’s over 6 feet long and $272 through John Derian.

RIGHT: I carried something like this Slouchy Suede Shoulder Bag when I was in college. It still looks like a great idea. This one comes in dark red (shown), also in a chartreuse that looks more like goldenrod to me. It’s $148 at Anthropologie.

Lamarque’s slightly oversize and full-sleeve Karry lamb leather jacket is classic when you want it to be (right), friskier when you are (left). It’s on sale for $330 at lamarquecollection. Shown here in vetiver (olive green), it’s also available in black.

LEFT: For daily pursuits, from Treasure & Bond, this rayon-blend Plaid Boyfriend Shirt in gray-rust Cosmopolis plaid drapes like a dream and is $59 at Nordstrom.

RIGHT: If there’s anyone’s cashmere I trust to be the best, it’s Loro Piana’s. You pay for that kind of imprimatur, of course: This San Babila cashmere turtleneck, with a form-fitting ribbed body and over-long plain-knit sleeves in gradient coloring, is $1,785 at loropiana.com.

I still envy my sister the fringed suede jacket she had in high school. Now may be the moment to finally buy one for myself. The Big Sky Jacket, $448 at Sundance, comes in the fawn color shown and a pale moonstruck (ivory-gray). The catalogue warns it runs a bit small.

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an Amazon Associate.

A busy day on Juno Beach in Florida, where the Cavanaugh clan gathers to celebrate family—and maybe snip a few plants to take home. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

WHAT SHOULD we have for dinner next Thursday night? Maybe we should order ribs? Pizza? 

The Prince and I are headed to Florida next week along with Baby, her Personal Prince Pete and Grandbaby Wesley. Friday is my sister Jeanie’s birthday and we’ve rented a little house that the owner says is just “two football fields down the beach” from her condo.

It will be more bustle than we need, shopping and cooking our first night, and thanks to the anti-vax lunatics in Florida, we won’t want to go out. 

Also, thanks to Covid, it will be the first time Wesley, who’s now 1½, will meet Jeanie and his other great aunt, Bonnie, and her daughter’s family, who live nearby. We didn’t expect everything to boomarang as it has, with Plague Part II. But Jeanie’s been ailing, the plan has been made, and we’re going.

Itchiness for this trip has been building all summer, along with the fear of hurricanes. Baby and I trade messages.

“I can’t wait,” she says.

“Me neither.”

Waiting makes the trip that much sweeter. The heart beats faster at the thought.

When I was a kid, we took a lot of short vacations throughout the winter—long weekends spent in Nassau, St. Thomas, Barbados, Puerto Rico. Dad loved the Caribbean—the white sand, the clear water—but could rarely tear himself away from his office for more than a few days at a time. 

As wonderful as these trips were, they always felt like they were over before they began. Mom would get a call on Friday morning: “Pack the bags, we’re leaving tonight.”  And poof, we’d be back.

He did dictate our lives, even if it was in often fabulous ways. 

I was thinking of those trips the other day, how nice it would be to just up and jet off to a magical place on a whim. But then I reconsidered. 

What was always missing was anticipation: the weeks I now spend waiting in a happy trance, floating in a scented tub, eyes closed, lost in blue-water daydreams, which will make the eventual vacation seem that much longer and more enjoyable.

We do know pretty much exactly what to expect (even hurricanes, we’ve lived through several) so there’s little possibility of disappointment. 

It’s a fine beach Jeanie lives on. Juno is just north of Palm Beach and south of Jupiter, a long narrow strip along the ocean, too narrow for much building. There’s a sprinkling of condos, and hidden covens of private homes that line the bewitching oceanfront. Days can go by in the off-season, summer months, when not a soul can be seen. Winters are a tad livelier, though not by much. Sea turtles famously nest here, undisturbed. They’ll start hatching in the next few weeks and if we’re lucky we’ll see hatchlings stagger on new legs across the sand to the ocean. 

Baby will go diving. My Prince will pick up rocks to take home; he always does. “They’re thousands of years old,” he’ll marvel, eyes as wide as an 8-year-old’s.

“Yes, honey,” I’ll say (thinking them ugly). We could build a rubble wall around our house with the bags of rocks and shells he’s brought home over the years.  

When I’m not wallowing in the water, I’ll find plants. There’s always something. Sometimes it’s at Lowes or Home Depot, a tiny tropical you can’t find around Washington. Or I’ll pinch plants as I walk about, wrapping them in a wet bathing suit and a plastic bag for the trip back.

They’ll be little sprigs for a long time (if they live at all), like the key lime bought at the airport newsstand five years ago that refuses to either grow or die. As with everything else in the flower borders, much of the pleasure is in the watching, waiting, hoping. 

The summer garden, planted out with carefully nurtured, nursery-bred flowers and shrubs, is certainly lovely. But how much sweeter is the coaxing, and occasional satisfaction, of growing something a little risky or rare. Something plucked and brought home, that has no business being here. The staring at the top of a (potentially) fabulously scented plumeria and wondering whether the damn stick will finally bloom this year. 

Waiting is such a pleasant torture.   

And Baby says: “Ma, would you stop ending articles like this. You just run out of words and stop.”

Yes.

Jose Andres’s not-for-profit World Central Kitchen focuses on getting food into the hands of those who need it. / Photo courtesy World Central Kitchen/WCK.org. / Cover image from iStock.

By Nancy McKeon

ADMITTEDLY IT’S hard to pick and choose among the international disasters this moment in history is offering us. Pandemic? Assassination and government collapse? Earthquakes? Hurricanes? Lack of drinking water? Destroyed hospitals and few doctors?

Haiti, that earthquake-prone isle in the Caribbean Sea, hits all the marks. Top it off with government that has been by turns  corrupt, authoritarian or simply clueless, and you have a modern-day cry for help.

Spanish-born DC chef José Andrés’s charitable organization, World Central Kitchen, is already on the ground, having dished out thousands of meals since Saturday’s 7.2 earthquake, whose death toll was about 2,100 at this writing and sure to rise.

Andrés began his not-for-profit culinary effort back in 2010 . . . in Haiti, when a slightly less powerful earthquake killed hundreds of thousands and destroyed parts of the much more populated Port-au-Prince area. In the interim, he and his team founded a culinary-training school on the island nation, and therefore were in a particularly strong position to hit the ground running.

