Jury Duty: My Horticultural Inspiration

Dateline: September 21, 2010; Santa Barbara County Courthouse - Jury Assembly Room
A few weeks ago, the U.S. Postal Service delivered an all-too-familiar, neatly folded brown and beige mailer. JURY SUMMONS. I get them every year; I'm special that way.

Perverse as it might sound, I used to look forward to jury duty. At least, that was the case when I was a municipal government employee. I've been called at least a dozen times, served on two local and two federal district court trials while receiving my full pay, playing hooky and spending many fascinating hours listening to testimony about international kidnapping, racist police abuse, brain surgery and a very twisted foster mom. I enjoyed using my Spock-like mental acuity to balance the scales of justice (I'm a Libra, after all).

This year? Not so much. In my post-layoff, Billy v2.0 life, I pretty much spend all my waking hours working, networking and engaging in shameless self-promotion.

If I'm not writing for Edhat, Fine Gardening Magazine, 805 Living, or putting the final edits on my Trader Joe's shopping list, I'm prepping for and teaching City College and adult education class, creating landscape designs for clients, shooting a TV show, or banging on my drums with King Bee. (I have people who eat and sleep for me.) So the prospect of eight days of testimony and who knows how many days of deliberation for an assault, battery and lewd conduct in an adult bookstore trial, for $15 a day plus mileage was about as attractive as the south end of a northbound peccary

The jury selection routine proceeded throughout the day without hearing my name. Though I tried paying attention to the interview questions thrown at the other prospective jurors, I was preoccupied thinking about my Thursday noon deadline for Edhat. What if I'm selected? What could I write about off the top of my head, in the scant two evenings I might have at my disposal?

Day one was almost over when I heard "William Goodnick." Taking my seat and grabbing the microphone, I was straight up with the Honorable Judge Ochoa. Name, rank, serial number, occupation, etc.

Lovely pics and more words at Edhat.com

Calling On The Capitol - DC Revisited

I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but something's up. Why would those tricky devils at the Garden Writers Association derive so much pleasure from watching me perspire?

A little background: I joined and attended my first GWA annual symposium in 2008, when it was held in cool, drizzly Portland, Oregon. Since September is usually a hot month for Santa Barbara, I looked forward to traveling north, splashing in puddles and maybe having to wear a scarf!

What a great organization. Not only was I welcomed with open arms by the members and given the tools to launch my newfound career as a "real" writer, but they even provided a climate suitable for a banana slug like me.

Last year, it all changed - they had lured me in, then sprung the trap. My second GWA symposium was in Raleigh, North Carolina. The weather was gummy -- that's "muggy" spelled inside out. It wasn't all bad. There were lots of great people and great educational sessions, but then we'd get on a bus, tour a garden and I'd be reduced to a whimpering puddle of sweat.

But there was lots of good stuff going on in DC, too.... click and read on:

Have They No Shame? Erotica on the Streets of Santa Barbara

Well, I never! I’m minding my own business, walking the new dog home (Biff’s his name – cocker spaniel we adopted yesterday from a local shelter) from Alice Keck Park Memorial Garden, and there they were – right out on the front lawn of a respectable business, like two feral dogs in heat. In a deep, intimate silence, unaware of gazing eyes, entwined in a frozen embrace. Cars whizzing by, people and dogs watching – have they no shame?

“Get a room!” I hollered. No response. Maybe I should turn a hose on them. Nah, they’d probably get some kinky thrill out of it. Although there are entire presidential campaigns trying build on moral issues, I’m really more of a live and let live guy, so I take a few voyeuristic shots and me and Biff are on our way. Who knows? People make a lot of money selling these kind of trashy pics on the Internet.



So let me share this little bit of horticultural erotica with you. The passionate embrace was being performed by none other than Ficus carica (Common Fig – Mulberry family) and Phoenix canariensis (Canary Island Date Palm - Palm family). This is right up there with the Capulets and the Montagues , for all you Shakespeare buffs.



But seriously, at the corner of Anacapa St. and Arrellaga St., right here in sleepy Santa Barbara, is this amaaaaazing pairing. As best I can tell, a fig seed sprouted at the base of a young palm tree, took a shine to it and asked “Why can’t we be friends?” The palm is about 40 ft. high and the fig tops off around 15 feet, with about a 20 foot spread. Each is growing fine, unencumbered by the presence of the other.

So there they are, another horticultural oddity to amuse and beguile you this Green Thumb Sunday.