Summer in the Garden

Holy Smokes - well, it's been awhile since a gardener has checked into Halfmoose. Even so, you can't stop nature, and even if it hasn't been thoroughly documented, the green things are doing their grand work, and then some!

2012 was one of the hot years. Hot and dry, and the farmers sure did moan. We're all crying now as the prices still soar from last year's woes. But this year, lovely half-over 2013, is cool and WET. Maybe not torrential downpour wet (although we've seen a few barn-busters) but the skies do seem to open up for a bit every day or two.  Normally by July we're pretty much done mowing the lawn, as the grass begins to  brown and the garden hoses unwind to freshen the perennial beds. The lawn mower in July and August only comes out in mid summer to trim the weeds which seem to be the only things growing. Hoo - they're growing well, no change there, but so is the Kentucky Bluegrass. It's thick and lush and wonderfully cool in your bare feet! Yes, 2013 is one of those years to remember.

I do love the mornings off in the warm months, when I can brew a cuppa and walk out into the Twisted Gardens with my pooch and a grass stained pair of untied sneakers. We'll stroll the brick paths and note the new buds or maybe a flower preening on its vine. Sometimes I pluck a spade and comb the lawn plucking Toby's poos and tossing them aside for the moment, to collect later. This morning I was lazy and scooped a small pile and chucked it under the William Shakespeare Mulberry. His trailing branches were so long they lay in heaps upon the bricks, making one section of the pathway seem more like a jungle passage then a suburban retreat. The mulberry has tremendous green leaves and looks like Cousin It's rainforest cousin.

"Ach! Niggity poo-addled bums!"

Ah. That would be the Little Man in the Garden, I presume. It's mid July already and I'm surprised I haven't seen him yet, but the garden is so full - almost overgrown - that it makes sense. Under the Mulberry was once a more open space with ground cover and some wispy coreopsis waving little yellow blooms. Now the place is shaded and dark as deepest Africa. I push aside some branches, wet with dew, and see the Little Man waving his walking stick at me from the mulch littered river rock. OMG, he is wearing a pith helmet. He has built a small enclosure by the Mulberry's truck, whose girth I haven't noticed yet this season.

"Shite an' carbuncles, ye idiot brainer, sheep and walleyes, kerbliggitty jo! Der be poop 'n me hippo pen!"

What? I see no tiny hippos, but the preparation seems to be under way. There is a nice paddock and shallow pool for a diminutive hippo in any case. "I see you're expanding from merely spreading weeds in my yard and garden, into zoo keeping?" Why not.

"Ack, Billy an' I, yer weedness, sup an' have de odd hand o' cribbage here, ya ol' bent whiskery dolt. Knock about an' toss yer savage beast's brownies 'n der bin, poo-handler! Knack-kneed goldarn anklebiter 'n 'is gobber-head goober! Uncle-dee-dunkels!"

"Sorry," I say. I guess I'll get a bucket and walk the lawn for now on. I wouldn't want to disturb 'his weedness'. Feckless little imp that he is.

It's July, well beyond the 4th when the skies light up and blasts of gunpowder send the beasts upstairs to cower under beds. The trees, all of them, are shooting up over my head and filling the air above my garden with gentler type of fireworks. The Maple towers now over the roofline. Its shade will make the deck much more pleasant than previous years, and now the ferns will last though the hottest of the summer. The Twisted Filbert is as dense as a neutron star and its gnarled branches are lost under the canopy. Purplish red Smoke Tree is resplendent in her plush and drying blooms. Soon the cloudy wisps will fall and cover the grass and blow into corners. The newer Chokecherry is poking ever skyward with deep red, almost black leaves, highlighted with newer green shoots. Tiny little berries, turning nearly black,  dangle like jewelry and are horribly astringent - good only for the birds. The Indians harvested them and made Chokecherry jelly. There are others, but I'll save them for another day. For now, another cup of tea is needed, and maybe buttered toast on the bench. We'll sit awhile and just look at the plants and birds and scurrying chipmunks. Toby will growl and chase them into the bushes. Soon enough I'll grab the spade and clean up poo and weeds. Morning is the time to take it all in and whistle at the red-winged blackbirds. Happy Summer, all.

Ye can check in HERE for last year's Little Man sighting. He's been happily (begrudgingly?) spreading weeds in my garden for many a year. Little asshole.