Who will help the helpers? World Central Kitchen began its mission by providing nourishment for relief workers operating round-the-clock in emergency situations. / Photo courtesy of World Central Kitchen/WCK.org.

I’ve contributed to WCK in the past (oops, just did it again) because there have been so many places where WCK and now its associates worldwide have stood out for taking care of people in need—e.g., Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria, Louisiana after Hurricane Barry, Kincade Fire firefighters in California in 2019, 1.25 million meals for healthcare workers during India’s second Covid wave, etc. I donate in part because I know Andrés and his ethic; but that is underscored by Charity Navigator‘s “Encompass” rating of 100 out of 100, with 82.8% of its 2019 funds having gone to its mission (which includes working with farmers and future chefs), not administrative expenses or fundraising.

A recent New York Times piece pointed me to several other small, quick-to-respond organizations. One, Hope for Haiti Inc., based in Naples, Florida, gets a four-star rating from Charity Navigator. In 2019, the most recent data available, a solid 95.9% of its spending went to its programs, which focus on clean water, healthcare, education and infrastructure—you know, all the things a good government is supposed to take care of. Only 2.1% of its funds went to fundraising (which may be why I had never heard of it) and a mere 1.9% to administrative costs. I wish my own household budget were as well managed.

The place most affected by Saturday’s earthquake is the farming community of L’Asile, on the rural southwest peninsula of Hispaniola, the island Haiti shares with the Dominican Republic. Only a cruel god could have allowed so much devastation to be visited upon the small French-speaking nation. But only an exceptionally cruel one could have allowed the epicenter to be so named: in French, asile means “asylum.”

This month in Haiti, L’Asile has been anything but.

One of the focuses of Hope for Haiti is developing infrastructure so residents will have access to clean drinking water, a pretty basic need not necessarily provided by the government. / Photo courtesy of Hope for Haiti Inc.

The window boxes, all five of them, are resplendent this year, with coleus, caladium sweet-potato vine, ivy and a healthy mound of last year’s oregano. Lurking in the background, unseen, is ornamental kale that is just now sprouting from seed. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

“I HAD MY DOUBTS about those seeds,” said Baby in her most dour voice, a seriously depressing tone she takes from time to time. Thanks to Zoom-calling, I can see that her expression is equally unconvinced.

Wesley, her baby, is in his highchair, babbling into a red toy phone. He looks like a miniature, shirtless mogul doing a deal. 

Have I mentioned that a fortune teller once said, “Did you know your daughter is your mother?” This rang shockingly true. As an infant she’d lie in my arms and look at me so full of doubt that I’d find myself whispering, “Ma? Are you in there? If so, HELP ME!”

While my mother never had the chance to meet my baby, she seems to have returned to be her. 

Meanwhile—cue the Psycho music—Wesley, was born on my mother’s birthday, two weeks before he was due. 

There! LittleBird Stephanie does indeed have a way with seeds after all. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

Anyway, Baby was reacting to the seeds of ornamental kale I planted last week, the little black fly specks I’d tenderly tucked into the back of the upper window boxes, where there are patches of bare soil, with hopes that they might, might, turn into . . . ornamental kale. 

Seeds and I have a fraught relationship, as Baby well knows. I can’t even grow zinnias from seed, and these are at the top of the list for easy-to-grow flowers. For kids. The type of flower suggested because they never disappoint budding gardeners, blooming easily in masses of candy-colored ruffles . . . for everyone else.

I got a flower once a few years ago, a sad orange one. I don’t like orange flowers.

So, I showed her my kale sprouts, angling my phone above the tender seedlings that had already emerged—enough of them that if they actually survive (oh, please, please!) they’ll adorn the winter boxes with enough left over to pop into containers here and there in the garden front and rear.

It was a moment, let me tell you. Though it’s still near impossible to believe that these green sprigs will eventually grow into flamboyant, foot-tall and -wide cabbages within a couple of months. 

Meanwhile, the midsummer boxes, all five of them, are something to see. Three upstairs, two down, they’re traffic stoppers. Obviously, none of the plants was started from seed. Baby said I have to write about them. I said, haven’t they (meaning you) read enough about my damn boxes?

“Nope. They’re too good this year,” she said. 

So. See photo at the top. Now quintuple it.

The oregano I planted last summer in the center of each box flourished greenly through the winter, forming a center mound that’s beginning to spill over the edge; the coleus and (surprise) caladium wave their sensationally colorful leaves on either side, the sedum is pinking out nicely off in a corner, and the acid-green sweet-potato vines occupy the centers. In the lower boxes the vines are starting to cascade toward the front porch floor; upstairs they’re falling to the tops of the windows below. Mingled in are purple sprigs of pittosporum, and other bits of stray things, while anchoring the ends is ivy, which has been growing for decades, just needing regular trims. 

With luck, by early November, when the summery stuffs have had it for the year, my kale can be moved forward, growing over the cold months into lovely fat cabbages, frilled green around the edges with purple and fuchsia centers. 

When the Easter Bunny comes, we’ll start all over again.  

The American bathroom has gone from a boring three-fixture necessity to a spa-worthy destination, as seen in this design by Anthony Wilder Design/Build of Cabin John, Maryland, outside Washington DC.

By Nancy McKeon

WHEN DID toweling yourself off after a shower become an Olympic weightlifting event?

You’re standing there in the smallest room of the house, struggling to maneuver this weighty thing over your shoulders when you realize it’s not your mother’s heavy old Persian lamb coat you’re hefting, it’s your bath towel.

LEFT: The Ultralight bath towels from Brooklinen are made of 100% Turkish cotton, but the terry is only 320 GSM, meaning the towels are not as dense or as heavy and will dry faster, whether in the dryer or on the towel rack. This is closer to the towels I grew up with. A pair (30 x 58″) is $49. Brooklinen’s Classic Bath Towels, not shown, are sold in pairs, 2 for $59. Their weight is 550 GSM. (Brooklinen also has a Super-Plush, which weighs in at 820 GSM and is $69 for two).
RIGHT: Frontgate has these handsome Turkish-made towels, fashioned from hefty 800-GSM Egyptian cotton, known for its long staple. Each bath towel (30 x 58″) is $44.

Take the $89 Hotel Satin Stitch bath sheet (a five-foot-long bath towel won’t do) from Restoration Hardware, where the sofas are often 45 inches deep and hundreds of inches long (okay, I exaggerate on the latter point but not the former).

