Garden Jewels

We woke to a cloudy day this fifth of July, and while we’re desperate for rain, these clouds don’t seem to be producing much more than commuters who probably can’t quite believe the week will rocket away as fast as it will, given the relaxing three day holiday behind us. In fact, an audible sigh that just passed this way from an incoming passenger now standing in the crowded aisle: “This is Brutal.”

That might be a bit of an overstatement, I grant you, but we’ll let it go in the interest of getting to a pesky post I’ve carried too long in my head, unable to get it down to my digits. Small doings as usual, but taken together, it’s the garden on my mind, and the beauty it has produced despite this lack of rain.

The rose bush that “never blooms” has sprouted more than 100 flowers. One half of this bush is a dead gray stick, and the other parts looks too mean to do any good to anyone, never mind let out this bounty. Yet what I’ve seen over there has impelled me to cross the toasted grass multiple times for a closer look. It’s amazing.

The poppies, now gone, were ablaze and their pods while not yet open, stand ready to pop their lids when the time is right. Only the daisies are in flower now that the raspberries are coming in. Somehow the hostas, those dependable friends, are also showing resilience.

Perhaps, then, “garden jewels” is a bit of a stretch as we hit midsummer, and it’s probably even more of a stretch to compare my backyard pool to a jewel. We learned over the weekend that the pool may have reached its conclusion. When I shared photos of its rusty panel, which, if made today, would “just pop out and be replaced for $70.00,” our pool man said he’d take it down TODAY. So we began the draining while agreeing to seek an on-site consultation, remembering fondly its turquoise waters that calmed many a hot mind and body across our six people and more over what’s been a 17-year, very good run.

The informal mid-summer mark of New England’s July 4th usually finds me happiest in my own backyard. The bluebirds have fledged but the fuzzy robins have not. That means the clematis may now be trimmed but the rose-of-sharon may not. Out my train window just now, I do see heavier rain coming. And that means if it extends, like a nor’easter, out over the sea to backwash Cape Ann, even just a little, a whole territory and its inhabitants will be very happy for the real jewel: Rain.

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