The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

My hardwood mulch is growing a mushroom forest. Gray Inkcaps, lots of them. Four days of rain will do that for you. Since last Thursday more than three inches has fallen on the homestead courtesy of decaying tropical systems from Mexico and a low pressure ridge from the northwest. Every river I can name all around me is running full and the local lakes are benefitting. I hope this spasm of wet weather is a portent of better things to come. Blanco county, however, is in the grip of a drought that started in 2022 and it looks to be worse than the one we endured in 2011-2015.

The Fourth of July floods on the Guadalupe sure took the buzz off this Fourth of July weekend. I can’t stop thinking about the loss of life and especially the children, and especially the ones at camps away from their parents. If any good can come of it, I hope it’s something to help future generations remain safe. It seems the least we can do. And I hesitate to say more because the camps are already regulated, and I really have no idea what’s in place.

It rained all day yesterday. Steady. Nothing too heavy. I’ll check my rain gauge at first light. It’s likely to be close to two inches. Yesterday’s heavier rains fell west and south of here on the Guadalupe River watershed. Those rains came down fast and furious. This morning, just down the road about 30 miles in Spring Branch the river is running at 29 feet which is not the 37 feet they were forecasting, but it’s still plenty high.

It’s a drizzly, rainy morning here in central Texas which is good news if you’re a gardener, not so much if you’re a Fourth of July party planner. I’ll take the rain. At this stage of my life Fourth of July fireworks are more of a nuisance than anything else, and that was especially the case when I lived in Houston, because there was always the neighbor who liked making noise. Although if the weather improves, I might wander over to the courthouse for tonight's big show just to say I did.

I’ve been in remembering mode recently. Mostly good things. And one of those things was our first garden, early in our marriage, while I was still a student in the 70s. We lived with another couple. Communes were good. Community was good. We found a nice big old house close to downtown Houston and turned our backyard into a garden. I was an organic gardener, too, because I’d read Silent Spring and knew that while plastics might be good career advice, chemicals might not be so hot for the planet.

I’ve got four little cups of seedlings on my back porch. They’re starting to sprout. Alamo Vine and Morning Glory.  July is probably not the best time to start new plants, but I’ve got a relatively shady spot for them, and even if they don’t make it into the ground I’ve learned something from the experience that I’ll put into play going forward, and bless the internet for its help.

It’s a good feeling to sleep through to the alarm. It’s a good feeling to roll over with no pain because your DO popped your hips into alignment yesterday. It’s a good feeling to lie in bed with today’s words huddled in your brain like chickens ready to escape the coop. It’s a good feeling to sit then stand and not have the muscles in your back feel tight as knotted ropes. It’s a good feeling to know you’ll get a massage today, that will chase away the residual soreness.

It’s always interesting to me the love-hate relationship people have with plants, particularly the ones they don’t like. Crape Myrtles, for instance, are considered messy trees by some of my friends, and lantanas are equally disliked by others. We have both in our yard, and we’ve had them in every yard we ever owned.