With a precision practically guaranteed to appeal to the overeducated, Restoration Hardware markets its bath towels by touting their poundage, or at least grams (of weight) per square meter (of fabric). The Hotel Satin Stitch Turkish cotton towels are made from 750 GSM (grams per square meter) cloth. Then there’s the 802-Gram Banded Turkish Towel collection.

LEFT: from Walmart, Hotel Style bath towels. $10.84 each.Turkish cotton, 30 x 58″. Walmart doesn’t seem to invest its energy in promoting the poundage of its products. RIGHT: The “exceptionally dense” 802-Gram Banded Turkish Towels from Restoration Hardware come in a dozen colors and are $51 each. They’re 30 x 56″.

Restoration Hardware is hardly alone. The “plush feel” of Pottery Barn’s Classic Organic Towels is the result of using 800-gram Turkish cotton. Brooklinen lists towels from 320 GSM (its Ultralight line) up to 820 (touted as the retailer’s best-seller.)

The descriptions of all of these towels impress upon the reader their exceptional absorbency. But to me, using them is like rubbing a stiff length of carpeting across your body, smearing the water across your skin and hoping it goes . . . somewhere.

Did I mention yet that these “super-plush,” “extra-absorbent” towels have a hard time drying themselves as well? Hence the introduction of “super light” and “fast-drying” towels. Translation: fewer grams per square meter.

I think it’s all part of the ongoing “hoteling” of the American bathroom. It used to be, what? a standard 5 by 8 feet, with a toilet, a sink and a bathtub? One sink became two. The bathtub became a combo bath-shower, then in more recent days gained a hand-held shower in addition (no complaint there!). The bath tub was lonely, so it was given a companion, a separate walk-in shower (ditto). And, despite the relative failure of the bidet to join the fun, the footprint of the room itself exploded, to the point where some (very odd) people have been known to entertain in their bathroom, which more closely resembles a spa.

When it comes to towels, I assumed I was being my cranky old self—until I stayed in a Turkish Suite at the Marti hotel in Istanbul, which unfortunately now seems to be closed. Those suites had hammam-style (an Islamic public bath) bathrooms complete with shower rooms. And there in my shower room were real, honest-to-goodness Turkish towels—not puffy, fluffy piles of terry cloth but incredibly absorbent “veils” of pure linen.

And they actually absorbed the water that was beaded on my body.

From Brooklinen, fringed and striped Hammam Towels have 15% polyester added to the cotton. The large (40 x 70″) sheets are $65.
The hammam style is still an outlier in the American market, which is probably why these towels are flat weave on one side and the more familiar terry loop on the other. The fabric here is 400 GSM.

This kind of flat weave is alien to Americans’ expectations of a bath towel. So even as Brooklinen and, yes, Restoration Hardware have begun to offer these Turkish delights (albeit in cotton), they aren’t going whole-Istanbul: One side is the classic (Turkish style) flat weave and the other has looped terry.

They’re not as light as they could be. But 320 GSM is less than half what the mega-towels weigh. And in many ways twice as useful.

This is arguably more attention than the average person is likely to pay to their bath towels, but just to give some context, here is some guidance from The Turkish Towel Company:

      “300-400 GSM – In this weight, the towels are lighter and thinner. But, depending on its use, you might want a lower GSM for the gym towel or a kitchen towel. A lightweight, quicker-drying beach towel might be around 350 GSM, for instance.

      “400-600 GSM – This is a medium weight. This weight is great for beach towels, bath towels, guest towels and so forth. Each consecutive gram weight –400, 500, 600– gets a little heavier, and a little more absorbent. [Author note: Ha!]

      “600-900 GSM – This is a premium, luxury weight. The towel will be denser, heavier, more absorbent. It will probably take a little longer to dry. [Another author note: No kidding!]

“Other factors that will influence the towel’s softness and absorbency are: type of cotton, whether the manufacturer uses a polyester blend (as we say here at The Turkish Towel Company, “Ixnay on the olyesterpay!”), whether the cotton is a single or double loop, and so on.”

One more cranky but well-intentioned piece of unasked-for advice from me: If you gaze at towels in those rich, dark colors and think “how sophisticated, how sleek, how modern,” please cast your mind’s eye forward about four years so you can imagine how dingy and drab and truly unappealing they will be, even if you no longer “see” them at that point. Whites, off-whites, pale tones are the way to go. And these colors are less likely to be discontinued too.

Restoration Hardware also offers “real” Turkish towels, also with one side finished with terry loops. The towels are 100% 320-GSM cotton, 27 x 56″. They’re $40 each in four sober color combos.

You say cabbage, I say kale. Either way, these fall-flowering plants are welcome in the dreary months.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

I JUST PLANTED flowering kale seeds in my upper window boxes, the ones that have a couple of inches of stray dirt near the windows—not that you’d notice looking up. They look lush from the street.

These patches of soil get a dribble of sun, are pretty much guaranteed regular watering (the sweet-potato vines droop so dramatically when dry that it can’t be avoided) and are far from the trample of postal persons, residents tipsying out of their car doors of a late evening and dogs with their scratching and peeing and so forth. Even with little fences, seedlings can’t be guarded against such. They are doomed before they sprout. 

But upstairs, there’s a chance. The seeds, from David’s Garden Seeds ($4.45), arrived yesterday and I am already too late for planting them for this fall, or maybe I‘m not. David does a tap dance on his package, “For the best planting instructions . . . search the web . . . follow the Farmer’s Almanac . . . talk to local gardeners or the county extension service.”

There are other vagaries on the package. “Some seeds should be started indoors for transplanting, and some should not be planted indoors. Check with the pros in your area to find out more. “

Thank you very much, Dave! 

So I went to the Internet and found that for fall flowering I should have planted the seed in the beginning of July. It is now nearly mid-August, or will be in a blink. But aha! “Flowering,” they say, each of the sites I consulted. What does this mean in the context of kale? They don’t really flower, they just arise and show off frilly pink centers, in this particular case, amid the cabbage-y green outer leaves.

Do they mean “bolt”? When suddenly a sprout emerges from the center of the cabbage and leaps up in rather leering, ugly fashion and the kale is kaput? Basil does this too.

But if we’re talking about itty bitty cabbages emerging by early September, that is exactly what I want. Small ones settle in better than those big honkers and look good longer. 

