Summer's Bounty

Hi-ya. How goes it? This week's post originally ran in August, 2012, with the title Trowel and Error. In case you can't tell by that cutesy title, it's about the joys of gardening in steamy buggy Hot-lanta.

*******************

Thought for the day:  When weeding, the best way to make sure you're removing a weed and not a valuable plant is to pull on it. If it comes out of the ground easily, it's a valuable plant.

Are you a gardener... or are you a garden-dreamer, like me?

I mean, I harbor amazing delusions of grandeur while browsing through garden catalogs and piling a cart high with purchases from the local nursery every year.

And then something happens.

I like to call it reality.

Gardens are not made by singing, 'Oh, how beautiful' and sitting in the shade.  [Rudyard Kipling]

Darn it. (I'm really good at sitting in the shade.)

Kipling was a real kill-joy, huh? I do fine getting all the stuff into the ground, and for a little while... just over twenty-three minutes, I think... the garden looks marvelous. Then come these things:

                                                                      Yep, weeds.

The philosopher who said that work well done never needs doing over never weeded a garden.   [Ray D. Everson]

It's a little-known fact, but I'm pretty sure weeds are organized. Not unionized yet, but they're definitely working together. Just think about it. They grow at precisely the rate you pull them out. Yank a weed from one part of your garden, and boing! another one pops up in another part. Really. I've seen it happen.

Even with the whack-a-mole racket weeds have going for them, I don't mind weeding all that much.

At first.

And then something else happens.

I like to call it debilitating heat. In Georgia, that could happen just about any time of the year, but as a rule, by the end of springtime, (which could occur as early as February...) perspiration is pretty much flowing like Niagara Falls around here.

                                                                     I'm talking ...  

Oh, and did I happen to mention our annual summer droughts? And the outdoor watering bans? And whattayaknow? While flowers and vegetables gasp for water, weeds seem to thrive under these conditions.

Crabgrass can grow on bowling balls in airless rooms, and there is no known way to kill it that does not involve nuclear weapons.  [Dave Barry] 

They say hard work doesn't hurt anyone, but at my age, why take chances? I tend to agree with good ol' Tex here:

The best way to garden is to put on a wide-brimmed hat and some old clothes. And with a hoe in one hand and a cold drink in the other, tell somebody else where to dig.  [Texas Bix Bender]

Alas, nobody was around who was willing to let me stand around giving orders, so I tempted fate last week and went outside in the early morning (before the heat index hit triple digits) to weed and prune. I know. What a trooper, right?

So I grabbed a rug to protect my dainty little knees, my handy-dandy gloves, hand hoe, clippers, pruners, and trowel, and I was ready to go. Approximately two minutes later, the attack began.

First, the reconnaissance mosquito swooped down to sample the cuisine. Then came the rest of his brigade.

You think weeds are organized? They've got nothing on mosquitoes.

So, I tore into the house to swap shorts for sweat pants and to douse myself in bug spray. Which, I'm pretty sure, the mosquitoes around here actually like. Kinda like a finishing sauce.

But, I eventually managed to finish the job. (Which, of course, could stand to be done all over again now.) For some reason, our front garden is a flipping magnet for wild onions. Pain in the derriere to keep digging them out and digging them out, too. But didja know if you don't dig 'em out, they grow pretty little purple flowers? (ahem)  I may have read that somewhere ... yeah, that's the ticket...

Anyhow, the task gave me plenty of time to hum and think. Like, about editing. Wouldn't it be nice if it were as easy to axe the deadwood from a written work as it is to prune it from a bush? And, watching all those tiny bugs scurrying around, I thought about how tiny we are in comparison to the universe. Suppose we're part of some kind of a cosmic garden, waiting for the Master Gardener to come pull weeds? Then the question becomes: are we the weeds... or the flowers? (Yeah, I was getting a little heat-addled by that time.)

Even so, it kinda made me wonder. Who am I to decide which plants should grow and which should go?

