Today is the 40th anniversary of the first moon landing. On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong first set foot on the lunar surface. The astronauts left a plaque on the leg of the lunar lander that remains on the surface of the moon:

HERE MEN FROM THE PLANET EARTH FIRST SET FOOT UPON THE MOON JULY 1969 A.D. WE CAME IN PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND.

My friends and family know I am deeply fascinated by the American space program. It started last year when I saw the Discovery channel’s series “When We Left Earth.” Soon I was scouring the library for all books I could find on the subject, and I’ve kept my Netflix queue full of films and documentaries about the Apollo, Gemini and Mercury programs.

I can’t get enough of the story, for many reasons. First, because it was such a tremendous technical achievement, built by thousands of unnamed and hardworking technicians, engineers, computer scientists and so on. Second, because of the bravery and grace under pressure of the astronauts who risked their lives to pursue the voyage into space. Third, because of the cosmic wonder of it all—to see the Earth from deep space is such an important perspective, and one we would not have if it weren’t for the Apollo program.

I could go on for pages with the list of great books and films on the topic, but I’ll confine myself to just one for today. In connection with the 40th Anniversary, the Criterion Collection of films has released a blu-ray version of the film “For All Mankind.” Created by Al Reinert and first released in 1989, this is the most lyrical and artistic of all the films I have seen on the space program. It has no narration, only the voices of the astronauts themselves describing their experiences. The soundtrack includes the ethereal and otherworldly music of Brian Eno. The images are from high-definition film recorded by NASA that at the time Reinert made this movie had not been seen by the public. The following Youtube clip is a little long, but will give you a taste of the film’s pacing and imagery.

The film was released twenty years ago and the Apollo 11 moon landing was twenty years before that. No-one has been back to the moon since 1972 with the final mission to the moon of Apollo 17. Only ten men have ever set foot on another planetary body, and at this time there’s little indication that any others will do so in my lifetime.

Reason enough for wonder, but there’s much more. In another post I plan to write about the spiritual insights that many astronauts experienced as a consequence of their unique viewpoint from so far away from the Earth.

I was up way too late last night watching a film I haven’t seen for ages. “Bedazzled,” starring Dudley Moore and Peter Cook. Peter Cook is the Devil, who persuades nebbishy fry cook Stanley Moon (Dudley Moore) to sell him his soul for seven wishes. Of course, none of the wishes turn out the way Stanley intends.  Somehow the Devil always finds a loophole that sucks all the pleasure out of the wish.  For example, Stanley wishes to be desired by women. So the Devil turns him into a pop star with hordes of screaming girl fans. But then the Devil shows up as a newer and even more popular performer who effortlessly takes all the girls’ attention away.

I had seen it years ago on a terrible print but remembered it as clever and funny. Thanks to modern digital TV, the print last night was brilliant and looked brand spanking new. I got sucked it and wound up watching the whole thing, way past my bedtime.

Check it out:

They re-made the film in 2000 with Elizabeth Hurley as the Devil and Brendan Fraser as the poor shlub who is her victim. It was also pretty good. Elizabeth Hurley has such fun being evil, you have to love her.

The most touching entries are the many photos of working children. These little factory workers, oyster shuckers and tobacco pickers show faces and bodies marked by hard work, but also by a kind of pride. They have a self-possession and self-reliance you won’t see in our era, but many also look old before their time. See this photo of an oyster shucker in 1917.
What fascinates me most are the unsentimental shots taken of mundane, everyday scenes. Places like street corners and fairgrounds, community gatherings and schools. The clothes, the architecture, the advertising signs! I can look for hours.

It’s not grand at all, but I am absurdly attached to it. It’s an adapted planter that I plugged with plumber’s putty and then set up with a solar-powered fountain unit. Before I built it I had hunted for months for a fountain that I liked, without success. Too many fountains I saw were cutesy-pie or cheesy looking, or just too plastic. The ones that weren’t cheesy were very expensive, way out of my limited budget. Building my own wasn’t exactly dirt cheap—parts and pot cost me about $200—but I did get to choose exactly the vessel I liked. I fell in love with a two-and-a-half-foot tall earthenware planter from Viet Nam in a deep blue glaze.