Flowering kale is not an edible thing; it’s ornamental and enchantingly so. Set amid pansies and ivy and greens that stay green through the dark season ahead, they are a constant cheery reminder that the bone-cold winter will eventually end.  “Ornamental kale is the term used for types with deeply cut, curly, frilly or ruffled leaves,” says the University of Wisconsin agricultural site. “Ornamental cabbage is the term used for types with broad, flat leaves that are edged in a contrasting color.” Though they’re both, technically, kale, the distinction, they say, is a garden-center one.

My packet of seed was a shock, a little plastic bag that Dave says holds 50 seeds, which didn’t seem possible. It also didn’t seem possible that an entire cabbage could grow from something so minute; the entire batch could fit on the head (or tail) of a dime. I tried counting but gave up after five.

Figuring I’d count as I went along, I put six seeds in each window box, dropping them in with a tweezer, and gently covered them over with soil and watered, thinking, How could these fly specks grow to between 24 and 36 inches tall? 

Now there’s nothing to do but continue to water and maybe pray a little. The hope is to get two viable cabbages for each box. Any extras (OH, THE THOUGHT) will go in the downstairs boxes or into the garden.

When they get big enough, I’ll pull the annuals, which will by then be in extremis, and let the cabbages grow in to take their places.

If they don’t sprout in time, I’ll be hunting the big-box garden centers for little six-packs come September. 

It does seem there are 50 seeds—as I still have a little clump of them to distribute. A couple in with the basil, others with the chives, places that tend to be cared for more regularly than some other spots I might consider. And I might dare curbside. Surrounding the seeds with land mines. 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and so forth. 

In leafy Capitol Hill, neighbor Pat’s patio umbrella is the only splash of color at certain times of the year. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

My neighbor Pat’s giant red patio umbrella is just visible, planted like a giant flower amid the vast mass of greens in her side garden. 

There’s a limit to fence heights in yards in the Historic District of Capitol Hill, so one must be creative to gain privacy when your house is on the corner, with just a deep yard in front, another alongside the house, and no buffer against nosy neighbors strolling by. 

How to skirt the rule brought on a neighborly confabulation some decades ago. The solution, to outline a seating area with picket fence at the allowable 4-foot height and set a pair of high-hinged screens, like broken parentheses, or wickedly arched brows, within the boundaries. Tucked behind them: dining and seating concealed from curious eyes. 

When is a fence not a fence? The screens were not fencing; the fence was along the property line. The screens were an installation, an art piece, or so she might argue if the fence police blew their whistles.

Within a few years, vines loped along the outer fence and climbed the screens, and flowering shrubs and bulbs were staggered about. A dogwood marks the grave of Pasha, Pat’s dog, who she insisted was part Briard and part wolf, though the Briard genes were invisible.  

One of the Hill’s tallest, skinniest crape myrtles is front and center; it’s now a Seussian specimen that stands maybe 20 feet tall with a cluster of deep pink flowers on top, like a pom-pom. 

In mid-summer the scarlet red umbrella provides all the color at eye level. 

I caught up with Pat today as she was coming down her steps and I was tromping back from the grocery. “I love that umbrella,” I said. “It’s like an enormous Lord Baltimore hibiscus.” 

She looked at me blankly. 

“They have flowers the size of dinner plates that look like tissue paper?”

“Oh, yes, it does look like that,” she said, smiling. 

“The Prince would tell you to take it down at night, or in nasty weather, so it stays nice. But I’m glad that you don’t—it’s so cheerful.” And that goes double when the sky is gray. 

“If it falls apart you can get another,” I added.

“Amazon,” she volunteered. “It’s really sturdy, too, heavy, with a crank to raise it and lower it.”

Which, as I said, she doesn’t bother to do. 

“I love Amazon. It was under 50 bucks and it’s so well made,” she said.

“I love Amazon too,” thinking, 50 bucks? Definitely replace.

“I don’t care what they say about Bezos.”

“Me neither.” We paused for a moment to contemplate that. 

“How is it that these guys come up with a little idea and make billions?” she said. 

“Wish it were me,” I said.

“No—too much money, too many choices. I’m pleased with what I have,” she said, and got into her little black VW and tootled away. 

“But,” I wondered to myself, Would a couple million bucks hurt? 

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

LEFT: At 21 inches across, this birdbath/fountain combo from Fountain Cellar won’t take up much room in your garden. It’s about $270 at Home Depot.
RIGHT: At about 10 feet across, the Mondawe patio umbrella with LED lights is practically a garden room all by itself. It’s about $190 at Home Depot.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THE MOST CHARMING garden I’ve ever seen was minuscule, about the size of a walk-in closet, and not an especially large walk-in closet, though perfectly scaled for the two-story, 552-square-foot house it sat behind.

A couple of plug-in strings of Edison bulbs can easily light up the backyard night. Each 24-foot-long string is $44 at Home Depot.

The garden was walled, packed with tropical plants, a puddle of a pond, two turtles and a toad. An enormous mirror leaned against the back wall, visually doubling the space, so it appeared to have four small chairs, not two. 

Its owner, a sliver of a man, a graphic artist, fitted neatly into the house, built in the 1830s in an alley in Washington’s Capitol Hill neighborhood for the poorest of the poor, I was told.  Today, it is considered chic. 

I’m thinking of this because I just came across, in one of my gardening Facebook groups, a request for advice about turning a concrete patio, about 8 x 10 feet, surrounded by high wooden fencing, into a dog-tolerant garden with a bit of space allotted to glugging wine, or words to that effect.  

Reader estimates ranged from $6,000 to $9,000 . . . and that was just for concrete removal. They didn’t touch on an automatic underground watering system and bespoke fertilizers. Haute city gardeners. 

And so: Ten thoughts on fixing that garden with change left over from a grand.

