Ciscoe Morris - Oh, La La!: Homegrown Stories, Helpful Tips, and Garden Wisdom

I am a storyteller. My mom and dad were a professional dance team that performed in vaudeville throughout the Midwest and East Coast. Its no surprise that they regaled their seven children with stories at the dinner table each evening. Not only did I become a storyteller, my six siblings did as well. Dinner at our house was total pandemonium with everyone competing to tell the best story.

The stories in this book come from my long and varied career in gardening, media, world travel, and life in general. Ive worked for private garden companies, big and small. I have run my own garden business, and I directed the grounds care at Seattle University for twenty-four years. Many of my garden stories (a.k.a. misadventures) take place at Seattle University and at my home, much to the chagrin of my wife. Insects play a key role (both good and bad) in the garden, so they take center stage here as well. My passion for dogs and travel intertwines with gardening, which has led to many zany adventures along lifes path. And how could I write a book without including my much-beloved brussels sprouts?

I regularly speak in front of live audiences. My talks are focused on some aspect of gardening, but I always manage to finagle in a few stories. Often, a fan will shout out Tell the Oh, La La story or request some other tale. My stories might not always relate directly to gardening, but they definitely shed some light on my crazy character.

Pruning is a bit like cutting hair: it is an art form that helps both humans and plants look their best, but you dont want to overdo it. Before I go into pruning, let me focus on haircuts so I can share one of my all-time favorite stories and let you know more about me. Dont worry: youll find plenty of garden tips in the book.

As a young kid, growing up in the 50s, my best friends father, Mr. Eirman, was the free barber for our family. Once a month, my brothers and I were subjected to haircuts from Mr. Eirman. They actually were not haircuts at allrather, he lined us up and shaved our heads. I didnt like the buzz cut and would try to hide out from friends for at least a few days until my hair began to grow back.

Perhaps thats why, as a hippie in the 60s, I grew my hair long. At one point, my curly locks reached the center of my back. I had a lot of fun in my hippie daysperhaps too much fun. That undoubtedly contributed to me dropping out of college and ending up in the military in the late 60s. Fortunately, I did well on a code test, placing me as a communications expert in the US Navy Reserve. I spent a couple of years in Asia but did not have to engage in combat. Before going to Asia, I was assigned to a communications school. Attending the school required a high-security clearance, and the dress code was strict. Shoes and belt buckles had to be shined perfectly, and the length of hair, mustaches, and beards was strictly regulated. Hair, in particular, had to be cut short and was not allowed to touch ears or collar.

The hair regulation posed a problem for me: As soon as I graduated from communications school, I would go home on leave before heading over to Asia. I knew Id see a lot of my hippie friends, and I did not want a regulation military haircut when I hung out with them. Hence, a couple of months before graduation from the school, I devised a plan to grow my hair as long as possible. There were routine inspections almost weekly, so I had to find a way to hide my increasingly long coiffure under my sailor hat.

Fortunately, I discovered a magic elixir: Dippity-Do hair-styling gel. I have no idea what was in that stuff, but it definitely kept your hair in place. All my classmates knew what I was up to. Most of them thought I was crazy to try such a daring scheme, but they thought it was hilarious and supported my efforts. More than once, someone warned me when a wayward hair was sticking out of my hat and, with their help, I managed to pass all of the weekly inspections.

Finally the big day came. Id graduated from school with honors; all I had to do was pass the final inspection, and Id be on my way home with an impressive head of hair. It was quite nerve-racking. My hair had grown so long that, even with Dippity-Do, I could barely hide it under my hat. Worst of all, the final inspection was held by the captain of the base himself, and he was famous for being a real stickler when it came to dress code and regulations regarding personal appearance. Id heard of sailors who had been written up just for cracking a smile, and good luck to anyone caught with a smudge on his uniform.

On the morning of the final inspection, I wasnt taking any chances. Id had my dress whites professionally laundered and ironed. The uniform was spotlessly clean, and the creases were so sharp it practically stood up by itself. I could see my reflection in my shoes, and my shiny belt buckle would blind you if you looked at it in the sunshine. Before heading for the inspection grounds, I spent a little too much time putting extra Dippity-Do in my hair in an effort to make it perfect. The last thing I wanted was to get to the inspection grounds late, so rather than walking there, I hitched a ride with a friend who was driving. As we were about to take off in the car, I noticed a few wayward hairs, so I opened the tub of Dippity-Do and put it on the dashboard to make some last-minute adjustments. Unfortunately, my friend accelerated too quickly and the open tub of Dippity-Do slid off the dashboard and landed upside down right in my lap. I sat frozen in terror as I watched the pool of bubbly bright-pink goo spread into my dress whites.

It was too late to try to do anything about it. I was wearing my only set of dress whites, and there was no time to go back to the barracks to search for another uniform. By the time I got to the inspection grounds, the entire lower section of my dress whites was iridescent pink. As I made my way to my place in the formation, no one who saw me could keep a straight face. The captain could tell something was wrong. Everyone in line seemed agitated, and the captain was getting upset. I heard him shout Wipe that grin off your face, sailor more than once as he worked his way toward my place in the line.