After two problem-free years, it suddenly sprang a leak last week. In the course of a single afternoon all the water drained out of it and my fountain pump was sitting dry at the bottom. It turned out that the putty I used as a plug for the drain-hole at the bottom had dried out and become dislodged. So I tipped the pot over on its side and there it sat for about a week until I could fix it. Boy, did I miss it. I didn’t realize how much I’d grown accustomed to the gentle splashing sound and the motion it brought to the patio. Just listening to the sound of that water can make even the hottest afternoon seem cooler, somehow.

Yesterday afternoon I got it patched up and re-filled, and I’m listening to it among the background sounds of my garden right this minute. I highly recommend that even if you garden in the smallest of spaces that you consider getting your own water feature of some kind. It’s soothing, it’s good feng shui, and it doesn’t have to be complicated.

I love daffodils. I have many different kinds, so the bloom time is spread over at least a month. Over the fourteen years I’ve lived in this house I’ve planted daffodils in every nook and corner until I’ve begun to run out of spaces to stuff them. I love them because they bloom so early and in such profusion. I also love them because they’re tough—once you put them in you can generally forget all about them and just let them do their thing without any help from the gardener. Leave them alone and they’ll multiply year after year after year. I’ve seen ruined homesteads in the Manassas Battlefield Park where cheerful clusters of daffodils have long outlived the farmhouse where they were planted. In fact, when my husband and I moved into the house, daffodils were the only blooming plants in the very-neglected garden. I suppose they may be as old as our fifty-year-old house. I would love to know what kind they might be—they have ruffled golden cups surrounded by pointed petals in a clear yellow-green.

My first loves were the miniatures. I have many plantings of a small narcissus-type called Jack Snipe. It stands about 8 to 10 inches high, with a dainty yellow cup and white swept-back petals. It’s among the very earliest daffodils to bloom. I also have some very thick clumps of an even tinier daffodil called Tête-à-tête. They’re the ones in the photo at the top of this post—bright golden yellow and only about six inches high. They bloom very thickly, often having two blossoms per stem. I actually have a few daffodils even smaller than that—an unknown incredibly delicate flower that snuck into a group of muscari grape hyacinth I planted years ago. The blossoms are no bigger across than a nickel, and they stand between five and six inches high. I have them planted right beside my front steps, mixed in with the blue-purple grape hyacinths they’re quite striking.

After the miniatures, I went through a phase of infatuation with scented daffodils. I have many groups of an elegant creamy white daffodil called Thalia. It has pointed petals and a narrow cup, plus a sweet and delicate scent that suits them perfectly. They’ve grown thicker over the ten years since I first planted them and now I have enough to bring large bunches inside to enjoy the perfume when they bloom in mid-April. At about the same time I planted my first Thalias, I put in several groupings of a yellow daffodil called Quail. They also had a lovely scent, but rather than multiplying, they’ve grown sparser and sparser over the years. I have only a few left now. Most recently I’ve put in several clusters of a double white daffodil called Sir Winston Churchill. They are very late bloomers, coming out in late April to early May. Their scent is so intense that I find myself standing many feet away thinking, “What is that lovely smell?”

Now I’m looking forward to my first spring with a new daffodil that was a gift from my Aunt. These are supposed to be a delicate peachy-pink, a color that will be entirely new among my many varieties. They’re throwing up robust-looking leaves by my front walk right now, so I shouldn’t have too long to wait.

Take nail polish, for example. I am almost never without some bright color painted on my toes, and frequently add a complementary color to my fingertips. Since taking up a fairly serious yoga practice in recent years, I spend a good amount of time looking at my own bare feet. This has only encouraged me in my little vice. I don’t go for girly shell pinks or translucent beige, either. I’m more likely to wear a dark red, royal blue or iridescent green. Glancing down to catch a glimpse of something bright just makes me smile.

I realize that I may be sacrificing readers’ respect for me by admitting this. When I was in graduate school many years ago, makeup of any kind was seen as unserious and shallow. Let alone nail polish. I used to indulge furtively on weekends when I thought none of my professors or fellow students would see. After I left school and started working, I expected to find a broader range of opinion about such decoration. But I had to admit to myself that it was often secretaries who had the manicures, while female managers left nails short and unpolished. (It could be that my sample is skewed because I live and work in Washington, which has to be one of the more uptight cities in the nation.)