1. Paint the floor. Get a can of brick-red concrete stain, a brush and a stencil. They’re available in various patterns and also in shapes that replicate materials like flagstone. PLEASE do not put down fake grass. 
2. If the walls of the fence are mismatched, stain them as well—stain doesn’t peel like paint. A dark gray would be cool. Or maybe a mossy green. In small spaces dark colors recede, making the area feel bigger and calmer.
3. Put down a fine pebble surface—très French courtyard. You’ll need to dump a ton of it—it needs to be several inches thick to hide the concrete—and make sure to use smooth stones so you don’t scream when walking barefoot. Now, smooth it  with a rake. 
4. Plants. Put them all in pots. Do clusters in all four corners, maybe a large pot and two or three smaller ones. They don’t necessarily have to match. Use one of the big ones for a small tree, which might eventually rise above the fence line for some umbrella-esque shade. Or put a fluffy parlor palm or somesuch in each. Use the smaller ones for herbs, interesting evergreens or shade-tolerant flowers like begonias. Tuck in a few vines like moonflowers; the scent of their large white flowers is intoxicating on a hot summer night. 
5. A fountain would be nice. By itself or maybe in front of the mirror? Or in a corner. Nope . . . we’ve already got plants in the corners. Just stay close to an electricity source for the pump or run an extension cord along the fence base.
6. Open the space with a mirror, the bigger the better, and lean it, don’t hang it: There’s something so . . . je ne sais what-you-call-it about leaning stuff. You will look taller and leaner, always a bonus.*  
7. Now lighting. You could do Edison bulbs across the space, an idea a little worn around the edges by now, but can still coax out your inner, unjaded, glee. If you’ve no electric, or prefer candlelight, there are sconces and votive holders and hurricane shades and lanterns. There are patio umbrellas with lights and light kits for your existing umbrella, for a Beam Me Up Scotty effect. GoGo boots should be worn. Lots of ideas here.
8. For furniture, check out thrift shops, furniture resale shops, “antiques” shops and malls and big-box joints. I once picked up a thickly framed, 5 x 7 foot beveled-glass mirror at Marshalls for under $100 (which took a thousand bucks in Princely time to hang—another reason to lean a mirror).
9. Free is even better. Besides shopping the sidewalks (my favorite venue) there are local Facebook groups, like Buy Nothing, where residents give away everything from ribbons to grand pianos. One thing we can thank Covid for is the rediscovery of Free. No one wants to hold a yard sale or touch that nasty cash yet.   
10. Now. Just keep the dog out of the pots and poof! It’s a dog-tolerant garden for glugging. 

Bet you can finish it by Sunday.

Bing.com photo.

*Mirrors can be cruel. Cheap ones, in particular, do lie. Use this to your advantage and consider the one with the most attractive distortion—and always lean it against a wall. This is assuming you want to look longer and thinner (I don’t know, or care, what you do if you want to look squat and fat). The trick is in the tilt: just a little thinner? Just a little lean. And so on. My shortish but brilliant friend Susan taught me this one: She said after she got fully dressed for whatever, she’d get in front of the mirror and kvell* at her fabulously transformed reflection. Then she wouldn’t look at herself again until she was done whatever she was doing. A tiny mirror was used for lipstick repair. Thus buttressed, she strutted through her day (or night), feeling absolutely fabulous. Which she is anyway. 

*Kvell. Yiddish for expressing joy or pleasure. 

The National Zoo in Washington DC has pandas, yes, but it also has plantings that rival those adorable critters. Here it’s a combo of bananas, ferns and palms, with a few marigolds tossed in to discourage other wildlife, meaning the mosquitoes. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

SHADE GARDENS don’t happen overnight. They creep up on you. 

Say you have a little plot, naked as the day it was born. The sun shines brightly from dawn to dusk—oh, the excitement of what to plant! You dig and turn and add this and that, throw in a curving path and say, if you’re me, for instance . . .

Oh, wouldn’t a cherry tree look dandy right there. 

So you buy a nice healthy Kwanzan, perhaps, and you do know (because you read the tag) that they grow to 30 or 40 feet with a similar spread, which would completely cover the garden. But that takes years and years and you say . . . 

This is our starter home. We won’t be here that long—and won’t it be pretty in spring. When we do sell, we should plan for April when the tree will be at its utmost double-pink fabulousness.

So the tree is planted, and underneath you set bulbs, and along the walls you plant roses and clematis, and there are tulips in spring, and by summer patches of zinnias and cosmos and baskets of petunias in a birthday-card riot of colored petals.

And a decade or two passes and somehow or other you’re still here and the tree is now 30 feet tall (with a similar spread) and the roses . . . well . . .  And forget the zinnias, just forget about them. And you think . . .

Flowers are so tacky, aren’t they? All those florid colors, particularly in July when day after day the temperature soars into the 90s and you drip from lifting the newspaper off the front porch. Isn’t green nice? Didn’t we all love the idea of the Emerald City? Ha-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho! And a couple of tra-la-las.

That’s how we laugh the day away, in the merry old land of Oz.

That was an aside.

As we get older, we get wiser and also come up with more excuses for not doing or not having done something. Opinions morph to suit the circumstances.

There are so many shades of green, so many shapes of leaf. To somewhat simplify, there are light greens, dark greens, big leaves, small leaves. Some are frilly, some stand erect like arrows, striated in color—those would be called mother-in-law’s  tongue, which you could ask my son-in-law to explain. 

You might create a garden that looks as if it belongs in Maine, with hostas, ivy, pachysandra, juniper, lily of the valley and begonias. Large hats and flower-sprigged voile dresses go well with these. Lemonade would be nice.

Or play off the miserably hot, humid weather with tropicals, or tropical-feeling, plants such as elephant ears, palms, ferns, Schefflera, jasmine and bananas. Wear a Panama hat and smoke a panatela—or try a caftan. 

If the tree is deciduous, baring its branches each fall, there will probably be enough sun for a weak display of whatever early spring flowers you particularly covet—and really, aren’t these the nicest flowers of the year? They may not grow to the scale they would in a sunny garden, but you can have roses and a fine display of tulips before the shade returns, each year mightier than the year before.  

Be positive! Isn’t it nice to be able to ignore the directive “needs 6 to 8 hours of direct sun,” which you don’t have now and never will?  

Unless you take an axe . . .

By Nancy McKeon

MY FIRST QUESTION to Betsy Bober Polivy: Are those your feet on the cover of Walking Manhattan Sideways?

The answer: yes, followed by how she hunted down the most neutral, unlogo-ed sneakers she could find.

And it was those feet that have in fact walked Manhattan sideways. Sideways meaning the east-west streets designed to be important corridors transporting goods and people to the ships on the Hudson and East rivers that kept the city supplied and kept the economy moving.

Why would she do that? Inspiration struck years back, just a whim really. The kids were mostly up and out, and Polivy and her husband had moved into the city (as we natives of the other boroughs call Manhattan). A small-business owner herself—Polivy had owned Once Upon a Time, a children’s bookstore in Westchester, for a decade—she began noticing how the city’s side streets were jam-packed with little businesses. Not the flashy names that line the broad north-south avenues, but small, sometimes quirky outposts, often the brainchild and passion project for one family or even one person.

