APPARENTLY MRS. ANDRE’S TOMATOES succumbed to “tiny insect things that will not leave our garden alone,” we hear this week from Himself, who very sweetly shared the actual sympathy postcard he drew for Herself on the occasion of her lost tomatoes.
21.07.2023 - 22:52 / awaytogarden.com
IT’S NO WONDER WE’VE ALL BEEN INCHING CLOSER to a prostrate position lately, with days shrinking steadily like the water level in a leaky pail. But take heed: The hole in the bucket’s been mended; happy solstice! Get up off the floor and do a little dance, won’t you? Brighter days lie just ahead.
Somebody go tell Andre Jordan, and also tell the poor gnome. It’s not the first rough Christmas the downsized guy has had, you know.Tagsandre jordan
.APPARENTLY MRS. ANDRE’S TOMATOES succumbed to “tiny insect things that will not leave our garden alone,” we hear this week from Himself, who very sweetly shared the actual sympathy postcard he drew for Herself on the occasion of her lost tomatoes.
SHE LOVES ME, SHE LOVES ME NOT.Andre Jordan seems to keep hoping for the best, despite a few well-documented cases of rejection (as in, loc. cit., The Girl I Love With All My Heart. Caveat emptor: Deliciously not PG!).
SOMETIMES I GET TWO VERSIONS OF A DOODLE from Andre Jordan, and he wants me to choose. And usually I can’t.
BESIDES OUR SOMEWHAT OFFKILTER HUMOR, Andre Jordan and I have another thing in common: We not so long ago each headed for the hills. (Wait, are there even hills in Nebraska?)
THIS WEEK’S DOODLE IS REALLY A POSTCARD, one to send to the beloved garden in appreciation for a year of its devoted service and joy. Thanks, Andre Jordan, for just the right thing at just the right moment–one less thing on my to-do list, now that you have “send card to garden” covered.
IT’S EITHER TIME TO HIT THE SLOPES, or hit the bar, Andre Jordan–or at least that’s how it looks from conditions as depicted in your latest doodle.
HOW MANY -PEDES DOES IT HAVE, I ASK? CENTI- OR MILLI- OR ??? All I know is that they creep me out, too, my dear friend Andre Jordan–or at least startle me when they come pedaling prehistorically in my direction out of nowhere.
I KNOW THERE ARE TIMES WHEN THE LURE of the garden pulls me outdoors before I change out of my PJs, before I brush my hair, without washing my face. It’s that powerful and seductive a force, indeed, especially with the lawn greening up right now, all verdant and provocative. But I have to say, my dear Andre Jordan, I try to make certain I have my trousers on. Do I sense a pattern in your doodles, a theme of how alcohol figures into horticulture in The Garden According to Andre (and no, I don’t mean for sterilizing pruners):
SHE SERVED TURKEY AT SAID GARDEN PARTY. You ate too much.
GRAY SKIES, BABY BIRD, CAUSE MAMA DONE FLEW OFF. That’s the message of Andre Jordan’s latest–and I don’t think Papa Bird is talking about your average seasonal migration here.
If I count my blessings from 2009, I’d count Andre right up there, along with starting A Way to Garden (and now The Sister Project), getting a book contract of my own (more on that someday) and letting Jack the Demon Cat in the house to sit at my feet while I work each day.Andre’s memoir is brutal and charming and uproarious all at once, sharing as he does in his words (sometimes starting with “F”) and pictures (sometimes involving turgid body parts) the journey through life’s inconvenient truths and low tides, as the book depicts:A line drawing of a bucket labeled “Happy Pills” and beside it the caption “Hard to Swallow.”
UM, I GUESS OUR FRIEND Andre Jordan got a peek at the way we really order seeds, huh? Trouble is: I’m still stuck on Step 1, that “Bloody Brilliant Big List” thing.