Despite the heat wave, I ran out and did some gardening in ten minute segments, doing some weeding and some deadheading before I had to retreat to the air conditioning.
Gary's pump (an electric fake, I'm afraid) gurgled along as I worked. The pump keeps mosquitoes from breeding so it makes sense.
He arranges branches across the water to serve as perches for the many birds that inhabit our back yard. They are a noisy crew until suddenly they stop warbling and squawking and quiet reigns. Then I know the sharp-shinned hawk has arrived. The hawk looks at our back yard as a fine restaurant, filled with prey. When he can't find anything, he goes to the suet feeder and eats there.
Again, as I worked, the flowers brought back memories.
On the trellises leading to Elaine's property, I planted sweet peas, now climbing and blooming a lovely rose shade. They are a memory for Gary, whose Illinois grandmother always planted them.
Another memory is the hydrangea bush.
Lee Johnson was an elderly gardener east of Main Street. Whenever I saw her, I admired her beautiful garden in great shouts, since she was terribly deaf and never wore her hearing aid when she worked outside. She was always with three legged Toby, a rescued dog. When she was 93 she offered me a three inch hydrangea plant. She told me the doctors informed her that she only had months to live. She lived on for another three or four years. Because Toby was so old by then he was put to sleep. His ashes were buried with her. The hydrangea is now as tall as I am. I think of Lee every time it blooms.
It's daisy season, too.
I think it was Pat Seidl, a gardener from the north side of Seymour, who gave me the seeds that led to these big swaths of daisies. She also taught me how to keep them going. When the daisies are done, she said, you wait until the heads have dried, pull the entire plant up by its roots, turn it over and "whap, whap, whap" it against the hole. The seeds fall on the dirt and voila, the next crop of daisies is ready. Most years, I get an early summer crop and second crop daisies in the late fall.
So many memories at every corner. The garden is a work of love, even if it is for only ten minutes at a time this week.
Gary's pump (an electric fake, I'm afraid) gurgled along as I worked. The pump keeps mosquitoes from breeding so it makes sense.
He arranges branches across the water to serve as perches for the many birds that inhabit our back yard. They are a noisy crew until suddenly they stop warbling and squawking and quiet reigns. Then I know the sharp-shinned hawk has arrived. The hawk looks at our back yard as a fine restaurant, filled with prey. When he can't find anything, he goes to the suet feeder and eats there.
Again, as I worked, the flowers brought back memories.
On the trellises leading to Elaine's property, I planted sweet peas, now climbing and blooming a lovely rose shade. They are a memory for Gary, whose Illinois grandmother always planted them.
Another memory is the hydrangea bush.
It's daisy season, too.
So many memories at every corner. The garden is a work of love, even if it is for only ten minutes at a time this week.
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