Saturday

21 October 2017

— mist enshrouded, such that the backyard seems an under-exposed photo of itself.

Good Morning All,

I usually get the gardening lusts twice a week, three times if the garden and I are lucky. Unfortunately, these moments come without regard for the weather. Thus it was yesterday afternoon, I found myself donning my gardening corduroys, ratty old green jacket, red felt fedora, and a pair of cotton work gloves to head out into a fine mist that occasionally worked itself up into a leisurely drizzle, but for the most part just made water droplets appear along the rim of my hat.

First up was yanking out the six sunflower stalks along the driveway. I’d already beheaded them a couple of weeks ago, the swirled seed-pods hanging in the garage to be ready for the birds when—and if—we ever get a frost, or—if not—starting on my dad’s birthday on November 10th.

Next came the espalier fruit trees along the wooden fence that separates my driveway from the neighbor’s back yard. They bore no fruit this year, but Esther thinks they may be plum trees or possibly peach, or maybe one of each. First I trimmed the branches shooting out toward the driveway, putting the clipped branches into the wheelbarrow, and then secured three hooks into the fence for each tree to hold the more obedient branches in place.

Esther very sternly warned me not to prune the climbing rose bush against the west wall, so I only snipped off a few of the longer stems that hung out over the path. Each stem had about fifty thorns, and each of those stems managed to take vengeance somewhere on my person. I apologized, laid them on the fruit tree branches in the wheelbarrow, and headed for my compost pile.

In the distance, cars hummed by, their sounds somewhat muted by the moist air. My shoes and gloves were soaked by then, but—having such a good time—I pulled up most of the Jerusalem artichokes near the biggest of my blueberry bushes. Some of them were taller than I, with white tubers the size of golf balls. The leaves of the blueberry bushes were as red as any autumnal New England leaves, including those of the maples. 

Skype and Flowerpot had been out with me the whole time. At their former home, they must have been used to spending lots of time with the two little girls out in their yard, because I no sooner go out the front or patio door then they are right behind me and/or between my legs. And after that, they hare after each other up tree trunks, along fences, and over the house and garage roofs.

I warned them I was getting a little too soggy to stay out much longer, then gathered up the Jerusalem artichoke hearts and took them into the kitchen where I washed them and put them into a plastic container for Esther, who likes them uncooked and just as they are.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. Two snaps, one by Helen of Johs wearing a Holly scarf creation; one by Johs of the hollow at the bottom of the cottage hill.