Many plants I grow have intriguing, often ridiculous pet names I simply can’t resist. Take, for example, “love-in-a-mist.”  A bird introduced this delicate, sun-loving flower to me years ago; I fell head-over-teakettle in love.  Just gazing at her undoes me.  She’s delectable, dressed in a blur of spiny, but touchable green ‘leaves’ no wider than a penciled dash, that, when massed, look exactly like, well, love, in a mist.  Then, to top it off, a glorious china-blue or white daisy-like, shaggy flower emerges triumphantly atop the fluff, the essence of charm.

I melt.

But wait! The fun’s not over. After blooming, she forms outrageous green and burgundy-striped horned, round seedpods, often an inch across, atop each stem. Long, lethal-looking spikes scream, “Don’t touch!” Pooh. It’s a sham.  They’re just as tame and absurdly charming as her flowering stage was.  Delightfully, this phase is called “devil-in-a-bush.”  Oh Lordy!  How could I NOT sigh, and succumb?

There’s more. This hardy annual (which ignores light frosts) cheerfully reseeds; just to be sure, though, I pounced on a seed packet of Nigella damascena, the enchantress’s proper name, at a garden center ten springs ago; after a nice, soaking rain I dribbled the little black dots around the sunniest parts of the garden in early April. Sure enough, in due course, (about 6 weeks,) up popped fuzzy stems, in clumpy, misty little clusters, and finally, the flowers (which, infrequently, can also be a gorgeous, soft pink). Gardening books recommend thinning; I don’t bother. Oh- too much water rots young plants; too little withers the foliage. Occasionally, a little snort of fast food, like Miracle-Gro, is appreciated. She lives cheap.

“Miss Jekyll,” a double form, is my favorite; look for that name on the seed packet.  (That prim, visually impaired little Victorian lady designed gently flowing gardens, full of lovely colors, textures and varying bloom times, revolutionizing the way people perceived their own plots.)

Nigella, by the way, has an uncanny knack for knowing where she looks good.  She loves my Japanese blood grass, partners with ‘Autumn Joy’ sedum, snuggles coyly among the roses, cheerfully enhances my woolly thyme, and looks smashing against purple basil’s rich essence. But here’s the thing: this lovely, wispy, whimsical beauty chooses. I don’t. She moves exactly where she pleases, when she pleases. I accept her choices, even if some are unconventional.  She doesn’t care a fig for color wheels, preferring instead to expand my horizons, introducing me to novel color marriages I never would have imagined. I can’t remember when we’ve ever disagreed. But Madame absolutely refuses to be transplanted; she sinks a very long, but easily extracted taproot.  If you have your knickers in a twist about her decisions, simply tug her gone.

When those amazing seedpods dry to a pale parchment and actually crunch, they’re ‘done.’ Biggish breezes will eventually snuffle through your beds; the dotty black seeds will gleefully escape their pods and catch a ride to somewhere nearby, brightening up that place.

Feel like sharing a good thing? Pluck a parchment pod or three, and pop them into a zip-lock bag; make someone you love happy. Tell them to scatter some seeds over damp earth to, er, suggest where these babies might want to grow up. Mama Nature will think about it, and maybe agree with you, or select a spot that she likes better.

Her surprising choices make each season an adventure.

This gem keeps on coming, has a quirky sense of humor, is never sick, never bug-whacked, loves to sunbathe, and is always good for a giggle. Flexible, she doesn’t mind if her soil is so-so. Best of all, once I’m accepted, she’ll never dump me.

This, fellow gardeners, is true love.

Dear readers; As I am traveling I've decided to republish a column I wrote some years ago about our family cat's adventure on the Isle of Skye, in Scotland, where my mother and her husband, David, lived for five years, until 1981.  This, and many other adventures, may be found in my book, The View From Sunnybank, sold at Horizon Books in Traverse City.

Animals are incredibly resilient.  I saw a cat the other day, walking quietly on a leash with her owner, not seeming to mind the snowy scene. This pussy, rescued from a cruel situation, was mending in a loving home. Her sleek marmalade coat reminded me of Jinji-cat, who lived the first 5 years of her long life on the Isle of Skye, in a snug country cottage with my mother and her beloved husband, David.

Jinji, a spayed, attractive tortoiseshell kitty, was friendly, but independent, preferring to live outside most of the time. As David puts it,

“I always gave her the choice; before I locked up for the night I’d hold the door open.  If she wanted out, she went; if not, she’d spend the night in her bed in the kitchen.”

She loved to wind around their legs, answering their questions with meows. Jinji would often bring them gifts, like horrified, wriggling rabbits or dead mice, and occasionally even birds, which she’d deposit at their feet, looking pleased with herself.

