The Rack

When we first acquired it, I thought we were crazy. A drying rack as big as a room. I mostly use an electric dryer, which, along with the washing machine, saves me hours of labor every month. 

But this hot summer, I have a new appreciation for the contraption, especially when placed outside, where it provides for optimal air-drying. 

There's an elemental pleasure in hanging wet shorts and shirts on the rods, a pleasure almost as great as attaching sheets to a clothesline when I was a kid, the fabric flapping in my face.

Often, clothes dry almost as quickly on the deck as they do in the dryer, and when I bring them in, they smell of air and sun and heat. 

Maximum Capacity

Yesterday a four-year-old birthday party here that must have strained the deck to maximum capacity. 

What is maximum capacity anyway? Hard to know when the deck is as old as this one. 

All's well that ends well, I guess. I write this post from the deck, which is still standing — in fact thriving — on this lovely, low-humidity morning.

(The trampoline was full, too.) 

Inheriting the Sun

It took a poison ivy search to bring them to light, a careful combing of the backyard in preparation for a children's party here this weekend. At first I didn't know what they were, saw only the fallen petals, tiny blossoms in the grass.

Then I looked up, saw the bent boughs of the crepe myrtle shining in the sun. It's my $2 tree, one of the stock I purchased from the Arbor Day Foundation years ago and planted without much hope. It's 20 feet tall ... and it's blooming. 

Vibrant pink flowers are weighing down the spindly top of the unpruned tree, blooming earlier than the other crepe myrtles in the yard, which are, unfortunately, planted in the shade. 

But this little guy inherited the sun, grabbed the rays when the big oaks came down. He is reaping the harvest. We all are.

Thriller, Filler, Spiller

I'm not much of a gardener, but I do love the look of a cottage garden — or a flower pot that replicates it.

To fill a bare space where the tall oak used to be, I wanted to create a container garden that sets the right tone, with a colorful abundance. I do what I always do when confronted with a task I know little about: I researched it. 

Container gardens should combine a thriller, a filler and a spiller, said one reputable source, Better Homes and Gardens. So I went to the nursery, bought begonias and heliotrope for the filler, caladium for the thriller and sweet potato vine for the spiller. 

Midway through a warm, dry summer, I'm thankful that these plants are all still alive. But half of the fillers are fading away and the spiller has become the thriller. Isn't that just the way it goes?

Giving Green a Chance

Yesterday amidst the cooking and prepping for the evening's festivities, the clouds were building, the air becoming even stickier, though that seemed impossible.

There have been so many times this summer when this had happened, but to no avail. Yesterday afternoon was different, though.

By evening an inch and a half of rain had fallen, soaking the ground, tamping down dust, freshening up the ferns, giving green a chance. 

It needs it. 

(A tracery of shadows on a past lawn.)

Night Light

Watching the light fade last night, I see leaves grow indistinct, dark masses without color. 

Searching for bats, I see blurred forms cut through the darkness, visible only when they cross a patch of still-blue sky.

As sunlight vanishes, fireflies rouse themselves from the ground, blink and twinkle as they flutter their way to the treetops.

Closer to where I'm sitting, the deck lights snap to attention. They've been storing sunlight all day and now release it.

Two types of night light on an early July evening. 

Busy, Busy

It's mulching season. Actually, it may be past mulching season, though I suppose it's still mulching season somewhere, especially if you still have mulch to spread. 

Speaking of that, as I walk through the neighborhood, I spy much mulch. There are piles of it in driveways, waiting to be shoveled and carted to the backyard, and bags of it strategically placed under trees or beside garden beds. 

I've decided that having an array of mulch bags deposited around the property is the perfect way to look busy. It's proof positive that mulching may occur in the future if it hasn't already. 

When we first moved to this tidy suburban neighborhood, I had a thing about mulch. It seemed the epitome of uptight lawn care. But through the years I've come to understand its value: the moisture it keeps in, the weeds it keeps out. If nothing else, it lets neighbors know we care. 

Split Rail

A frosty walk this morning, a split-rail fence beside me part of the way.  Surely this is fencing lite, only the barest barricade, I think, as I amble beside one of the more open models (two horizontals). 

Though now they now seem more decorative than anything else, split-rail fences have a long history in this country. They were used to mark property boundaries, protect crops and livestock, and, during the Civil War, troops burned them to keep warm. 

In my neighborhood, split-rail fences are the only kind allowed in front yards. In the back you can go wild with a picket or other plank styles, but the front must be open, natural — much like the snippet of yard I photographed this morning. 

It's a fence ... but barely. 

Weed Me!

Here in the suburbs, lawns matter. They're to be green and weed-free, though many of them are not, ours included. 

Driveways, on the other hand, should be as smooth and polished as ebony, well poured and thoroughly sealed. They should not require weeding at all, as this one (full disclosure, mine) so plainly does. 

To which I can only say, as I have for so many other suburban transgressions ... oops!

Dry Zone

In the woods, the little bridges are still there, but the streams they cross are running dry.

In the meadows, the earth is bare, cracked, hard-packed. My shoes scuff up dust. Even the grass has stopped growing as quickly as it usually does in June.

From the looks of the sky today, though, I think we're in for some relief. I'm imagining great sheets of rain, the ground soaking it up, the small runs flowing again. And later, how easily the weeds will give way. I'll pull them up by the fistful.

Kwanzan Up Close

The Kwanzan cherry had barely begun to leaf this time last week. But the warm temperatures of early April have sent it into overdrive. 

I'm spending some time this morning just looking at the tree, observing how the big-fisted flowers bend its branches to earth. 

