The Last Hurrah of August 

Again, I find myself talking about the weather –

as most gardeners do – as do pilots and ship captains…

When one little spark can explode into an inferno of thousands of acres (Fact: the nearby Bear Gulch Fire is now at 9,342 acres and after nearly 2 months of burning, only 13% contained).

The world reaches a crescendo of extremes. We fight fires; we fight atrocities against humanity.

Rain.

Glorious August rain! Everyone stands a little taller. Ah – but it fell short. How much is enough? Certainly not a drizzle here and a drizzle there amounting to less than half an inch over the entire month. Not nearly enough to reach deep roots, nor even enough for the shallow hairs of annuals. Leaves opened wide in gratitude to capture what they could. 

(The less we have, the more thankful we are for what we receive.)

The weather undulates. We undulate with it in some kind of dance that whirls us around with the wind. I thought I heard some geese in the distance but cannot see them through hazy skies that blur the clarity of my thoughts and detract me from intentions. My mental to-do list is whisked away in a gust, and I am left a bit overwhelmed, knowing there are so many tasks I meant to do but am unable at this point to prioritize them. 

We seek refuge at the water

— tides that rise and fall in a predictable rhythm offer a stability in their incessant change. 

One day I found one of my drip lines stretched out into the field instead of wrapped around shrubs. Water was lightly spraying out the end. Someone had tried to bite through it and carry it away. Clearly, my two watering holes are not enough for our nighttime visitors.

Time to re-examine water availability and how to supply water with minimum waste – birdbaths, muddy areas for butterflies and bees, hummingbird feeders, small ponds, shallow dishes with stones, something dripping that then fills and drips into something else that then flows to thirsty plants… Slow it, sink it, re-use it.

The sound of water is an enchantment – it magnetically draws us all in. It calms, soothes, quenches. We sigh. And as the fluids run up and down through the trees, their branches reach out to offer a spot of shade and maybe even a bit of fruit to the passerby – and the leaves rustle ever so slightly in greeting — well, perhaps we are not so different, the trees and shrubs and I.

Yes, water is critical for wildlife right now – but so is shelter.

Shelter from this intense heat and later from the wind and cold: piles of sticks, dense brush and brambles, shady areas beneath shrubs and trees, hollows in the ground. A “messy” yard is only a degree of perspective. To me, it is a living yard.

We interrupt this stream of consciousness for an important announcement:

Mama peahen is teaching them how to survive… what to forage; where to hide; encouraging them to jump up on things. She is especially careful where she hides them at night. Soon they will be flapping their little wings and leaping up into the trees – and then be strong enough to make the journey to their winter quarters (assuming they all leave!) Mr. Peacock has already left. She has things under control. (Link to the full Peacock Chronicles

Plants Are at their Peak…

The pollinators are grateful for late-summer blooms: asters, black-eyed Susans, coreopsis, echinacea, hollyhocks, Joe-Pye weed, goldenrod, hollyhocks, lavender, pussytoes, sunflowers, yarrow, and more….  The evening primrose glows in the dark — or so say the moths.

I collect some of the seeds and leave others for birds. Some, like the lupine, I leave to self-seed on their own. Whisps of fireweed fluff float in the wind while their root runners spread underground. We will have fireweed in the spring.

Tiny evergreen huckleberries are ripening alongside the salal and mahonia/Oregon grape, forming a trio of friends bordering the property, with ferns and kinnikinnick at their feet. 

I paint a picture of peace and unity, but the reality is that periwinkle and mints are threatening to obscure them all – but a garden is a process, after all.

Why I Do Not Pick the Lavender

Or the Echinacea…

And I admit, once again, I have lost the battle on bindweed…

…but it teaches me perseverance. I cut back the stems at ground level and carefully untangle its twining vines. I am always surprised to see what still manages to survive – honeyberries, raspberries, entire rhododendron shrubs … nothing is too large for this plant to use as a ladder to the stars.

Sticky hops, savory herbs, purple-staining berries, and sweet early apples already falling to the ground… there is much to do besides clearing pathways to the center of the jungle.

Ah, but the air is heavy with the scent of catnip and hops – and I, under their spell, feel like sitting awhile and absorbing the essence of summer. 

It occurs to me — plants are magical in that they can make their own food. They capture the sunlight and turn it into sugars and starches. We heterotrophs cannot make our own food; we must always be killing something to survive. We are consumers. And as sapiens, we have figured out how to take that consumption to a level beyond need — feeding the greed that is sometimes misinterpreted for hunger. 

But for today –

–this last day of August – I feel a need to take a moment to take in the warmth and gentle breeze of all that I will want to remember in the months ahead.

Because I have found a cure for those times when the world feels like it’s just too much — too much hate, anger, and inequality; too much profanity, rudeness, and greed; too little respect; too little kindness; too much sadness – 

I step outside and take a deep breath – preferably barefoot before I’ve had my morning coffee. The plants cling to a layer of moisture left by a dense marine layer of the early morning. The air is thick with the scent of chlorophyll and ripening fruit. The birds are already busy calling to one another.  

I cautiously approach the nearby seaberry shrub, feeling the Earth beneath my feet while I wriggle my toes in the cold softness of the damp grass. I am drawn to its brilliant orange-yellow berries, so swollen with juices, knowing full well the tart explosion in my mouth will make me pucker and shudder and then reach for another and another … “Eat me. Distribute my seed,” it says. Indeed. (Thankfully, they are not invasive here). 

I avoid the stinging nettles growing beneath them, also knowing they will still get me because I never manage to sidestep them completely. There is a velvety soft purple goosefoot leaf growing next to a scratchy blackberry – and I marvel at all the different textures, colors, and ways of attracting and repelling in the plant world.