out with the old: goodbye pansies, hello…?

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.

No, I have still not met Andre, though we’ve been in contact for more than a year. But we grow a little closer every week when the latest stash of doodles-in-progress arrives, and I get glimmers into the thought process that is behind them, just like I did when I read his memoir, “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now.” (There is no better book to give your shrink; it should be on the curriculum of psychoanalytic institutes and departments of psychiatry in teaching hospitals and schools of social work, I swear. Insurance companies should mail it out to all patients using mental-health coverage, so they know they are not alone.) Some week

T HOUGH I HOPE MY FIGURE IS STILL A TAD BETTER THAN THIS GUY’S, despite all the dark chocolate and fig bars lately, he is definitely on to something: Miracles abound outside the window.

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?)

WI TOLD ANDRE ABOUT the male Eastern Bluebird’s annual rite of spring, the so-called Nest Demonstration Display, I didn’t think he believed me. It’s a little bait and switch in which the boy bird (in Andre Jordan‘s depiction, Darius) carries a twig or two around in his beak and makes a big show near the entrance to his proposed nest box or tree cavity. In and out he goes with those twigs as props, as if to say, “Look, gorgeous, I’m decorating a house for us. I’m your man.” But you know how it goes with men, don’t you? (Aren’t I just awful?) The thing is, the male bluebird never lifts a beak to really build the nest. He’s a faker, but a handsome one (in real life, his back and head are a brilliant royal blue and only his breast is reddish). No matter the hijinks; the female falls for it, happily giving up the goods. Then she has to build herself and the kids a nest and tackle all the other housekeeping chores, too. A woman’s work, as it has been said, is never done.

IWAS FEELING A LITTLE ADRIFT (IN A DRIFT?) MYSELF. I admit it.

NO SMART-ASS COMMENTARY FROM ME TODAY, not on this one. As doodler Andre Jordan paints a very clear picture of, there is more to life than meets the eye. Shall we look a little deeper?

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.

WE GARDENERS HAVE SPOKEN OUR FEELINGS OPENLY together here about mowing, but I guess The Andres hadn’t had the talk yet–the talk about how some lovers with macho names like Toro and Snapper are fair-weather friends. Uh-oh, the mower’s about to go into cold storage, and *she* isn’t ready for the separation.

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):