A light went off. Assured by her family that she wasn’t nuts, Polivy decided she was going to walk the side streets, learning about the businesses, including the astounding fact that many of them had been there for a quarter of a century or more. How to decide just how much of the island would be her goal? After all, over its 20 miles of length, Manhattan starts way down in the almost mediaeval mesh of streets that were the early Dutch settlement, below the wall that became Wall Street, and way up into the 200s, even poking a bit into what would seem to be the Bronx.

The answer was Manhattan’s 1811 grid—when city leaders decided to regularize street patterns for easier development. Just as the grid did, Polivy would begin at 1st Street and go as high as 155th.

First stop on this decade-long journey was Polivy falling in love with the small merchants and their stories. Next stop was her creation of a website, Manhattan Sideways (sideways.nyc). Again, her husband and the kids helped make it happen.

Manhattan is full of dogs and dog businesses, like Doggie Dearest, a groomer in the East Village (543 East 5th Street). “Walking Manhattan Sideways” lavishes attention on these small businesses, with lavish photos and a clear understanding of the enthusiasm behind each shop. / © Walking Manhattan Sideways.

Then Google, a newcomer to the Chelsea neighborhood where Polivy and husband now live, took note of the website’s offerings, especially its celebratory spirit. Would Polivy be willing to organize small tours of retailers and restaurants for the tech giant’s New York  employees? How do you say “yes” in html?

A book was always an ongoing project, says Polivy, but once the pandemic hit and life became touch-and-go for so many retailers, she decided the book had to come out ASAP. And so it did, published by the Polivy family—no waiting around for a major publisher to go through a yearlong cycle or more. Besides, she adds, the publishers she talked to had wanted it to be more of a travel guide; she wanted it to celebrate the merchants, not a visitor’s itinerary.

It won’t surprise you to learn that as a former bookstore owner, Polivy is selling her handsome paperback ($27) only through her website and in the city’s independent stores, even restaurants. That was a bit of a gamble, but the initial printing ran out in three weeks, with small bookstores frantically ordering more.

It also shouldn’t be a surprise to learn that there’s more: The Art of Walking Manhattan Sideways—featuring art galleries, music venues, theaters, museums and sacred spaces—goes to the printer next week and will be available October 1.

Until then, and until your own copy of Walking Manhattan Sideways arrives (quite possibly hand-delivered by Polivy herself), here are a few of the businesses Polivy features.

Sebastian Laws, shown above, is the youngest son of the original owner of Sutton Clocks, where timepieces range back into the 18th century. Laws’s main occupation isn’t selling clocks, though he does; it’s repairing them. The hardest to fix? Cuckoo clocks, he says, which serve better as tourist souvenirs than trusty timepieces. And note: The chiming clocks that cover the walls are intentionally set to different times. Otherwise, Laws says, there “would be a deafening roar.” Founded in 1966, Sutton Clocks is at 218 East 82nd Street in Manhattan. / © Walking Manhattan Sideways.

As “Walking Manhattan Sideways” demonstrates, there are diverse riches to be found in New York’s Garment Center, especially in its sub-section the Trimmings District. Lou Lou Buttons, established in 1988, is one of those treasure houses. Iranian-born Roz Farhadi, above, offers metal buttons, bone buttons, mother-of-pearl, plastic, wood, fabric, buttons for Broadway shows and the Metropolitan Opera. In the unlikely event he doesn’t have what you want, he can manufacture it for you. Lou Lou Buttons is at 71 West 38th Street. / © Walking Manhattan Sideways.

Even with gentrification, the East Village still has surprises, in this case latex clothes and undergarments for the kinkier crowd. As The Baroness told “Walking Manhattan Sideways,” “These latex designs are the perfect antidote for excessive conventionalism.” Indeed. For a few more days, until July 31, 2021, The Baroness can be found at 530 East 13th Street. After that, she’s packing up and moving to France, where she will presumably be able to spread her unconventional wings a bit more. / © Walking Manhattan Sideways.

The flowers gracing the gazebo are fake, but Baby and Prince Pete are real and going strong. / Family photo.

BABY WANTED an outdoor wedding, in a park perhaps, surrounded by flowers. She chose the Klein-Pringle White Garden at JC Raulston Arboretum in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she and her Personal Prince Pete live. 

A popular spot for weddings, with its “veritable bouquet of white flowers bedecked by white and silver foliage—all graced by a Victorian pool and gazebo,” their website says. Among the splendid blossoms are Japanese snowbells, Loebner magnolias, Mohawk viburnum and white crape myrtle. How lovely.

Yeah, well. It was lovely and green the day they were wed. Oh, so green, so very green. There was not a flower in sight. We gazed forlornly at the setting the morning of, then ran to the nearest Michaels craft joint and picked armloads of faux white dogwood and snowballs. These were twisted and twined around the gazebo to pretty stunning effect, if I do say so myself. 

Though it was more than a little strange to be decking out a renowned public garden in garlands of fake dreck. 

I kept expecting to see some safari-hatted garden guide come pounding forth, ordering us to dismantle that abomination immediately. But no, we were left alone.

Did I mention it was April? And you just know what came our way. 

The sky, which had been sunny all day, decided to open up just as Baby started down the aisle, huddled under an umbrella beside My Prince. The string quartet was under the gazebo, as was the officiant, who cut the service a bit short. Pete, the bridesmaids, groomsmen and guests were drenched. It was certainly unforgettable.

And seven years later, Baby still has her blossoms.  

Gardens have their ups and downs, but even in early spring one expects . . . something. A tulip perhaps? Midsummer can be just as treacherous—the roses develop some hideous ailment, the hydrangeas look dingy, and shouldn’t the damn begonias be in bloom?

And wouldn’t we pick such a lull to have a garden party to celebrate the garden?

Think about our fake solution as a way of “photoshopping” the garden (which I confess I’ve done to my photos when I’m intent on looking good, which is always).  

Plenty of artificial flowers are so true to nature you’ll even fool yourself, which can be amusing. Or go full Frida Kahlo fiesta with totally unnatural, frankly fake stems in a glorious clash of color. 

If you really want to be obsessive, spritz the flowers with perfume.   

I am not that tacky, you sniff? Oh, don’t strangle on your bodice. 

