It is late winter and as I look out at my backyard through a frost-covered window, I begin again, ignoring my many past failures, to plan several gardens of nourishing fresh vegetables and beautiful arrays of flowers, framed by a lush green lawn.

I cannot understand why, year after year, my horticultural efforts have not born fruit, blossoms or grass. I mean edible fruit, presentable flowers or a healthy green lawn. Could I have offended my backyard as far back as 1962 when I moved in? I remember following an oldtimer’s advice then of burning off last year’s crop of weeds. Without a neighbor’s quick help, I might have burned off my house and got on my plants’ “Most Dangerous Enemy” list.

AI tells me now that brainless plants do not have real emotions. But what about reactions? What about revenge ? AI admits plants do have something like emotions. I couldn’t get a straight answer on whether or not plants can harbor feelings of revenge. I mean, revenge is certainly a product of emotions.

Plants do have nervous systems and they are highly sensitive living organisms that feel the presence of light, touch, predators and nutrients but I couldn’t get a straight answer to my question: Can plants recognize the difference between a well-meaning, but numbskull gardener and an actual predator?

I have known for years that my lawn has an annual death wish and can become suicidal around July 15th. No amount of fertilizing, weeding or watering can delay this inevitable tragedy.

My rose bushes are hybrids which makes them high strung and moody. I can imagine the pessimistic conversations that go on out there in my rose garden: “Hey Pinky, is he gone?”…..”Yes, Rosey, he was feeding me manure again, Yuck! He thinks it will get rid of my black spots. I hope they’re getting worse. The last thing I want is a lot of gorgeous blooms, crawling with beetles and those buzzing bees making a racket.”

Vegetables also have feelings. I’ve always known this instinctively. I silently cursed broccoli when my wife served it. My brother-in-law, who’s not an expert in the field of agriculture, looked over my garden last summer and commented, “Those are the saddest-looking tomatoes I’ve ever seen.” He was right. They never made it into our BLT’s.

I really hope, with the recent advances into the psyches of our rooted fellow earthlings, our ability to protect and improve their lives is increasing. Our crops will be more abundant and our gardens will cooperate by joining the survival team.

On some future day, a distraught gardener will phone his agri-psychiatrist. “Doctor, I have this twenty-foot apple tree that is dropping leaves and showing no signs of producing fruit. Please come over and get in touch with his inner self.”

“Sorry, I don’t make yard calls, but this sounds serious. You’d better get that tree over here as soon as possible!”

On some future date.

This week’s illustrated lesson includes seven almost easy steps to build a patio which will improve the appearance and value of your property and will encourage you to spend more healthful hours outdoors. (NOTE: The writer is not responsible for damage to persons, property or marriages.)

Figure 1: Select a shady, flat as possible location to minimize grading work. Well, do the best you can.

Figure 2: Level the ground by simply moving the earth from the too high spots to the desired low spots. This is called by landscapers, “The earth moving stage.” (Some have added unprintable adjectives which cannot be included here.)

Figure 3: After bordering the area with railroad ties and spreading two inches of sand, lay your bricks or tiles in an orderly, eye-pleasing pattern unless you’re an abstract expressionist fan.

Figure 4: Tamp down the bricks or tiles snugly while wearing steel-toed safety shoes to avoid including your feet in the tamping.

Figure 5: This stage involves crowd control. You must not lose concentration on the many important details of the project. Constant bystander questions, suggestions and criticisms about design and construction must be eliminated.

Figure 6: There might be interruptions and delays caused by bad weather, faulty materials or complete exhaustion, but carry on and don’t be too proud to call for help.

Figure 7: One of life’s satisfying moments. The job is done and you are about to enjoy the fruits of your labor.

Some people joke about the Weather Bureau being a non-prophet organization, but that’s unfair. The National Weather Service, as it’s officially known, makes consistently reliable short term forecasts now.

” A 50 percent chance of rain, sleet or snow late in the day” may not be that precise but it’s useful enough for you to postpone your golf game or parachute jump and to check your sump pump and don your long johns.

One of the worst inaccurate forecasts for the New York City area was in March of 1888 when warm rain showers were predicted, but instead, the disastrous Blizzard of ’88 brought 40 inches of snow, 50-foot drifts and over 25o fatalities.

I was sidetracked by the bureau’s second most inaccurate forecast. I was a truck driver’s helper, headed for New York City from Jersey on December 26, 1947 when four inches of snow were predicted for the Metro area. My truck driver said his powerful Reo could handle that easily so we crossed the George Washington Bridge to make our deliveries. We ended up snowbound in the Bronx and spent the night in a saloon with a tipsy crowd of stranded commuters whose street cars stood outside behind snowbanks.