Some...  no... most... wildflowers are beautiful.







And Ralph Waldo Emerson, a very wise man, I might add, said, What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.

I think he's absolutely right! So, I may just have to reconsider this whole notion of pulling weeds. Because, if you think about it,

                                                              Dandelions are quite dandy.

(sigh) If I could only grow green stuff in my garden like I can in my refrigerator... [unknown]

                                          Okay, hands up. I give. Time to throw in the trowel.

For now. I have been looking at topiary pictures lately. That just might be the way to go, ya know? Think our neighbors will be impressed?

                              Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

** All images, except the last one, come from morguefile The topiary shot is courtesy of seniorark

When Butterflies Flutter By

Thought for the day:  Why didn't Noah swat those two mosquitoes when he had the chance?

[courtesy of Perfectly Timed Photos]

I can't be too bad; mosquitoes certainly still find me attractive. Matter of fact, all bugs, both the creepy-crawlies and the airborne, have always had an impressive talent for picking me out of a crowd.

[Morguefile]

Without a doubt, though, mosquitoes have gotta be my biggest fans. If I'm outside with ten other people, only one of us will be attacked by a swarm of those blood-thirsty little... darlings. Me. Doesn't matter worth a flip if I'm wearing repellent, either, because the skeeters around here consider DEET to be nothing more than a finishing sauce.

I'm telling ya, when I go outside in the morning to get the paper, they're hunkered down waiting for me like a squadron of fighter jets with their engines running, and they immediately swoop after me like a bunch of hungry teenagers at the dinner table. I have found one way to get the upper hand... actually, upper foot... with them, though. When I pick tomatoes in the afternoon, the greedy little suckers gorge on my blood until they get so bloated, they can't even fly anymore. They just hover about six inches off the ground,  groaning and holding their bellies. So I... step on 'em. (While singing, Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more, no more, no more...)

[credit: Muhammed Mahdi Karim]

Bees like to have their way with me, too. I've gotten lots of bee stings over the years, but the worst were the ones on my upper lip and between my eyes. The resultant swelling made me look like the cover picture for a monster magazine, which my big brother was only too happy to point out. (In his defense, we were young. If it happened now, I'm sure he'd try to stifle his guffaws.)

But at least bees serve a purpose, unlike those pesky mosquitoes. (Unless you call spreading disease a divine calling.) Isn't that picture of the bee absolutely phenomenal? Would you believe that little guy is carrying pollen?! What a shot!

[Morguefile]

Oh, look... that butterfly and bee are sharing the same bloom. Hmmm, could they be discussing.... me?

Perhaps the bee is agreeing not to sting me this time...?

Oh my goodness, just look at all the butterflies!

My thoughts are like butterflies. They are beautiful, but they fly away. [anonymous]

Oh, and lookie there. I think that one's a swallowtail.

May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun and find your shoulder to rest upon, to bring you luck, happiness and riches, today, tomorrow, and beyond. [Irish blessing]

A new friend!

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. [Nathaniel Hawthorne]

This monarch is a real beauty, isn't it? And it posed so nicely for me...

Before it (gasp!) came closer...

Know what? That made up for every mosquito, bee, fire ant and spider who's ever been attracted to me.

What can I say? If you think about it, it's a lot like life. We have to put up with some painful bites and stings over the years, but beautiful blessings also have a delightful way of fluttering by and oh-so-gently... pooping on your head.


Wanta hear whose favorite old broad comment won a copy of Old Broads Waxing Poetic? Okay. (Insert drum roll here.) It's a pleasure to announce that (ta-DA!)  Stephen T. McCarthy takes the prize this time around with his expression of unabashed love and admiration for his mother. (sniff) Ya gotta love a guy who loves his ma. (If you'd like to read his comment, it's in the previous post.)

This old broad is gonna be flitting around here and there being a social butterfly for the next four days or so, but if all goes well, I'll be back to responding to your comments on Tuesday.

                                       Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.