Why is it that the calendar seems to flip pages so quickly -- one day to the next, one month after another. May -- beautiful and vibrant, warm and wonderful -- packed up and slid away and boom! We're on June now. June 1st. Did you know it's International Children's Day today? Why is it that we haven't adopted this holiday? If you look up Children's Day in the U.S., you get confusion:
In 1995, President Clinton proclaimed National Children's Day as October 8th. He was later followed by President Bush in 2001 who declared the first Sunday in June as National Child's Day. However, National Children's Day is generally celebrated the second Sunday in June or October 8th.
I mean, really? Did you get anything from that at all? Meanwhile, the world celebrates the little ones. Today.
On this June day (so sunny and so perfect), Ed and I are up early, working even before breakfast. The hose does not reach the new orchard where last night I sowed some meadow flowers and so this morning I carried many watering cans over to the seeded land to get them a jump start in what I hope will be a season of growth. Every time I lug water to plants I am reminded of Monet at Giverny. The painter had an enormous garden to maintain and he was not wealthy enough (initially) to employ help, so he made his children do the heavy work of carrying cans of water to his beautiful flowers.
I have often said that the heavy work outside takes place in April and May and that's true, but I am not honest when I say that after that, the perennial garden can take care of itself. Weeds really are a constant head ache. In dry spells, flowers, especially the new ones, need help. I don't fertilize anything, but I do dead-head a lot, all over the farmette flower fields. And I stake fallen spikes. I'd estimate I put in a couple of hours of work each day. Easily.
(the morning garden: tiny flowers)
(morning garden: the big brassy show-offs)
("hey, where do I fit in??" "you're a peony tree! big brassy show off, for sure!")
Breakfast. Finally. On the porch.
And afterwards, I return to the fields. I do some work on the front bed, the one that faces the road. That's a tough one to love: I had approached it with great care (after all, it's the only bed that's viewed by others), but I hadn't bargained with the great maple roots and the road salt. It's probably the most inhospitable soil on the property. Things grow, but selectively and unpredictably.
In the afternoon, I bring Snowdrop here after school.
And then home. Her home. Their home.
Kids, are you keeping an eye on Sandpiper's head? (They're lost in some video clip they both wanted to see.)
Sandpiper must be picking up the sibling love vibes, because he never bats an eye. Head's up, show continues.
And at the farmette, the flowers bloom and the June sunshine warms each stalk as if we were already in the thick of summer.