Alrighty then. Plop pots of blooming plants into the greenery (which we hope you have) or get some stemmed floral water tubes and poke individual blooms into the ground or shrubs. 

Then bring the garden to the table. 

Create a splashy base with a madly flowered tablecloth such as this stunner from Neiman Marcus, where brilliantly colored birds perch on and fly amid equally vivid flowers and twining green branches on an eye-popping salmon pink cloth with a pale green and eggplant border. Pick up the colors with pale pink wineglasses, green and white dinner plates, purple napkins and a centerpiece that gathers it all together into a single wow. 

For something more subtle, try black and white mattress ticking like this simply elegant cloth by Matteo. Set it with black and white scroll-patterned plates, crisp white napkins, and bring it home with a tall, narrow vase with several huge palm or elephant-ear leaves to form a living umbrella above the table. No vase tall enough? Set the one you have on a pedestal—just keep it above eye level. 

Or go all white. White tablecloth, plates, napkins and magnolias—or my favorite roadside weed, Queen Anne’s lace in a frosty-looking vase—more votives than you think possible in silvery holders, and tiny white lights twined in the trees. 

Check out Pinterest for a rabbit hole of possibilities and go make lemonade from the lemons you’ve been handed. I bet no one will miss the flowers. 

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

By Nancy McKeon

AS SUMMER HITS its muggy stride, re-opened pools reign supreme, whether their overlord is your local municipality or the fitness center or a generous neighbor. Even strolling past a pool seems to make one feel cooler—ah, the scent of chlorine wafting through the air!

Add, then, signifiers of summer: the beach towels, the pool floats, outdoor lights that work just as well in a summery living room. We’re calling it pool candy, but the color and sweetness extend well beyond that watery realm. Dive right in!

LEFT: Philadelphia-based graphic artist Kendra Dandy applies “Black girl magic” to her Bouffants line of wares. This cheeky cheetah pool float is a collaboration with Anthropologie, where the summer staple is $29.95. The same cheetah also peers up through tropical foliage on a Kendra Dandy dish towel, perfect for anyone’s summer kitchen ($20).

RIGHT: The Otteroo neck float keeps babies upright in bath or pool. And then they just start to flap their little arms and legs, automatically it would seem (at least 7-month-old grand-niece Charlotte did). The “Lumi” is for babies 8+ weeks, 9 to 35 pounds, and costs $24.50. The “Mini” is for 2+ weeks, 6 to 18 pounds, $17.50. Both at shop.otteroo.com. (While you’re there, take a moment to read the Otteroo team’s caution about buying an inexpensive knockoff. I mean, it’s your baby!)

LEFT: Talk about pool candy! The Bougainvillea wrap-front one-piece suit from Tommy Bahama is $168 at Bloomingdale’s.
RIGHT: But if you simply must cover up your suit, you might consider this Ted Baker London cinchable fluttering confection. It’s $150, also at Bloomingdale’s.

The Rio Outdoor LED Lamp is aimed at the pool deck, but I say that, at almost 5 feet tall, it can go anywhere it wants! By day the polyethylene “sculpture” is white; by night it glows. And yes, of course it can change color—and flicker if you want it to. Each tall Rio is $350.55 from Frontgate. The catalogue also features the LED cube seats/tables seen here.

My experience of dogs is that they want to be either in the water or nowhere near it. But maybe your Sadie Lou just wants to chill with the kids in the pool. If so, this Dog Pool Float and Lounger may fill the bill. Available in several sizes and colors, the floats are on sale at Frontgate, $89.10 to $143.10, depending on size. Frontgate also has a dog-bone-shape float, $134.10 to $161.10, again depending on size.

A dip in the pool or the ocean without a jaunty beach towel is just all wet.

LEFT: The Layla Lion beach towel will stand out from the crowd. It’s cotton and $54 at Anthropologie.
RIGHT: Even more exotic is the Ibiza Bohemia beach towel from Funboy. It’s cotton and $49 at the Funboy site.

Light up the night with these clever 15-inch-tall polyresin pineapple outdoor LED table lamps. Available in fruit-bowl colors of green, yellow and gold, they are $79.50 each from the Grandin Road catalogue.

LEFT: What’s a pool without a resin iguana spitting water into it? (No response required.) This plucky 16-inch-long fellow is from Bay Isle Home and is $86.99 at Wayfair.
RIGHT: Alternatively, you might prefer this Grecian triple-tier floating spray fountain, various styles from about $45 to $65  through Amazon.

A trio of coverups from Bloomingdale’s.
LEFT: When you don’t really, really want to cover up, there’s this ombré frayed-edge cotton pareo from Echo. And if you start feeling shy, you can knot it over a shoulder. It’s on sale for $51.75.
CENTER: Here’s a beach coverup that can head out to dinner. The Karen Kane midi-dress is tie-dye on rayon and spandex, on sale for $104.25.
RIGHT: The Seraphina Heart-Print Tunic of semi-sheer cotton from Roller Rabbit can range far from the pool (think jeans and sandals and in the city). Note the tassel ties and the tassels at the hem. Cute! It’s $148.

A trio of fun things from Funboy.

TOP LEFT: Funboy’s Gold Swan Pool Float is back, with a brighter metallic finish. It’s $79.
BOTTOM LEFT: This Butterfly Drinks Float is sold out on the Funboy site but on sale at Frontgate, for $44.10.
RIGHT: Funboy’s Mushroom Sprinklers are weighted (with water) at the bottom so they bounce back as the kids horse around. Over 5 feet tall, they’re $59 each, with a $28 discount if you buy three. And who could resist? (Okay, maybe someone who would prefer an adorable 28-inch-diameter Watermelon Sprinkler for the backyard! Just attach it to a hose, plop it down on the ground, and . . . run! It’s $29.99 at Food52.)

MyLittleBird often includes links to products we write about. Our editorial choices are made independently; nonetheless, a purchase made through such a link can sometimes result in MyLittleBird receiving a commission on the sale. We are also an  Amazon Associate.

No wading here: Baby, Stephanie Cavanaugh’s daughter, chills out in the new shallow backyard pool. Note that it pretty much blocks the door to the workshop, so The Prince may not be thrilled. / Photo by Stephanie Cavanaugh.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

THERE’S A SHALLOW swimming pool, just shy of the size of a Lilliputian soccer field, in Yards Park, the waterfront green space between the Washington Navy Yard and Nats Stadium, about half a mile from Washington DC’s Capitol Hill. There’s a waterfall you can duck behind, a splash pad and fountains, and it’s surrounded by lawns, condos, cafes, a soaring bridge, curving walkways and peaceful spots to ponder the yachts afloat on the Anacostia River.