Two feet of snow had paralyzed Manhattan and closed the G.W. Bridge. I was too young to accept the consoling Irish bartender’s offer of a warming snort on the house. The saloon’s radio confirmed the G.W. Bridge was closed, but some stalwart Jerseyans were walking across to get home.

Long range forecasts of seven days or more can be meteorological educated guesses based on a number of computer models trying to make sense out of the dynamic nature of the atmosphere. What we hear on the evening news is a description of next weeks “most likely” weather, but “stand by”.

We can also make use of time-honored signs like aching arthritic joints that indicate low barometric pressure and other bad weather signs like mare’s tail clouds, mackerel skies and rings around the moon that are said to predict storms.

If the birds start heading south earlier in the year and squirrels have bushier tails, tune up your snow blower. And if you hear I’ve rented a bungalow at the Jersey shore for a week next summer, expect drenching rain all seven days.

There’s the story of the modern Indian chief who was asked by his tribesmen if they should prepare for a severe winter on the reservation. The chief, fresh out of Harvard, had no idea, but to save face, he recommended they begin gathering firewood immediately and during the following weeks, he urged intensified timber chopping.

Around the end of November he was getting nervous. So he made an anonymous phone call to the local weather bureau to ask for that winter’s prediction.

“It’s going to be very severe, a record breaker, the head meteorologist told him.

“Is that based on a jet stream shift, or satellite data?” he asked.

“Somewhat, but to a greater extent it’s based on observations of a local Indian tribe that has stored up a mountain of firewood on their reservation.”

When the cable system crashed the other night it reminded me of a time when TV watching was more interactive and personally challenging. Now, when the screen goes black, I spend an hour listening to the cable company’s busy signal or its recorded reassurances that an associate will soon respond.

In the old days if something disrupted our viewing of Jack Benny, the entire family would spring into action. That’s when we had real parental controls.

“See if the cat’s on the antenna again!” I’d shout, reaching for the check list. My son Steven would start pounding the set just above the RCA emblem. That sometimes revived it. My wife Barbara would operate the channel selector to make sure it wasn’t just CBS that had a transmission failure. My three daughters would fetch our TV Repair manual and start reciting the resuscitation procedure. They would also find the spare TV tubes box and the first aid kit.

Finally, if Jack Benny was still unreachable, I would begin to manipulate the controls. This rarely worked and you could get into serious trouble with the look-alike knobs. There was the time I’d managed to get the TV back on, but I must have twisted the wrong knob and rotated the picture from vertical to horizontal. We all had to lie on the couch or floor to watch our favorite programs until I figured out the solution. Poor Lassie had to run uphill until I fixed that one . Our last hope was “the tubes-testing stage” when all the small tubes had to be removed and tested on the local drugstore’s contraption. A lower compartment contained replacement tubes.

It was always a moment of glory when I’d managed to get Jack Benny or Lassie back into into our living room and I was congratulated for my electronic know-how.

On the other hand it was quite depressing to admit defeat and call Joe’s TV Repair. Joe was a competent technician and diplomatic enough to imply my procedures were correct, but this was a very special case. “Dave” he said.

“What’s a Dave?” I asked.

“Isn’t that your cat’s name?””

“He wasn’t on the antenna. We always check there first,” I protested.

“No, he was behind the set and pulled the plug out of the wall socket and it’s going to cost you twenty-five bucks.”

“Twenty five bucks to plug in the set? That’s kind of high!”

“No, I’m only charging two bits for that but there were three tubes in the wrong sockets and I had to work an hour to figure that out. That’ll cost you $24.75”

Dave could be spiteful and he never liked Jack Benny, but whenever he sprawled on the antenna in just the right spot with his tail pointing south, the reception from Philadelphia stations was greatly improved.

This is the time of year when the winds get wintry and your fingers are numbed playing golf or tennis too late in the year. It’s when you start making plans for a vacation in the Sunshine State.

That’s the nickname the Florida Tourist Bureau prefers. There are other names used by tourists who’ve been attacked by alligators or broiled on beaches. Oldtimers who’ve pulled up stakes in northern climes and traded Hoboken homes for Cape Coral condos, call it, “God’s waiting room.”

It might sound like a good idea to imitate the birds and go south in late autumn, but unfortunately, it’s also instinctual for the human race and thousands of us will race southward to avoid the falling temperatures and try to live with the rising prices.

You’re probably just a short flying time away from Florida (plus the current takeoff delay hours). You might try a more leisurely car trip and get to see the sites up close along the way instead of at an oxygen mask altitude.

