a light at the end of the path

[A note to those who commented on the unusual – indeed, perhaps one and only – blog photo of Ed and me. In the past, many have tried to take a picture of the two of us, but Ed rarely behaves for such stuff. The absurd results were never worth posting. This time he let me proceed, with the camera, supported by woodchips, leaning clumsily on the hood of an old car, set to shoot with the self-timer. We had a hard time keeping the ridiculously abundant pear tree branches that overhang our parking space out of the photo. So, in many many ways, it is a once in a blue moon shot.]

Well now, these weeks are going to be a challenge. The weather is spectacular, the work is now ever before me, I’m tentatively agreeing to provide assistance with a court case, and my garden needs watering.

Can it be more complicated than that?

Let me talk about four photos that I took today. The first was not from here at all, but, instead, taken just before a meeting I had downtown with a student. After parking good old Rosie in some tight space where many would think she does not belong (they would be wrong to think that), I looked up and caught my breath at the loveliness of this:

...and I thought to myself – is there such a thing as an indifferent spring garden?

In the evening I water the farmette beds (rain? What rain? Is there ever rain?), reversing the order of operations, just because that is the most exciting thing I can do with this terribly long (but not unpleasant) task. As I tote the watering can to the bed by the driveway, I note that Ed is pounding in the fourth (constructed by him) solar-lit lamp post into the driveway. Later, at night, we walk out to admire the beams of light. Why do you suppose they’re star-like? Ed asks. He doesn’t really expect an answer. I make do in life without knowing the answers to answerable questions even as I worry about those without obvious replies.

And so the second photo is from the dark night -- made lighter by our trail of tiny lamps.

Finally, I have to describe another significant event from this day: for over a week now Ed has been (more or less) gently pointing out that the rhubarb is out of control. It spills onto the path to the farmhouse door (I did not plant it there!) and I haven’t a clue as to what should become of it. I still have bags of frozen chopped stalks from last year.

To move things toward some kind of a resolution, two days ago I finally trimmed the plant back. Somewhat. And today, I decided to improvise and bake things up in my own bizarre rendition of a fresh rhubarb/last year’s frozen raspberry French tart.

Shockingly, it is quite tasty.

The tall iris blooms, the tight bundles of dianthus, the burst of golden coreopsis, the fast paced mint, the chives, the rhubarb -- they take away attention from the ravaged-by-wild-beast  (or bird, or likely both beast and bird) strawberries. You have to focus on the success stories in your yard...

...and not mind the sacrificed handful that nature has claimed for its own uses.