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Sunday, March 31, 2013

SUNDAY REVIEW / AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE / FICTION BY AMBROSE BIERCE


"The Old Gringo," a film starred Gregory Peck as Ambrose Bierce


A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR, 1891

Editor’s Note: Ambrose Bierce was an American newspaperman, satirist, and short story writer. He disappeared in Mexico in 1914 during the Mexican Revolution and his final fate is unknown.  This is from the public domain.

CHAPTER ONE

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners -- two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest -- a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.

Reporter Ambrose Bierce,  MIA.
Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground -- a gentle slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway up the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators -- a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good -- a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore a moustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

The preparations being complete, the two private soldiers stepped aside and each drew away the plank upon which he had been standing. The sergeant turned to the captain, saluted and placed himself immediately behind that officer, who in turn moved apart one pace. These movements left the condemned man and the sergeant standing on the two ends of the same plank, which spanned three of the cross-ties of the bridge. The end upon which the civilian stood almost, but not quite, reached a fourth. This plank had been held in place by the weight of the captain; it was now held by that of the sergeant. At a signal from the former the latter would step aside, the plank would tilt and the condemned man go down between two ties. The arrangement commended itself to his judgement as simple and effective. His face had not been covered nor his eyes bandaged. He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!

He closed his eyes in order to fix his last thoughts upon his wife and children. The water, touched to gold by the early sun, the brooding mists under the banks at some distance down the stream, the fort, the soldiers, the piece of drift -- all had distracted him. And now he became conscious of a new disturbance. Striking through the thought of his dear ones was sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil; it had the same ringing quality. He wondered what it was, and whether immeasurably distant or near by -- it seemed both. Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each new stroke with impatience and -- he knew not why -- apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer; the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch.

He unclosed his eyes and saw again the water below him. "If I could free my hands," he thought, "I might throw off the noose and spring into the stream. By diving I could evade the bullets and, swimming vigorously, reach the bank, take to the woods and get away home. My home, thank God, is as yet outside their lines; my wife and little ones are still beyond the invader's farthest advance."

As these thoughts, which have here to be set down in words, were flashed into the doomed man's brain rather than evolved from it the captain nodded to the sergeant. The sergeant stepped aside.

CHAPTER TWO

Peyton Fahrquhar was a well to do planter, of an old and highly respected Alabama family. Being a slave owner and like other slave owners a politician, he was naturally an original secessionist and ardently devoted to the Southern cause. Circumstances of an imperious nature, which it is unnecessary to relate here, had prevented him from taking service with that gallant army which had fought the disastrous campaigns ending with the fall of Corinth, and he chafed under the inglorious restraint, longing for the release of his energies, the larger life of the soldier, the opportunity for distinction. That opportunity, he felt, would come, as it comes to all in wartime. Meanwhile he did what he could. No service was too humble for him to perform in the aid of the South, no adventure too perilous for him to undertake if consistent with the character of a civilian who was at heart a soldier, and who in good faith and without too much qualification assented to at least a part of the frankly villainous dictum that all is fair in love and war.

One evening while Fahrquhar and his wife were sitting on a rustic bench near the entrance to his grounds, a gray-clad soldier rode up to the gate and asked for a drink of water. Mrs. Fahrquhar was only too happy to serve him with her own white hands. While she was fetching the water her husband approached the dusty horseman and inquired eagerly for news from the front.

"The Yanks are repairing the railroads," said the man, "and are getting ready for another advance. They have reached the Owl Creek bridge, put it in order and built a stockade on the north bank. The commandant has issued an order, which is posted everywhere, declaring that any civilian caught interfering with the railroad, its bridges, tunnels, or trains will be summarily hanged. I saw the order."

"How far is it to the Owl Creek bridge?" Fahrquhar asked.

"About thirty miles."

"Is there no force on this side of the creek?"

"Only a picket post half a mile out, on the railroad, and a single sentinel at this end of the bridge."

"Suppose a man -- a civilian and student of hanging -- should elude the picket post and perhaps get the better of the sentinel," said Fahrquhar, smiling, "what could he accomplish?"

