August, a laggard; September, a runner

 

 

                I thought surely when August finally was finished, I’d have time to work in the yard--digging privet, pulling honeysuckle, trimming shrubs, planting new mums—stuff like that. But it was too hot still, so I waited for the promised cooling.

                When the cool spell descended, I found myself tied to the writing desk and computer. First things first. An eye appointment and a morning spent with colleagues to judge our poetry branch contest entries kept me inside.

                The next week, waiting for folks to come over to gather pears for preserves, I did a smidgen of pruning. Enough to fill a wheelbarrow—Carolina moon-vine, saw briars, privet. Of course, my friends had to see the new floors. And we had to have a coffee klatch afterwards.

The next day it rained. Then I had a trip to Conway for the monthly writers’-group meeting.

                Back to the writing desk to compose another chapter for the Hot Springs novel group. And, of course, this weekly blog post.

                Confession time: On the first Sunday of September, I prepped for church where I’d directed/ played until retirement. Now, I was singing tenor in the choir. The director would be back after recuperating three weeks from surgery. The choir would sing, he’d said, a Communion anthem we already knew.

                But when I arrived in the choir room and opened a bulletin, I saw that he was singing a solo.  Turning on my heel, left. My sis followed me to the car with stuff she needed to return. I told her why I was leaving. “Tell anyone who asks, ‘She comes to sing the anthem.’”

                I want to know how many of you can--and will--set your alarm for six on Sunday morning? So you can get to church by 7:45 for hand-bell warm-up before playing in the service? We all do what we’ve committed ourselves to do, and that’s what happened this past Sunday at Bryant FUMC.

                At my advanced age and disposition, I don’t want to have to be at church at 8 a.m., which is why I dropped out of that church’s choir. Been there; done that; retired; don’t want to do it any longer, especially that early in the morning. Call me a wimp . . . if you dare.

                Finally, three hours before the deadline Monday morning, and by setting the alarm for 5:30, I finished another chapter of the sequel. It required lots of research, and was important in tying up one of the subplots.  I expected the writers to call it an information dump, but they did not, thank their sweet hearts.

                Oh, that same afternoon—Monday—I worked in the iris-yucca bed cleaning old foliage and pulling grass. I also manned the weed-eater until the two batteries gave out. So, I AM getting a little done toward keeping the bushes at bay.

The days are getting shorter, aren’t they? Oh, well, I guess so: it’s mid-September already. Wasn’t it still August just yesterday?

Spring has sprung . . . spring into action . . . spring into life

by Pat Laster

What’s eating my pansy blooms? I’ve never noticed this happening before. For several days a bumblebee flew between flower beds (separated by a concrete apron and path). It never seemed to land, though later (the first day of spring), it attached itself to the outer, lower blue bloom of the vinca vine. Why wouldn’t it have gone down inside the bloom?
Another question: (but I think I know the answer). An iris bed --with full sun and nearby yucca plants--had exquisite and multiple blooms. However, irises in a bed in the curve of the driveway—for the second year in a row—have not bloomed. I wonder if the pink dogwood is providing too much shade. Also, a small redbud has sprouted and for the second year, is blooming.
After reading in several sites about iris, it seems that this little bit of shade is not the culprit after all. It is recommended that iris be separated every three or four years. How about thirty or forty years since these have been dug up and replanted? Perhaps that’s my next step. I can use more of the 50 pounds of sand I bought!
Another problem is that one year, I bought two burning bush plants and a small holly bush. By planting time, they were still in their nursery containers. One burning bush I put at the west property line, and the other, alas, I dug in next to the concrete porch on the southeast. Ditto with the holly, only at another place in the same bed.
Through the next several years, I failed to move them to a better location and now, they both stand about four feet tall. The holly spread into a lushly-bloomed azalea, forcing me to trim the new growth. To heel in the new cuttings, I dug a bed (or a trench) next to the non-blooming iris bed, amended the dirt with potting soil and sand. On the second day after planting them, the rains came. We shall see.
During spring break, Kid Billy was invited to spend two days at his Aunt Jenn’s home in Conway. She agreed—they texted back and forth—that I could send her rootings of tansy and lamb’s ear. But I added a clump of oxalis and two small gardenias for good measure.
Ferny-foliaged tansy fills bare spots in beds, but becomes invasive. Grey-leaved, velvety lamb’s ear bloom seeds fall out into the yard and take root. Oxalis spreads, too, so I was glad to share some with her. I may have to make new beds here and there; I’ve given plants away, too. They can be transplanted easily. Email me or go to my blog(s) if you want some.
A little history before this next graf: I always wanted a holly tree. So, when I married (the late) Mr. Laster, two of my women friends gave me one as a wedding gift. I planted it at the house we lived in—his late parents’ home. When the marriage didn’t take, he refused my plea that I get the new tree. So, once again, I had no holly tree.
Six years ago, when we moved to Couchwood, KB noticed a holly at a nursery. He “bought” it for me—perhaps it was my birthday. Or Mother’s Day. I planted it at the northeast corner of the house. But I made the common mistake of planting it too close to the foundation. Today, it strong-arms the nearby gardenia and azaleas. Once again to the pruning shears. #