and one more

Might this be the last of the beautiful days? I can always hope for good weather, but I do remember Septembers of the past, where it rained most days, and other Septembers when it was too hot and too buggy, so it's not a given. (When you are 73, you have a lot of Septembers behind you so I suppose you've seen it all, though with climate change, perhaps we haven't seen it all, and what we haven't seen is likely not going to make us feel that great!)

Calm. How older people love calm! I did not see that coming. If you'd ask me at 20, 40, 60 what kind of a pace or lifestyle would suit me best, calm wouldn't even make the top ten. And now, when I think of contentment, I think -- it cannot happen without a long stretch of calm.

And I can find it: in the morning, on the porch, with Millie and a book.

But then, the turmoil begins. Today, for example, was supposed to be a rose day. Millie goes to day care, kids are not yet in need of after school care. Calm. I have a rose to plant and some decisions to make about future plantings. 

None of this happens, There are problems with the care of my ailing friend (and I am so sorry I write minimally about this, but of course, privacy concerns abound). Friends are stepping in. How much can I do? What is helpful anyway? I don't know! 

I think back to my busy July and I see that I may have worked hard and done a lot, and yet there was calm. I wasn't worried. Then came August, and Shakespeare plays, and boom! Right in the thick of Lady Capulet moaning on stage about the death of her noble cousin and her daughter -- whamo! The ax fell, news of illness, news of deterioration, news of treatment, news of improvement, then further deterioration, then holding steady, then down again -- I swear a putty ball could not be more erratic in its bouncing habits than this crazy stuff happening to her right now.

Funny (but not so funny) coincidence: I last attended a Young Shakespeare Players production of Romeo and Juliet some 35 years ago when my daughters were just kids and performed in it. That summer I got sick. My brain exploded. Or something. I was bed ridden for a long time. And I recovered of course. So do we have a repeat of that? A close friend gets sick, struggles ensue, but maybe soon the dips will disappear and she will be on the mend? One hopes, but in the meantime, things are dicey. 

 

I do clean up some black spot fungus on some of the roses. This is what I learned through trial and error -- if you are picking roses for your garden and you dont want to be fighting with black-spot disease, pick roses that are resistant to it. Color, size, fragrance -- they're all fine, but a fungus can take down all the leaves and then it's just a matter of time for the poor rose. 

Mostly, my flowers are doing okay. A couple of failures, a handful of regrets (why oh why did I think that was a good choice?), but for the most part, it's all good. But dry.

I spend the afternoon watering. Half of the front beds, done. The rest? No time. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.

I pick up a playful joyous Millie. Perfect. I open the gate to her yard, she frolics, I plant the rose. Rather randomly. Into a pre-dug hole. Because it's there and because I can do it with Millie. My best gardening buddy, I'm exhausting you, aren't I?

Earlier in the day, I drove by something that I'd seen many many times around the farmette, but I rarely see (or hear) now. I don't know why they aren't in the fields here this summer. I miss them.

with so much love...