The soldier reflected. "I was there a month ago," he replied. "I observed that the flood of last winter had lodged a great quantity of driftwood against the wooden pier at this end of the bridge. It is now dry and would burn like tinder."

The lady had now brought the water, which the soldier drank. He thanked her ceremoniously, bowed to her husband and rode away. An hour later, after nightfall, he repassed the plantation, going northward in the direction from which he had come. He was a Federal scout.


CHAPTER THREE

As Peyton Farquhar fell straight downward through the bridge he lost consciousness and was as one already dead. From this state he was awakened -- ages later, it seemed to him -- by the pain of a sharp pressure upon his throat, followed by a sense of suffocation. Keen, poignant agonies seemed to shoot from his neck downward through every fiber of his body and limbs. These pains appeared to flash along well defined lines of ramification and to beat with an inconceivably rapid periodicity. They seemed like streams of pulsating fire heating him to an intolerable temperature. As to his head, he was conscious of nothing but a feeling of fullness -- of congestion. These sensations were unaccompanied by thought. The intellectual part of his nature was already effaced; he had power only to feel, and feeling was torment.

He was conscious of motion. Encompassed in a luminous cloud, of which he was now merely the fiery heart, without material substance, he swung through unthinkable arcs of oscillation, like a vast pendulum. Then all at once, with terrible suddenness, the light about him shot upward with the noise of a loud splash; a frightful roaring was in his ears, and all was cold and dark. The power of thought was restored; he knew that the rope had broken and he had fallen into the stream.

There was no additional strangulation; the noose about his neck was already suffocating him and kept the water from his lungs. To die of hanging at the bottom of a river! -- the idea seemed to him ludicrous. He opened his eyes in the darkness and saw above him a gleam of light, but how distant, how inaccessible! He was still sinking, for the light became fainter and fainter until it was a mere glimmer. Then it began to grow and brighten, and he knew that he was rising toward the surface -- knew it with reluctance, for he was now very comfortable. "To be hanged and drowned," he thought, "that is not so bad; but I do not wish to be shot. No; I will not be shot; that is not fair."

He was not conscious of an effort, but a sharp pain in his wrist apprised him that he was trying to free his hands. He gave the struggle his attention, as an idler might observe the feat of a juggler, without interest in the outcome. What splendid effort! -- what magnificent, what superhuman strength! Ah, that was a fine endeavor! Bravo! The cord fell away; his arms parted and floated upward, the hands dimly seen on each side in the growing light. He watched them with a new interest as first one and then the other pounced upon the noose at his neck. They tore it away and thrust it fiercely aside, its undulations resembling those of a water snake. "Put it back, put it back!" He thought he shouted these words to his hands, for the undoing of the noose had been succeeded by the direst pang that he had yet experienced. His neck ached horribly; his brain was on fire, his heart, which had been fluttering faintly, gave a great leap, trying to force itself out at his mouth. His whole body was racked and wrenched with an insupportable anguish! But his disobedient hands gave no heed to the command. They beat the water vigorously with quick, downward strokes, forcing him to the surface. He felt his head emerge; his eyes were blinded by the sunlight; his chest expanded convulsively, and with a supreme and crowning agony his lungs engulfed a great draught of air, which instantly he expelled in a shriek!

He was now in full possession of his physical senses. They were, indeed, preternaturally keen and alert. Something in the awful disturbance of his organic system had so exalted and refined them that they made record of things never before perceived. He felt the ripples upon his face and heard their separate sounds as they struck. He looked at the forest on the bank of the stream, saw the individual trees, the leaves and the veining of each leaf -- he saw the very insects upon them: the locusts, the brilliant bodied flies, the gray spiders stretching their webs from twig to twig. He noted the prismatic colors in all the dewdrops upon a million blades of grass. The humming of the gnats that danced above the eddies of the stream, the beating of the dragon flies' wings, the strokes of the water spiders' legs, like oars which had lifted their boat -- all these made audible music. A fish slid along beneath his eyes and he heard the rush of its body parting the water.