The Kwanzan is not as ethereal as the Yoshino cherry, which typically blooms a few weeks earlier. It's an earthier, later blossom.  It's best photographed up close, I think, against a bright blue sky.

Familiarity

Some light rain, the sky a washed-out gray, tree limbs a study in contrast. I look outside as if at another world. The days have turned inward for me, as our dear dog Copper is ailing. 

It's a comfort to glimpse the sparse azaleas, the ragged hollies. Even the open space where the tall oak stood is familiar now.

I know these places, these absences. My eyes rest easily on them, until I look inside again. 

Too Soon!

Warm winters are always a treat, and so far we seem to be in for one. But I worry when I spot green shoots pushing through the soil or spy the creamy center of a Lenten rose already taking shape amidst the brown leaves from last fall's raking. 

Lenten roses are some of the earliest plants in the garden. But January 12th? 

Go back to sleep, I tell the plant, treating it like a still-drowsy baby rising too soon from a nap. Slumber on for a few more weeks, until we know the world is safe for you. 

The Red Oak

Who knows when the great red oak was born, when the acorn that gave it life fell to the ground, found pliable soil, sent down roots? Decades, maybe 100 years or more, when second-growth forest filled in this land that once was farmed. 

I stepped into its history 33 years ago and found in its lofty shelter a stateliness and calm. It became, in fact, our signature tree, the one I think of first when I think of our house. 

It had been ailing for years, a fact I noticed with the same pit in the stomach I've had when running my tongue over an aching molar. But the measures we took — pruning, watering, fertilizing — did not save it. The ambrosia beetle, an opportunistic insect that moves in after years of drought and other stresses, killed it in a single season.

All summer I've been lamenting the tree's brittle boughs, its withered foliage. I've been dreading the moment that finally came. 

Now the red oak is felled, its great trunk piled around the yard, so much lumber. Soon the logs will be carted away, too. 

It's not the greatest loss I've ever sustained ... but it's a loss, just the same. 

Call Them By Their Name

Names carry power; they encourage reverence. In some branches of Judaism, one writes G-d to show respect for the Creator. 

I found it ironic, then, as I walked through the yard with an arborist yesterday, to learn the names of the trees on our property. Ironic because several of them are ailing — and two of them have died. 

Oh, I knew there were oak trees in the front, had even learned last year that one of the sick trees is a pin oak. But did I understand that pin oaks are a member of the red oak family? No, I did not. Nor did I know that a chestnut oak is sitting right next to a tall holly in the side yard. Or that, wonder of wonders, a sassafras tree is thriving alongside the fence by the trampoline. 

From now on, the trees that remain will be cared for more diligently. And no wonder: Now, they have names.

(No problem naming this beauty. Crepe myrtles well in these parts. We may be planting more of them.)

Fleeting

I'd forgotten there were lilies of the valley in the side yard, so running into them last week was a surprise and a delight. There were those delicate, bell-like flowers; there the white against the green.

I marveled, I stooped down and snapped a few photos, then I promptly moved on to something else: weeds to pull, chores to do.

Day before yesterday, I thought I would go and look at the flowers again. Surely they would still be blooming. But no, they were not. 

The day I'd glimpsed them was one of their few on earth. How fleeting was their time here! How glad I am to have caught them when I did. 

Out There

I spent almost every minute Sunday outside: reading on the deck, bouncing on the trampoline, weeding in the yard, swinging on the hammock. 

It seemed the best way to honor the day, to be in it as much as possible. Because in this place, in this clime, spring is the season. 

Now I'm back at my desk, finishing up work for class tonight, trying to channel any intellectual energy I have to the difficult task at hand. Deconstructionism: there's a reason why the prof saved it for last. 

But my heart is out there with the wood poppies and the lilacs, with the azaleas and the begonias, resplendent and dear. 

From A to Zinnia

The end of a gardening season is a good time to ponder next year's plan ... and next year I'll plant more zinnias. Next year, I'll welcome their hues and warmth into my life. Next year I'll be bolder.

This year, I sowed a few zinnia seeds out front and back. But it was late in the season, a half-hearted attempt. This was the only survivor, a stalk that craned its neck toward the sun and produced one forlorn flower that bloomed a few days ago. 

Next year, I'll start seeds indoors in egg cartons. I'll nurture those babies with sprinkles and grow lights. And when the soil is warm I'll transplant them into sunny spots in the garden I'll prepare soon. 

It's October, spring promises are easy to make — and the imaginary garden has no end of delights.

(Zinnia bouquet photo courtesy Drilnoth, Wikimedia Commons)

Weed Whisperer

It's the golden season for weeding, a precious period before the arrival of stilt grass and the more noxious undergrowth, when I can (and do) plop myself down and gently remove the crabgrass, wild strawberries and dandelions from the periwinkle and forget-me-nots.   

Weeding at close range can be a meditative occupation. It feels less like banishing what I don't want and more like welcoming what I do. It is garden shaping rather than green demolition. And it's a chance to be part of the landscape, one with the clematis and creeping jenny and bleeding heart.

Before long the tenacious troublemakers will move in, the invasive grasses that seem bent on making the world their own and require a full-scale assault to stop them. But until they do, just call me the weed whisperer.

Petal Storm

A wild wind blew in from the west yesterday, bending the bamboo and sending Kwanzan cherry petals flying over grass and street. 

It was a veritable petal storm, as the wind continued through the night and into today, sending overnight temperatures below freezing and forcing us to bring in the few plants we'd set outside. 

I'm telling myself that it's only a temporary retreat. Spring is on the march this Earth Day, and it will persevere in the end.  Until then, I'm watching the petals as they fly. At least they're not snowflakes.