Thankfully overlooked by the hordes hungry for the tinsel and ruckus of Washington Harbour, around the bend on the Potomac River, it’s a fine spot to picnic on a hot summer night, with a grassy slope for a blanket. The pool is packed with squealing, splashing kids and laughing parents. 

The Prince wades with grandbaby Wes, while our big Baby and I furtively sip piña coladas (virgins, we’ll say, if anyone asks), and set out brie and ham and French bread and so forth.

Time passes.   

Wheeling the grandbaby and his stroller back home, we pass a woman sitting on her tiny patio, rocking to her earbuds beside a tropical -blue three-ring-deep wading pool that was just begging for a dip. It would be a squish getting three adults and a baby in, but in this heat . . .  Hand me a margarita and a book, pull the brim of my Panama hat down over my eyes and . . .  swimming is really overrated, you know. All that exertion. The only thing good about it is you don’t know you’re sweating.  

Anyway, as Baby and the Prince packed the car for home, I hallooooo the woman, interrupting her peace, but it was necessary.

Where did you get that pool? I ask.

At Target, she says. Walmart’s got them too.

When?

A couple of weeks ago. There were plenty, she says, reinserting her earbud.

Oooo ahhh, I thank her and walk away with visions of a backyard wallow dancing in my head. 

Last year there were no inflatable pools to be had at any price. The big outdoor public and private pools were all Covid-closed, and it seemed everyone had the same idea of sloshing about in shallow plastic, hoping the dog wouldn’t hop in and puncture one of the inflated rings that make up the sides of the pool. (I don’t believe cats have an interest). 

This year there’s a wealth of options and they’re cheap. An inflatable pool big enough for just me runs about $25. For $40 or so you can land a large model that can handle two lounging adults. And they’re amusing to look at, imprinted with watermelons, lemons, palm trees . . . 

There was even a chic black-and-white number from Minnidip, which I was leaning toward: It’s so MacKenzie-Childs—but Baby insisted that I require palm trees or something else that smacks of the tropics. So we order That’s Banana Leaves, another   Minnidip pattern, and pick it up the following morning at Target. 

It’s much larger than we thought, and it’s a Tetris game fitting it in the garden, though it’s easy enough to inflate with our own personal hot air. Both of us fit, stretched out, along with Wes and toys.

When My Prince gets home from wherever he’s wandered off to, I don’t think he’ll be too pleased. He’ll have to walk on water to reach his garage without tramping on my tender new begonias. I’m afraid this won’t end well.

But it’s 94 degrees, they say, and feels like 102, they also say. Oh, the water is so cool. The orange hibiscus has a flower, the white bird of paradise looms in the corner, and the banana-tree leaves flutter. 

Baby boots up her music app and sets the phone on a chair . . . Don’t Worry, Be Happy, Bob Marley sings. 

Shut the eyes. Pretend it’s the Caribbean. In fact, it’s exactly what I would be doing in the Caribbean, minus the sea part. Water’s water if you close your eyes.  

This is the life.

For the moment.

By Stephanie Cavanaugh

WHEN THE AIR tickles 100 degrees the window boxes need daily watering, which I’m not inclined to do, as I am as wilted as they are. So I have to jolly myself along, pretending I’m a Parisian shopkeeper, perhaps, preparing my petite café for les clients. Bonjour! I call to the joggers and nannies pushing prams. 

This makes the chore a bit more pleasing, romantic even, although I’m just talking to myself. 

I do like the after-effect of watering, the leaves of the plants sprinkled with pearls of water. Merci! They say to me, though I suspect they add impolite words for the days I’ve tiptoed past, ignoring their distress.

Today I note with mixed pain and pleasure that caladium tubers I planted in May have suddenly popped up next to the coleus in one of the two lower boxes and two of the three boxes in the upper windows.

Both plants are lovely shades of pink and green, but I gave up on the caladium a few weeks ago, as there seemed to be nothing but dirt where they were supposed to emerge. Their appearance was a surprise, a not entirely welcome one since I’d recently said to hell with it and filled the blank spots with coleus. 

Dammit.

Some years ago I came across a trio of window boxes in front of a Georgetown home, planted with nothing but caladium—though I thought it was coleus. In truth, I didn’t know the difference. It was midsummer and the plants were enormous, billowing, stunning. 

When one encounters a sight like that, one gets mighty acquisitive. 

Assuming they would grow from a few cuttings, I pinched—yeah, I stole some. Just a few little twiggies from an inconspicuous spot. I might be a thief, but I’m a sensitive one who would never disrupt such a grand display. At home, I dipped the stems in rooting powder, stuck a chopstick (these are great for such tasks) in the soil, inserted the stems and watered.

Within days they were dead. Oof. Karma? 

Nope. What I’d pinched was caladium, which grows from a tuber, a bulb of sorts. I mistook it for coleus, which has similarly heart-shaped leaves and a similar range of colors but grows quite happily from cuttings. 

Caladium leaves are larger (though not as big as elephant ears, which are a close relative with  fabulously large and exotically tropical-looking green leaves). They are also softer, lighter, more delicate-seeming than coleus, which are more ruffled along the edges, thicker of stem and tougher of leaf, though certainly as colorful.

You can buy caladium as established plants, eliminating the “will they/won’t they” drama. But does their marginally more exotic appearance account for the difference in price, as they’re always a couple of bucks more expensive than pots of coleus? I hope that is not why they make me drool. I salivate not over designer labels, drive a 30-year-old Mustang (and it looks it—though it’s easy to locate in a parking lot), and still use my mother’s cast-iron pans. 

That is neither here nor there. 

I should have sprung for plants. With nothing emerging after more than a month, I bought coleus and plonked them in the boxes where the caladium was supposed to arise, the concept being that they’d form a splendidly tall and constantly colorful backdrop for the various lower-growing plants that are the mainstay. 

And now I have both. How rich is that?

Note: Both plants are happy in the shade and provide color throughout the growing season—like marvelous perpetual flowers. Pull the caladium in the fall and you can store the tubers and replant them when the soil warms in spring. Coleus can be overwintered in a warm, brightish spot in the house. I’ve never done either, and do not intend to.