He had come to the surface facing down the stream; in a moment the visible world seemed to wheel slowly round, himself the pivotal point, and he saw the bridge, the fort, the soldiers upon the bridge, the captain, the sergeant, the two privates, his executioners. They were in silhouette against the blue sky. They shouted and gesticulated, pointing at him. The captain had drawn his pistol, but did not fire; the others were unarmed. Their movements were grotesque and horrible, their forms gigantic.

Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed.

A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was again looking at the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning's work. How coldly and pitilessly -- with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and enforcing tranquility in the men -- with what accurately measured interval fell those cruel words:

"Company! . . . Attention! . . . Shoulder arms! . . . Ready! . . . Aim! . . . Fire!"

Farquhar dived -- dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dull thunder of the volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal, singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and he snatched it out.

As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther downstream -- nearer to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually.

The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning:

"The officer," he reasoned, "will not make that martinet's error a second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I cannot dodge them all!"

An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud, rushing sound, DIMINUENDO, which seemed to travel back through the air to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him, blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken an hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond.

"They will not do that again," he thought; "the next time they will use a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will apprise me -- the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun."

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round -- spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and men, all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color -- that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In few moments he was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the stream -- the southern bank -- and behind a projecting point which concealed him from his enemies.

The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange roseate light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in their branches the music of AEolian harps. He had not wish to perfect his escape -- he was content to remain in that enchanting spot until retaken.

A whiz and a rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and plunged into the forest.

All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not even a woodman's road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a region. There was something uncanny in the revelation.

By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The thought of his wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order which had a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was full of singular noises, among which -- once, twice, and again -- he distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue.

His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf had carpeted the untraveled avenue -- he could no longer feel the roadway beneath his feet!

Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking, for now he sees another scene -- perhaps he has merely recovered from a delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it, and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife, looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet him. At the bottom of the steps she stands waiting, with a smile of ineffable joy, an attitude of matchless grace and dignity. Ah, how beautiful she is! He springs forwards with extended arms. As he is about to clasp her he feels a stunning blow upon the back of the neck; a blinding white light blazes all about him with a sound like the shock of a cannon -- then all is darkness and silence!

Peyton Farquhar was dead; his body, with a broken neck, swung gently from side to side beneath the timbers of the Owl Creek bridge.

FILM VERSION THIS STORY.
In 1962, Robert Enrico won an Oscar for his trilogy of short films based on the civil war stories of Ambrose Bierce.  An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge is one of the three.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GuP5kUQro40

Also, Hollywood's "The Old Gringo" starred Gregory Peck as Ambrose Bierce.

Saturday, March 30, 2013

ARCHIVE / NOT SO EASY COMPANY

Lt. (later Major) Glenn Adkisson, Sr. [1918-1997] of Nebraska poses next to his camouflaged
tank somewhere in Europe in 1944.  Later, the 26-year-old officer earned a Silver Star
for gallantry in action in Belgium.  He was a member of the 3rd Armor Division.
His daughter, Phyllis Adkisson Shess resides in North Park.



"we few, we happy few, we band of brothers".
--King Henry V of England in a speech before the battle of Agincourt, 1415.

HBO’S BAND OF BROTHERS REVISITED—I didn’t make it through watching HBO’s award-winning HBO mini-series, The Band of Brothers, released in 2001, but not because it was inferior.  Quite the opposite: it was too superbly written, produced and acted that to me I was watching real events unfold.  Part 3 is the most difficult cinema I have ever sat through (thank you, Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks once again).

Again, “Band of Brothers “is an effective and inspiring performance by an ensemble cast.  Art imitates life and this mini-series is hard on the soul today as when it was made.   At Costco, we purchased a home video release DVD release (pre-BluRay) contained in a tin case for some background on an upcoming family visit to Europe and Normandy.  The series brought back personal family memories of our dads participation in WWII. (more at the end of this blog).

Our family has two veterans of WWII.  Both dads slugged it through Normandy, one as a private who was blown out of a fox hole (survived) and a then 26-year old tank commander, who went on to win a Silver Star for gallantry in battle (survived).  Our dads were experts in deflecting conversations away from talking about their war experiences.  As kids, we accepted that as dad being dad.