One Sunday morning, though, when Jinji was about three, David got a terrible shock. When he opened the door to let her in for breakfast and a fireside snooze, he found her sitting quietly on the stoop, looking up at him. She held out her front leg, like an offering, too exhausted to meow. Clamped firmly to her small paw, which seemed to be nearly severed, was a huge steel trap, complete with heavy chain; the whole thing weighed about four pounds. It must have been unthinkably painful to stagger over miles of wild terrain to her home, dragging the chain.

My mother held her while David gently pried the hideous jaws open. Jinji, her eyes closed, allowed this. In a remarkable demonstration of her trust in them, she briefly purred.

David comments:

“We drove her to into the little village of Portree and woke the vet, who carefully examined her, but could do nothing. The skin was broken; her paw was crushed. His advice? Trust to nature. We took her home and put her to bed, where she fell deeply asleep for two days. On the third day she weakly asked to go outside, where she somehow managed to scrape a hole and do her business, cover it, then hobble back to bed. For weeks, except for brief, painful visits to the garden, she would sleep, eat a bit, and lap milk. During this time I wrote a letter to the local newspaper offering to return the trap to its owner, firmly attached to a certain part of his anatomy. No one claimed it; the police took it away.”

“Although illegal, some crofters would fix these traps to fence post tops to catch the hated “hoodies”—hooded crows which prey on new-born lambs.”

“As the weeks went by Jinji tentatively put her leg to the ground; after about four months, she could walk on it. After five months she could extend and retract her claws.  She began spending more time outside; with her claws ready for action, we felt she was as good as new.”

Eventually, in 1981, she, and they, moved to the west of England, to our present country home, Bryn Garth Cottage. There, for the next fourteen years, unaffected by her terrible ordeal, Jinji thrived, along with the family dog, Kate (who has her own amazing story). Finally, at age nineteen, she died in David’s arms.

He puts it best: “Her life was idyllic; she was cared for, but never pampered, and given perfect freedom to be a cat.”

Lucky Jinji.

I’ve been asked by many readers to publish this 2010 column again. It’s crammed with ideas!

Sunnybank visitors who are constructing their own gardens sometimes ask how they might cheer up their drab, no-color chain link fences.  Consider these fun ideas!

Find a refrigerator box. Cut it open to create a much larger area.  Prop it behind the fence to capture extra paint. Cover the grass underneath with a tarp, then spray-paint the fence black or forest green. One lady sprayed hers a wine color to compliment the trim on her home. She made her gate a warm tan. In California, a woman spray-painted a meandering rainbow road along the entire length of her navy blue fence, and placed a huge yellow pot of colorful flowers at its end.  So clever!

Sometimes it’s possible to pry/saw off the post caps to poke long lengths of black or white flexible PVC pipe (easily painted) deep into their hollow cores (for stability). Bend gently to form an arch. Skip the next post and put each pipe’s other end into alternating posts, creating a woven affect. Then, coax vine tendrils to weave through the fence and onto the arches. Clematis terniflora (sweet autumn clematis) can grow 40 feet. Millions of scented white flowers smother it in September. Or, consider Boston ivy’s stunning red autumn foliage. It blankets buildings! Both offer three seasons of total leaf cover. (Ivy and clematis leaves fall in fall, but snow will collect on their thicket of bare vines, making intriguing patterns.)

Or, plant a climbing rose. My sister painted her south-facing chain link fence black, and introduced a Seven Sisters climbing rose. She wove the canes through the fence as necessary, and now it’s buried in gorgeous pink blooms for weeks in midsummer. The deep green leaves remain until well into autumn. The fence has effectively vanished.

Vines and roses take time to grow and train. But if you’re patient, in three years you’ll have a living wall. (The first year they’ll sleep while they establish themselves underground: the second year they’ll creep: the third year they’ll leap!) Meanwhile, your face-lifted fence looks fresh and interesting.

One guy wove vinyl window shade slats through his fence’s links, then spray-painted everything. He effectively blocked the view of his neighbor’s yard, and recycled what normally would have been discarded. Bonus: the slats were easy to remove or replace.

Consider building wooden pillars around the fence posts. (I’ve done this at Sunnybank.) Then frame out the fence’s edges between the pillars. No digging is necessary, as your existing fence already has a cement foundation. And why keep the pillars the same height as the original posts? Go twelve inches higher. Add thick, loosely hung rope swags that travel from pillar to pillar so vines can scramble along them. Wow!

Fountains add the sound of falling water that invites you, and visitors, to tarry awhile. Hang a decent-sized one from the fence. For fun, hang another one further down its length. Foliage will conceal the electric cord(s). Bury the rest of each cord inside PVC pipe that would run just under the grass to an outlet.