One creative lad’s idea was to leisurely drive a rich man’s limo down to Florida and visit interesting places along the way. Unfortunately, one day the rich man noticed his limo was missing and the young vagabond was apprehended while sightseeing in Savannah and sentenced to several winters and summers in the Garden State.

You can easily spot the recently arrived typical “snowbird” at the Florida shore. She will be enjoying the warm sea breeze while her husband frantically searches for a parking space for the rental car. And she will be the only one on the beach wearing a fur coat and galoshes.

It always gets worse around Halloween. The nights are growing longer and spooks and goblins are getting a lot of play on TV. I wish the family wouldn’t go out and leave me here with my vivid imagination. The thing is, it might not be my imagination.

I’m not actually convinced I am alone. There are too many weird sounds in this big house. Right now I can hear at least three or four people moving around up in the attic. Well maybe not people, but something….

There! If you were here you’d have heard that! You’d know it’s not the house creaking in the wind. Those would be random noises and these have a definite tempo, almost rhythmical. Is somebody or some thing dancing up there ?

Even as a young boy I was able to see and hear things that others couldn’t. I think it has something to do with being Irish. Grandma Kate taught us kids about Banshees, female Irish ghosts who scream in the night. I’m sure I spotted them hovering over the barn as we blew horns to scare them away one New Year’s Eve.

As I reached manhood and husbandhood and fatherhood I had to explain these phenomena to a jittery wife and frightened children, inventing excuses to convince them the so called weird sounds were actually normal and easily explained.

“That’s only the groans of an old house cooling off at night,” I’d say. Or I’d blame the pitter patter on a couple of squirrels who’d got between the roof beams to store acorns. But I didn’t really believe that. I could hear what sounded like voices. Talking squirrels ?

Sometimes they’d beg me to investigate, “just to be sure” and I would laugh and reply, “Well, if it makes you feel better…” During one of these investigations I almost fainted when our cat leaped out at me in a pitch black cellar. They only half believed my blood curdling scream was a joke. There’s no question about the groaning in the back room now, but I can’t be as precise about what I saw in the living room

The “things” I see are not as clearly defined as the things I hear. My sightings are almost aways brief and peripheral, quick glances out of the corner of my eye. I can only say that “something” long and purple raced across the room and hid behind the couch. It either had a large head or was carrying an umbrella. If you’re that curious you can come here, unaccompanied, and take a look.

I had a dog once. I thought his company would do me good. But he heard twice as much as I did and he was always sniffing at the air to identify a “presence.” He ran away one night during a lightning storm and I never saw him again, although sometimes I hear him gnawing a bone in a backroom closet. That can’t be him behind the couch. He was short and white and never carried an umbrella.

As I write this the noises are increasing. Beneath me in the cellar there are a lot of whispering sounds and the pacing in the attic has increased. Now I can distinguish some actual words like, “Freddy Krueger.” Who’s Freddy Krueger?

A half century ago when I was a reporter, I was sent to write a piece on the popular Jungle Habitat wild animal park, a reverse zoo in West Milford, New Jersey. I thought it would be an easy, fun assignment and I took my wife Barbara. We narrowly managed to survive and enjoy the experience.

Warner Brothers of Hollywood owned the Habitat. Perhaps they were following Noah’s boarding plan when they moved in a beastly population of 1,500 that roamed free in the 1,000-acre fenced in forest.

I intended to write an upbeat article about cruising through the forest in a caravan of visitors’ vehicles, listening to a travelogue on the car radio presented by Roger Caras a famous naturalist back then. With the running commentary and the surprising encounters with different animals, big and small, timid and not timid, it was quite exciting. But then the caravan stalled….and a pride of lions began to gather around us.

My article would begin : “The temperature in the car is about 120 degrees. Outside, a cool breeze is blowing through the lush forest but we were told to not open the windows “since eleven lions are now blocking the road.”

Barbara suggested opening a car window on the lionless side, but a commanding voice repeatedly cautioned us over the car radio: “Never open any window!” So we sat and perspired and now and then smiled at a lion who studied the car and its passengers as if we were on a steam table in a smorgasbord restaurant.

The lion never smiled back, but eventually he yawned, a mere six inches away. It was like looking into the Lincoln Tunnel lined with sharp teeth. We should have expected our situation. The guide book had warned “If several lions from the pride amble over to examine your car or even jump on it, don’t be surprised.” Nevertheless, they jumped and we were surprised.

Finally, the lion blockade departed and we felt relieved until Roger Caras announced, “Keep moving. The elephant herd is waiting around the next bend.”

“Oh good! We love elephants,” I said to Barbara.

“But do elephants jump on cars?” she asked.

They didn’t, but it would have been a really strange insurance claim.