After viewing Band of Brothers, we understand why it was difficult for any soldier to talk about a time when friends, who became brothers, perished. 

Still we wished we had asked more questions.  Now, they’re gone so we trod to Normandy to see for ourselves and try to understand what they went through.

My wife’s father, the tank commander, did speak—somewhat--about is experience in the war, because he was asked so many times how he received his Silver Star.  “Just doing my job,” he’d say in his Nebraska twang.  Even then, it took one of his daughters to get the Army to actually present him the medal.  Lt. Glenn Adkisson, Sr. 3rd Armor division ignored the honor until it was presented to him in person at a ceremony when he was well into his later years.

While, my wife watched the remaining chapters in the mini-series (we could only watch one episode at a time), tears came easily.  She was watching her father in every tank scene.  I saw my dad in every infantry encounter.  I do remember him telling me, “hearing the bullets was a good thing.  It’s the ones you didn’t hear that everyone feared,” said, Pvt. Thomas Shess, Sr. 

My family is going to Normandy as tourists, but now after seeing Band of Brothers, we’re going to join the other thousands upon thousands of Americans who make the trip—to say aloud a profound and simple: Thank you. Thank you so much for your courage in the face of unimaginable terror.  Despite the world’s current flaws, your sacrifice made this a better place for those who came after.

Wikipedia does an excellent job of recapping the TV miniseries.
#


FIREFIGHT IN GERMAN VILLAGE EARNS NORTH PARK RETIREE A SILVER STAR
ON THIS DAY: MARCH 30, 1945

On March 30, 1945, Lt. Glenn W. Adkisson, a native of Nebraska, who retired to North Park, earned a Silver Star for gallantry in action.  The following are two clips from newspapers adding more details:

From Stars and Stripes, Monday, July 2, 1945:

They Shot Two American Soldiers
So Town of Bredeler Was Smashed

With the 3rd Armored Division—The town of Bredelar, Germany, is not a pretty sight these days.  There are gigantic holes torn in almost every building.  The rubble of war is still piled high, and those civilians who watch American army traffic flow past their wrecked village, have the same dazed expression on their faces that they had on March 30 [1945].

For, on that date, two American soldiers were wounded in Bredelar.  They came in a jeep, and then the shots were fired and the Americans were left lying in a welter of blood.

Capt. Henry M. Mann, of Chicago, was ordered to clean up Bredelar and bring back the two wounded soldiers.

The captain drew up his company on the outskirts of town, and began to move toward the attack.  His light tanks rumbled slowly by the first row of buildings without receiving any challenge.  Then, the enemy accepted the battle and opened up with anti-tank rockets, small arms and machine gun fire.

Immediately, Capt. Mann called for fire from his assault gun tanks, and within seconds the small town of Bredeler was a hell of spouting white phosphorous explosions and the black puffs of high explosive.  The light tanks also began a systematic destruction of all building which were observed to be vantage points for enemy sharpshooters.  A railway station and nearby factory were smashed to kindling.

American tanks and assault guns continued to smash opposing forces.   When an infantry combat team was found necessary, the captain formed one on the spot.  It consisted of Lt. Glenn W. Adkisson of 1645 South 11th Street, Lincoln, Neb.; 1st Sgt. Raymond Minyard of Jasper, TX; Cpl. Milton A. Nordall of Huntington Park, CA; Staff Sgt. John Malmberg of Iron Mountain, VA and Cpl. Edgar Belils of Easton, PA.

The five men, with two tanks, worked through the streets smashing every edifice which house belligerent troops.  The pair of wounded Yanks were found, and sent to an American medical aid station.

Over Bredelar, a pall of smoke marked the destruction.

The dead of Bredelar were buried by the civilian population and the war flowed swiftly on toward the Elbe and final victory.  But Bredelar is a small tangle of ruin because the small garrison decided to fight when all hope of victory was gone.
#

From a Lincoln, Neb. newspaper after the war:

Lt. Adkisson
Gets Silver Star

Lt. Glenn W. Adkisson, son of Mr. and Mrs. Miller Adkisson, 1645 So. 11th, with the 32nd armored regiment of the First Army, has been awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action.  The occasion for the particular action which brought the award was the shooting of two American soldiers who had entered the town of Brerdelar in a jeep.

When it was learned the soldiers lay helpless in a welter of blood somewhere in the village, Capt. Henry M. Mann, Chicago, was ordered to clean up the whole town and bring back the wounded men.  As the light tanks rumbled into town the enemy opened fire and the Americans answered from the assault gun tanks, so that within a few seconds Bredelar was filed with white phosphorous explosions and black puffs of high explosive.

When an infantry combat team was found necessary, the Captain formed on the spot.  Lieutenant Adkisson was one of five men chosen.  With two tanks they worked thru the streets, smashing every edifice known to house belligerent troops.  The wounded soldiers were found and sent to an American medical aid station.

Lieutenant Adkisson enlisted in the army in February, 1941 and received his commission at Ft. Knox the next year.  He has been overseas almost two years.
#

Footnote: Major Glenn W. Adkisson (USA-retired) moved to San Diego in the early 1990s, where he and his wife Phyllis T. Adkisson, Ph.D. lived on Villa Terrace Street.  They passed away in 1997 and 2000 respectively.  Both are buried side-by-side at Ft. Rosecrans.

Major Adkisson served in the Korean theater and upon his return to civilian life pursued a career in sales.

Dr. Adkisson was a career nurse and retired as the dean of a nursing school in Northern Arizona.
Among the Adkisson’s children were a school teacher; an medical doctor/graduate of the United State Naval Academy; IRS supervisor, Hospital Nurse and a career prosecutor with the San Diego District Attorney’s office.
#



Friday, March 29, 2013

ALL MAJOR SPRING GARDEN TOURS IN ONE HANDY LIST

Kasey Goodsell with SD Home/Garden Lifestyles marketing department is down to her last kalanchoe plant and magazine as she's been pulling her wagon door-to-door gifting advanced copies of  the new revamped April, 2013 edition to select subscribers, advertisers and friends of the magazine.                                                                                                 Photo: Michael Evans


COUNTY GARDEN TOUR GUIDEGuest Blog by Mary James, Garden Writer, San Diego Home/Garden Lifestyles

April 6
San Diego Horticultural Society and Lake Hodges Native Plant Club Tour — “Variety is the Spice of Life – and Gardens”
Six gardens in the Poway area include San Diego Home/Garden Lifestyles’ 2011 and 2012 Gardens of the Year. Marketplace at Lake Poway Park.
Time: 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Tickets: $25 ($20 for SDHS members in advance)
Information: sdhort.org

April 13
The Fallbrook Garden Club Garden Tour
Seven private gardens, including one featured in Sunset, Fine Gardening and Traditional Home magazines and another showcased in an upcoming issue of Better Homes & Gardens County Gardens. The tour starts at Fallbrook Historical Society Museum, 260 Rocky Crest Road, Fallbrook, where the tour’s marketplace is located.
Time: 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Tickets: $20. Purchase in advance at brownpapertickets.com or on tour day at the museum.
Information: fallbrookgardenclub.org

April 20
Eighth Annual Encinitas Garden Festival & Tour
Fifteen private gardens — large and small — in Olivenhain. Gardener’s Marketplace, exhibits and talks on topics range from beekeeping to container gardening.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
Tickets: $21 for adults, $7 for children 10 and younger. If the tour isn’t sold out, event-day tickets are $25 for adults, $10 for children. Admission to marketplace is free.
Information: encinitasgardenfestival.org

April 21
11th Annual Seaside Native Plant Garden Tour
Walking tour features 18 front-yard gardens in the historic Seaside neighborhood of Oceanside. Tour-goers meet in the parking lot at St. Mary’s School, 515 Wisconsin Ave.
Time: 2 p.m.
Tickets: Free; donation requested for map and plant list
Information: bvaudubon.org or ocna.info

April 20-21
“Ticket to Ride” — 88th Annual Coronado Flower Show
Drive by winning front-yard gardens throughout the community and enjoy floral displays and entertainment under a tent in Spreckels Park.
Time: 1 to 5 p.m. April 20; 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. April 21.
Tickets: $5 (free for Coronado Floral Association members)
Information: coronadoflowershow.org

April 27
18th Annual Tour the Friends of East County Arts Garden Tour
Six gardens in East County are featured, including a historical homestead with Clydesdale horses to small gardens with an orchid hot house and koi ponds.
Time: 9 a.m. to 3 p.m.

