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WHY could you not save my address book somewhere in a computing cloud before I reinstalled Windows????????????? I no longer have anyone’s email address who hasn’t contacted me in the last three weeks. #$%@%*@%@#

I could talk about the blizzard right now, in which there should be 8-19 inches of snow on the ground by 6am tomorrow, but it’s so overdone. What is under the snow is more interesting, and is greatly aided by the snow: the brand new, 200 sq ft (but looks more like 300 sq ft by eyeballing the dimensions) SUNNY garden plot!

After cajoling and flattering as much as possible, I was told that there was zero chance of moving to a sunnier plot within the idyllic community garden where I spent the last year. In fact, five of the twenty members had requested the same thing, and yet no one was willing to move from the slightly sunny plots. If 25% of the garden is dissatisfied with the amount of light, that should be a sign: cut down the damn southern trees.

Lucky for the trees, I chose the rational option: I switched gardens. The garden director took pity on me and found me a spot in the next nearest garden, a sunny plot that was recently vacated by a gardener who took very good care of the plot. That last point was repeated to me by every gardener in the vicinity that I have met so far – it’s hard to know whether this is to reassure me that I am getting a good bed, or to reinforce that there are expectations of anyone inheriting such a high quality cache of soil.

So, goodbye to the pretty crocuses, the wrought iron fence that the peas climbed up all spring, the raised beds and pretty memorial roses. I did leave the plot better than I left it: with sturdy rows of onions to harvest later, and a cover crop of winter wheat to add organic material to the soil. My new garden, which really is only farther from home by maybe 0.2 miles, still definitely reachable by bike; is different in the extreme. All plots, which are considered 400 sq. ft. in size (I signed up for a 1/2 plot, twice the size of my old raised bed), are in full sun. There are probably 400 of them and they are in ground, not raised – giving the appearance of having stumbled upon a vagrant’s camp. There are always bits of fabric or plastic to cover early plants, hay bales scattered to create a buffer zone between plots, fences made from random sticks, tattered Tibetan prayer flags and lots of friendly dogs around. But a busy garden is a better garden – gardeners answer questions, they admire crops, and they look out for attacks from wildlife, insects, and (apparently the big problem in this area) drunk teenagers and greedy lazy organic food lovers.

Already I’ve met several of my neighbors, and they’re all quite friendly. There are new options for fancy drip irrigation systems, all heavily subsidized by rebates from the city. I have more than double the space I had before, and it’s ALL IN SUN. That last item alone makes me thrilled to join the new garden tent-city, with visions of fields of basil dancing in my head.

The increasing snow outside, however, makes it difficult to tackle the new list of to-dos: build a fence that might delay deer, double-dig the soil, and plant the first sugar snaps and greens for the early spring. Research drip irrigation systems (they can’t even be used until late May – freezes happen past Mother’s Day here), keep an ear open for getting some free well decomposed manure, and pick up a wonderful donation of several Walls-of-Water or similar item from a friend’s mom who knows her stuff and is just that kind. I am so ready for garden time – even if it’s done in between snow storms for now.

Over the weekend, I both gave and received strange gifts. Both were appreciated more than any gift certificate, and neither will stick around long. It wouldn’t surprise me if more gifts ended up this way this year since most of us will not be receiving any contract bonuses that represent more than the average yearly salary of a schoolteacher.

On Friday, the warehouse was the site of our first art show. It was gratifying to have a reasonable turnout of maybe 80 people, 12 artists showing work, and a pretty successful donation bar. It continues to blow me away how well the warehouse group gets things done – and without ego getting in the way of everything. This will be a monthly event, so it simply needs some positive word-of-mouth & continuing energy to clean up the warehouse each time, and we’ll be set.

At the art show, I had the opportunity to present Mike (winner of the prize for “why does this dog look like my friend”) with his prize: 1 quart of my latest batch of homemade root beer. I have to applaud Mike for accepting this prize, since it was the most adventurous recipe yet – a 50/50 blend of white sugar and light amber maltose for the sugar source. While I expected that the yeast would fall in love with the maltose, I underestimated how deeply the two would fall, and it had by far the biggest head of foam of any batch. It also was far less sweet than previous batches – with a scent of yeast as opposed to sarsaparilla, vanilla, or any other ingredients I put in. Despite all this, Mike was pleased to try something so different, and I now have a better idea of what sugar mix to use for the next, 5 gallon batch. There’s some friendly pressure from our resident homebrewer, who wants to ramp up the root beer production for our next event. All I need is an extremely cheap source of honey….know any non-commercial or liquidating (pun intended) beekeepers along the Front Range?

The gift I received was even stranger. On Saturday evening, relaxing with one of my favorite root beers and friends, I got a call from an unknown number. I didn’t pick up, since sitting at a dinner table with others hardly seems like the time to pick up one’s phone, but I did listen to the voicemail at the next opportunity. A gentleman with a penchant for beards had left me a message apologizing for Sam’s state of relative facial-hair-less-ness, and described the scrappy bits that exist on his chin in exquisite, albeit unappealing detail. Turning to Sam with the most puzzled look on my face I’ve had in months, I asked him why my favorite cartoonist would possibly be calling me to apologize for how “the downy blades on his chin remind you of leftover spaghetti stuck to the pot”. Turns out, David Malki has offered to call his fans as a surprise to find out what they are like, and Sam had orchestrated just such an event. This also just happens to coincide with my frequent remarks to those who know me that he would be perfect for a conference I work for that happens to need more funny people. So, at my friends’ insistence, I went outside to call him back. We had a slightly awkward conversation about spaces and warehouses for artists, the facial hair spectrum, and thoughts on our relative cities. After casually mentioning the conference I work on that Mr. Malki would be perfect for, he said he’s been trying to work on his public speaking skills and so would consider it for the future. (Hooray!) We ended our conversation: me back to friends with strange ideas for gifts, and he to looking at a potential new artist studio. And we both had more interesting weekends for it.