Create a hanging garden by attaching flower boxes crammed with cascading plants. Sturdy and tough, the fence will accommodate their weight easily.  Heck, call the whole thing— fountain and plants—“Babble-on.”

Hmmm. Spray-paint it glossy white—or draw a garden on weatherproof outdoor stucco panels and attach them to it—or have each family member design a panel—or espalier an apple tree to it—or install an old mirror over the links, then surround it with vines to add a reflective element, and a bit of mystery—or weave tomatoes and morning glories through it—or tie a tarp to the high poles you’ve inserted in the fence posts to make an interesting, shady spot for adults in a corner of the garden – or attach the tarp to the fence and create a tent for the kids so they can look out at their veggie or flower garden – the possibilities are nearly endless.

Remember: Nothing ventured…

Egad! My computer offered the latest temperature prediction: though it was 68 degrees now, the mercury would plummet to 28 degrees tonight, followed by – gulp! - 23 degrees tomorrow and Saturday- an incredible 40-degree dive!

Rats! I’d need to buy frost blankets, then lay them while battling gusty 25-30 mile-per-hour winds. Emerging plants - especially my infant hostas, the two thalictrums and the four old fashioned hydrangeas, whose buds would probably freeze and drop off, anyway - would be grateful. (Four 90-degree March days had fooled everybody into growing like stink.)

Alas, Stella magnolia’s lovely blossoms would not survive this. Oh, well.

I left a local nursery with an armload of 5’x 50’ wisp-thin blankets, plus a fat box of garden pins, and Les and I struggled to cover all the vulnerable foliage while gusts tried to blow the delicate sheets to China. It was deep night before the wind finally diminished. The temperature read 28 degrees at 4 a.m., precisely as predicted.

The tender foliage had coped. Barely. Tonight, though, makes me really pale. 23 degrees! That sort of cold burns.

As we paused from our labor to enjoy a cup of tea in the late afternoon sunlight in the main secret garden, Juliet Mallard (I always dub visiting lovey-dovey ducks as ‘Romeo’ and ‘Juliet’), who’d been snoozing in a sun-warmed, water-filled crease in my huge fountain cover, woke, yawned, wing-stretched, and quacked downy-soft chuckles to her love, who was always inches away. Suddenly she stiffened and looked around more carefully. AWK!! Romeo was gone!

I’d stumbled over these lovebirds for days, overhearing their murmured endearments. He’d been her shadow. Now, though, she quacked loudly, then leaped out of the watered crease and onto the grass, alarmed. “Where’d you go? Where ARE you??”

Then, she looked right up at us and quacked that same question. My neck hair rose.

“We haven’t seen him,” we said, palms open, heads shaking, and, wilting with disappointment, she circled the big fountain, orange feet flapping through the long grass, neck extended, wings half-open, calling. No Romeo. She flapped through nearby flowerbeds, calling, calling, and even searched the sky for predators, or his silhouette. No sign. Rushing back to us she peered waaay up at 6’4” Les, asking one more time: “Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” We repeated ourselves. Trust me: that duck understood, from our tones and expressions, that we were clueless. She rushed up the walk and brushed by our legs, eyes wide, beak open, voice cracking with anxiety. We felt upset, too, and riveted by this ducky drama.

Here’s the thing: Juliet was speaking. Pitch, intensity and volume clearly conveyed her distress, confusion and, yes, fear.

Romeo was never absent.

Juliet crossed the lawn into the Library Garden’s beds, peering under foliage, her quacks ringing through the property. She was near panic. Had a hawk snatched him?

Suddenly we heard a whoosh! Romeo, resplendent in his gorgeous emerald plumage, flew right over the North Gate, settled into the lush strawberry patch by the kitchen tower about 50 feet away from us, and quacked loud, masculine reassurance: “I’m here!”

Juliet’s whole demeanor changed. We pointed the way, and she rushed across the garden toward him, her quacks suddenly tender. Very soft, continuous chuckles conveyed her relief. She smiled. Scoff if you want to, but that duck smiled. Her whole body relaxed. She looked so happy! They nuzzled. Her world made sense again. There were no recriminations, no cold shoulder, no icy eyes or accusatory glares. Just affection. Cold garden, warm hearts.

We decided he’d sneaked across the street to Hannah Park to indulge in a quick Boardman River paddle and a worm dinner before flying back, reasoning she’d never know he was gone. Five minutes sooner and he’d have been right.

Honestly, we were gobsmacked. Ducks do talk, but this duck-to-people exchange seemed, well, a little bit magical.

Knowing my shivering plants had warm blankets, I burrowed under my own down comforter at bedtime, reliving that uncanny, delightful five minutes.

Life sometimes drops jeweled moments right in front of us, if we’re very, very lucky.

**More animal adventures can be found in my book, The View From Sunnybank, sold at Horizon Books in Traverse City.