Tickets: $18 ($15 in advance)

Information: friendsofecarts.org


April 27
“Blooms, Boulders and Birds” — Ramona Garden Club Garden Tour and Sale
Six varied tour gardens include one with a working winery, a succulent and rock garden and a flower-filled-landscape. Plants and handcrafted items on sale at the Ramona Community Library.
Time: 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m.
Tickets: $20. Admission to sale is free.
Information: ramonagardenclub.com

April 27
12th Annual Point Loma Garden Walk
Ten gardens in an oceanview area of Point Loma. Garden Boutique and plant sale. Benefits Craniofacial Services at Rady Children’s Hospital Auxiliary.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Tickets: $25 ($150 for a Diamond Tour, including transportation and lunch)
Information:pointlomagardenwalk.com

May 3-5
“Nature’s Palette” — 16th Sage & Songbirds Garden Tour & Festival
Five Alpine-area gardens teeming with winged wildlife, plus a raptor rehabilitation facility and a “place-of-worship” garden. Habitat plants and pottery on sale in one of the gardens. Concurrent with Festival May 4-5 at Viejas Outlets that includes butterfly releases at 2 p.m. both days.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. daily.
Tickets: $20 ($15 if purchased by April 1)
Information: chirp.org

May 4
17th Annual Clairemont Garden Tour
Tour a dozen gardens ranging from tropical to succulent, all located in the Clairemont, Bay Park and Bay Ho neighborhoods of San Diego.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Tickets: $15 ($12 in advance), $10 for seniors, children 10 and younger free
Information: clairemontonline.com

May 11
“Something for Everyone” — 15th Annual Mission Hills Garden Walk
Small cottage gardens and large-estate landscapes are among the 10 gardens on this 2.5-mile walking tour. Artists and musicians in residence in many gardens.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Tickets: $30 ($25 in advance), children 12 and younger free
Information: missionhillsgardenclub.org

May 11
18th Annual Fallbrook AAUW Country Garden Tour
Gardens on this tour include a tropical landscape and several succulent and waterwise gardens. Rfreshments at the start of the tour at Palomares House, 1815 S. Stage Coach Lane.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Tickets: $25 ($20 in advance)
Information: aauwfallbrookca.org

May 18
15th Annual Secret Garden Tour
Gardens in La Jolla Farms and Muirlands are among the six gardens on this tour that keeps details secret until event day. Artists, musicians and designer tabletop displays at each garden. New this year is a garden boutique with plants, art and gourmet farm products.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.
Tickets: $50 before April 15 ($40 for members of La Jolla Historical Society, tour sponsors). $150 ($140 for LJHS members) for Platinum Tour with brunch, transportation and additional garden stop. Event-day tickets are $60 ($175 for Platinum Tour).
Information: lajollahistory.org

May 18
“Eastern Prospects” — San Diego Floral Association Historic Garden Tour
Eight gardens in the historic neighborhoods of Burlingame and North Park will be showcased. Garden marketplace.
Time: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. 
Tickets: $20 in advance, $25 day of event. Tickets on sale beginning in late April.
Information: sdfloral.org

May 19
Seventh Annual Loma Portal Home & Garden Tour
Six homes and gardens showcase historical restoration, outdoor entertaining and xeriscapes. Craft fair and opportunity drawing at Loma Portal Elementary School.
Time: 10 a.m. to 2 p.m.
Tickets: $25 ($20 in advance)
Information: lomaportalelementary.com

See more garden news:
http://www.sandiegohomegarden.com/