In the Summertime
The removal of the dead has commenced. All throughout the garden stand the remains of the seasonal plants, almost all natives, who have succumbed to the heat and lack of rain. This includes grasses of course, because we are at the edge of the country and windblown seeds find my yard a convenient way-point. The digging or pulling is sometimes difficult because the ground has hardened, but that is normal.
Mostly these days, however, I stay indoors. Heat. I used to love it. No longer. Any work I have to do is done in the cool of the morning or late in the day. The pleasure of sweating in the fields is no longer on my dance card. Fortunately, the 100 degree days have eluded us this year, and we’ve had spotty rains, too. But I now find 90 degree days to be nearly as uncomfortable. I might have spent too much time in the mountains.
Speaking of mountains, I once promised myself, I’d go to them if the weather insisted on being hot all the time. But that has proven an idle threat owing partly to my own inertia and partly to resources. I just don’t want to spend the money. Plus, it turns out, I actually enjoy being home, watering plants from the rain barrels, and effectively watching grass grow. And I know that sounds terribly boring, and maybe I am boring, but languorous seems to fit me, and that’s what summer is all about.