recap: how to make a garden for the birds

I AFFECTIONATELY CALLED ANDRE JORDAN A BIRD OF A FEATHER last Thursday, when his new weekly doodle debuted here. Apparently this is the migratory Englishman-turned-Nebraskan’s response.

SOMETIMES I GET TWO VERSIONS OF A DOODLE from Andre Jordan, and he wants me to choose. And usually I can’t.

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.

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.

THAT ANDRE JORDAN IS UNCANNY, WITH HIS ABILITY to see what I am doing from halfway across the nation. I am beginning to worry that he has somehow placed a 24/7 Skype video device here in my dining room–is that your secret, dear doodling Andre? Yes, it’s seed-mania time, and I am having a hard go of it–trying to avoid doing just what the lady in the nightgown has fallen prey to.

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):

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.”

APPARENTLY MANDATORY DRUG-TESTING will now be required in the arenas of the county fair and harvest festival, where our able correspondent Andre Jordan reports that the use of performance-enhancing substances is growing as rampant as crabgrass. I wonder if the rotten carrot is being held in the crisper–or the clinker–awaiting trial? Doubtful that the drug-dependent root was a match for the world-record holder, at 19 feet 1.96 inches–I kid you not.

THIS LITTLE-KNOWN SPECIES (apparently first discovered and named by famed British plant explorer Andre Jordan) reminds me of all the plants I used to bid on at rare-plant auctions. The thinking always seemed to be that the harder it was to grow, the more valuable it was–and up went the bids, sky-high.