But I finally decided it was simple insecurity that led many people to avoid the bright fun of a painted digit. Now I say, hang what anyone else thinks. Have fun! I’ve almost become an ambassador of polish. I once took a small bottle of lavender to a friend’s house for a touch-up before a summer rock concert and wound up painting the toes of every woman in the group. One woman (who I would have considered far too serious for that kind of thing) called me later to ask the name of the color so she could find it. And why should women have all the fun with this kind of body-consciousness? I’ve painted the toes of men more than once, and you wouldn’t believe the sheepish delight even some manly hockey-playing types will take in it. For the guys, use a dark blue-black or gunmetal gray color, and it really doesn’t look as odd as it may sound.

My favorite conversion story is my own mother. She happened to be born with club feet, quickly corrected while she was still a baby. The casts she wore as an infant left her with a few toenails permanently creased. She’s always hated her feet, and I can seldom remember her wearing open-toed sandals when I was young. Two summers ago I presented her with a bottle of a soft blush-apricot color and got down on my knees to paint her toes myself. She was thrilled. It was a revelation to see her enjoy her own feet that way. She tells me now that she almost never goes without polish anymore.

What harmless little pleasure would you be enjoying if you didn’t care what other people thought?

Just when I thought it was safe to go back to my mailbox after the deluge of Christmas catalogues, a new season is now overstuffing my little box. Now is the time of the seed catalogues. Each afternoon I bring in at least one or two, with their bright, optimistic, and oh-so-tempting covers. Brilliantly colored tomatoes, exotic greens and lettuces, abundant flowers. All can be yours for the price of a simple packet of tiny seeds.

Of course, that assumes you have the space (not to mention the patience) to actually set up the flats of soil, label the seeds and carefully mist the soil daily until they germinate. In my dreams, I fantasize about puttering around in a full-size greenhouse, where I could set out seeds that would enjoy direct sunlight, space and humidity in carefully controlled conditions. Reality is that I have to make space somewhere within my small house. Since only a few windows get enough sun to grow healthy seedlings, it’s a challenge. Some years I can barely manage to squeeze in a single flat. Other years, I have no room at all, and am forced to rely upon the farmer’s market for my vegetable plants in mid spring.

Aside from space considerations, I’ve had other obstacles. One year I carefully set up three flats of mixed tomatoes and other vegetables, painstakingly labeled with popsicle sticks to distinguish the five varieties of tomatoes I planted. My efforts at organization were destroyed when one of my cats thought it was a tremendous game to gently pull the sticks out of the little cups where my tomatoes were sprouting. She never harmed the plants, but after three days of her concerted efforts, I had no idea which seedlings were which.

Despite such difficulties, I try to start my own seeds whenever I can. In exchange for a bit of extra effort, I can grow things I would never find at the local garden center. Forty-nine different kinds of tomatoes are in the Burpee catalog, including many exotic heirloom varieties. More than thirty kinds of lettuce and twenty varieties of bean tempt me in The Cook’s Garden catalog. Plus mouthwatering copy I’m helpless to resist. Lettuces are described as “lustrous”, “succulent” and, most enticingly, as “simply unavailable in supermarkets”.

I have to set limits, of course. My garden is only twenty feet by ten feet, quite small for growing vegetables. In such limited space I can only grow the plants that really reward my effort, either with abundance or unique flavor, preferably both. The product of my labor has to be better than what I can pick up at the store or forget it. I have a short list of things I don’t bother with; for example, onions and broccoli don’t taste any different to me than the ones at the grocery store. Melons are out of the question because they require too much room. Ditto potatoes, corn and cabbage. Still, that leaves a great deal of leeway, since most vegetables are distinctly better when you grow them yourself.

I encourage anyone with the least interest in vegetable gardening to seriously consider starting your own seeds. It takes the pleasure of growing your own food to a whole new level when you move beyond the basic varieties sold in flats at the garden center. Follow your whims! Try something just for the fun of it, like a green striped tomato! You may find a new favorite that will become an old favorite soon.