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| A bouquet of sage |
Kirk and I have recently started a practice (his idea) of surveying our "kingdom," or, more accurately, our temporary possession of a speck of the earth, in the few half-hours of fading sun before the dusk sets in. It was motivated partly by a sense of guilt for having neglected our garden for so long and partly by a sense of urgency born out of the realization that the pleasant late summer evenings are not going to last much longer. (Perhaps we should also take a survey of, metaphorically speaking, the state of our lives...) We therefore, after dinner, don our colorful gardening boots (sloggers--they're called) and our gloves, brandish our gardening shears, and work and walk our way through the various plots in our yard, picking up fallen branches, cutting down dry rot, pulling up weeds or what look like weeds, and generally attempting to retrieve a sense of control over and order in our tiny kingdom and combat, however futilely, nature's tendency to grow wild and unmanageable.
My attempt in the past two years to add color and interest to our yard by planting perennials and herbs has not produced much to speak of, I'm sorry to report; what tender shoots have survived the frost and drought have been so completely smothered by weeds and dead leaves that they are hardly recognizable or distinguishable from weeds. I've since learned that there is much more nurturing and caring work to do than just putting down the little plants in the ground, about a half-day's work at most; I had assumed that Mother Nature would take care of these little plants and that they would just mature on their own and before long look like their glossy counterparts in the nursery catalogs. Alas, to successfully tend and cultivate one's garden requires much more commitment and hard work than I have expended; Kirk laughingly called my gardening experiment my failed attempt to live like a "gentlewoman farmer."
Bloomington is currently under mandatory water restriction due to this summer's drought which has hit hard several Midwestern States. Our hope to have a new wisteria vine planted may have to be delayed. The little wisteria offshoot which we transplanted from our neighbor's vine is not doing very well either and not likely to survive, I'm afraid. Here's hoping our transplantation to the soil of Indiana will fare better.
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| Cool Cat Calvin |
Calvin has taken to staying for a couple hours in the Sunroom after we finish breakfast. He shows up right on time, almost every morning, while we are laying out the table for breakfast. As soon as we let him in, he jumps onto his favorite chair (imagine Wang-Tzu in his favorite spot at the table), and curls up beside me, pushing me (affectionately I'm sure) so that I end up perched on 1/3rd of the seat cushion, for a treat of love and a massage. Picture me holding a cup or newspaper with my right hand while rubbing Calvin's skull with my left hand. He stays on the chair after I vacate it, composes himself for a morning nap and keeps Kirk company while he finishes reading the paper. Kirk, in the past, would trick him out of the room when he finishes breakfast but Calvin has learned not to take the bait so easily and has shown no inclination in the least to stir out of the chair when Kirk holds the door open enticingly. Kirk has finally conceded the game to the clever Calvin and taken to propping open the screen door with a broom and leaving him alone there. I wonder what will happen to our morning routine with Calvin when the weather gets cold and we no longer eat breakfast out in the Sunroom. Stay tuned...
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| Wisteria No More |
The wisteria vine that was planted 46 years ago [in 1966] when our house and garden were constructed, finally succumbed to the two consecutive droughts we had this and last year. It was barely hanging on to life in the spring but shriveled up beyond rescue this summer. We are hoping to have a new one, pretty far along in size, planted in the same spot soon--when our yard maintenance company, Soaring Eagle, is able to get ahold of one.
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| Birth astride a grave |
08.06.2012 Update:
Out of the blue, our neighbor, the Bells, whom we rarely see, but who knew that our wisteria died, offered to give us a little offshoot of their flourishing wisteria vine, whose tendrils have already climbed up the metal frame placed beside it. It was such a welcome gift, for I've not heard back from our landscape guy about finding us a replacement. I've since learned that his lackadaisical attitude toward running his business is well-known among our neighbors. He has at least sent a couple of guys over to take down the dead vine so I've not quite despaired about his getting us a bigger specimen in the near future.
09.06.2012 Update:
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| Amethyst Falls |
Our long-awaited new wisteria vine finally arrived yesterday and was securely embedded in the plot behind that of the original wisteria to give it more elbow room to grow. It is of the Wisteria frutescens species, also known as Amethyst Falls -- a native, non-invasive species of wisteria, purported to be fast-blooming, in the first year after planting. We hope that it will thrive in its new home for years to come.
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| Revived despite odds |
With the help of the recent rain, the little wisteria offshoot we transplanted from our neighbor's yard has revived despite being given up as dead less than a week ago; I returned the metal screen to our neighbor thinking that it was beyond hope, O Ye of little faith.
