Warm weather means water.
First Sprinkles
seasons
Spring Saturday
Saturdays have set-in-stone morning rituals: a talk with Babcia and Dziadek in Poland; coffee (for we’ve given it up during the week); ballet lessons. Once it’s all done, we have time to play.
And time to work.
We have several bird pairs nesting in our Leyland Cypresses that block off our deck from the sides. One builder seems more industrious than the other, though. I watch this fellow make at least half a dozen trips in the space of five minutes.
But I have my own work to do: a backyard that’s been neglected since the end of last summer, with enough twigs and branches to make five piles throughout the yard. Plus there’s more tomatoes to plant, stakes to arrange, hedges to trim, grass to mow.
Most of it gets done, but by dusk, I’m ready to put the tools back, lean the wheelbarrow against the house, and call it a day.
Blossoms and Satan
Our lone rose is blooming.
And with our holly cut back, it's easy to see why the sweet gum that continually plagued me was so difficult impossible to kill, other than it being a sweet gum tree.
It wraps itself around all that's good and perverts it to its own nefarious ends. Sounds familiar...
Flowers for the Morning
"I promised her!" K mouths to me as L thumps up the stairs to brush her teeth, disheartened by my casual dismissal of her idea to go down to the blooming azalea and pick some flowers to take to school. "You can just get some from our neighbors' azalea in their front yard," I said just moments earlier. They're out of town, but I knew they wouldn't mind: they're like long-lost family to the Girl.
"I'm not tromping down through the cold, wet leaves and grass to pick blooms for her when she can walk fifty feet..."
A few minutes later, I'm pulling small clumps of blooms from the bush, excited about the foggy early morning that promises a sunny mid-morning.
An hour later, the prophecy is fulfilled.
Arrival
When everything, positively everything is blooming,
or about to bloom,
when spring is leafing out everywhere,
there’s only one thing to do: get out and enjoy it.
Autumn 2011
The sun rises these days with a brilliant luminescence behind our home. All our trees and those of our neighbors positively glow with the soft morning light.
Cool mornings slide into temperate afternoons, and we spend every moment possible outside, as soon, it will be impossible to sit on the front stoop, color, and press leaves.
The cat senses this, too. She constantly searches for a warm patch of sun or companionship. In the late afternoon, she can find both when she's lucky.
The Girl, growing, with ever-expanding interests, begins to discover the pleasures of sitting calmly in the warm sun with a creative task to occupy one's mind and hands.
In the back yard, the tired afternoon sun creates a softer, more mature glow in the autumn leaves.
And in the midst of all this settling down, this approaching hibernation that will eventually grow tiresome as we long for the blooms of spring, the camellia blooms.
Sunday Afternoon
“Tata, I want to help!” she calls as she hops down the deck stairs. With an armful of branches and twigs, I’m agreeable, but I smile, wondering how much help I’m actually going to get.
“Grab a couple branches,” I explain, “and follow me.”
We march to the street, L chattering all the way, explaining how she’s going to explain tomorrow how she helped her daddy.
Suddenly, behind me, I hear it: “Ouch!” She’s rubbing her eye; I’m wondering when she’s going to ask for a bandage. It’s been her obsession lately: no matter the wound, no matter the location, there must be First Aid.
“The stick went in my eye,” she says, with concerned voice. After so many months of learning her various voices, I know it’s nothing serious. It’s not quite play — something did happen — but perhaps her concern is exaggerated. She sees K and me hurt ourselves, and she models the reaction.
“Come on,” I say offhandedly. “You’ll be fine. Little things happen when you work as hard as you’re working now.
She plods along, amending the story she’s going to tell tomorrow, practicing the Tragedy of the Stick.
As we’re returning to the backyard, the late afternoon sun reflects off the golden autumn leaves, and it’s as if she’s walking into pure light or developing a halo. I walk about twenty paces behind, watching her hair bounce and sway as she dances into a golden November afternoon.
Endings and Beginnings
The summer’s end nears. Morning temperatures are back in the lower seventies, and we return to eating breakfast on the deck occasionally. Bagels for us all, but the Girl prefers to dip hers in maple syrup. In a sense, it’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.
Here in the south, the end of summer is about the only time we can go outside and play comfortably. In July, it’s still 90 degrees as the sun sets. We try to head out sometimes for a little outdoor time, but no one wants to melt.
Still, there are options. And does it ever bring back memories: a few minutes of running through misted water on a hot summer afternoon was my idea of paradise when I was a kid. A few overlapping garbage bags fastened to the ground with whatever one could find would sometimes serve as a slide, though never for too long. Since we don’t have a sprinkler (they’ve all broken), L has somewhat limited options. It’s more fun for me, though.
The last of the crape myrtle blossoms begin falling.
And in this end is my beginning: a new school year both sparkles and looms.
Garden
Summer means gardening for us. I wish I could say that without the knowing smile, for our “gardening” is still quite rudimentary. It’s about like saying I’m a cyclist because I manage to hop on a bike once or twice a month.
Our gardening consists of a few pepper plants, a watermelon vine or two,
perhaps a cantaloupe, and maybe a few spices, especially basil. Next to cilantro, basil has to be the best, freshest-smelling herb that exists. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so: K came in today with a caterpillar who’d devoured a basil plant.
“Why are you upset?” ask L.
“Because a beast was eating our basil!” K responded.
“What’s it for?” L inquired further.
“For cooking, not for caterpillars,” explained K.
“But you should share,” replied the sage.
The trouble is, we don’t have enough basil to share. We don’t have enough watermelon to share, nor cantaloupe. Our peppers are sparse too, but that’s really for a different reason.
The tomatoes. The only thing we have enough to share is taking over our small raised beds. One vine alone requires six to eight stakes: each fork in the vine turns enormous and fruit-laden.
We head out daily to pick the tomatoes. We’re growing three varieties, including sweet, bright cherry tomatoes. Most of these rarely make it to the house:
we munch on them so while we’re picking the rest of the tomatoes that hardly any are left when we make it back to the kitchen.
All the same, two days can produce enough tomatoes to overwhelm quickly.
This is what K tried to explain to L this evening: “We do share. We give tomatoes to Nana and Papa, to A and P, to the chipmunks and squirrels…”
And still we end up with so many every couple of days. Then again, who can complain about this? Quarter a fresh tomato and sprinkle salt and pepper: a perfect summer snack.
Transport
A trip to the park is nothing new. When it's warm, with everything blooming, it's hard to stay indoors.
The Girl gets to climb, run, slide, swing, and fall.
Get to relax a little bit.
The difference today was the transportation:
