Sometime later in October
...of my late geraniums, the headiest and longest lingering set of potted geraniums I ever remember having, but a storm came. Finally. All desperate for rainwater, we cannot complain, although asking for your thirst to be quenched and getting a bucket dumped on your head are not the same things. You don’t quite know what hit you or why it did or maybe you didn’t phrase your request properly. I don’t remember what it was that I made myself attend to: Getting to work on time? Cleaning the sink? Making the bed? But I do recall wanting to take a picture of my beautiful geraniums. And what elicits a sigh more than putting something off and too lately realizing that THAT was the most important thing you would have done that day? I did save the parsley – sort of. I always grow more than I can use, chop it down and out of guilt try to save it. This time I stuffed a huge bunch in a big pitcher of water, but all I ‘had time for’ was one tabouli salad so when the parsley eventually yellowed I again acted out of guilt and composted it. It was the least I could do. Last season, I snipped it into ice cube trays filled with broth to use in winter soups, but consistently forgot the bag of cubes entombed in the freezer. More waste, more guilt, more domestic neglect. My favorite from the kitchen herb garden is the pineapple sage – nature’s Juicy Fruit – I snipped it, bundled it and hung it upside down to dry. I like to put it in my winter teas. At least I always mean to…
The first week of October
...is what most of my gardening has now been consolidated to, the high maintenance annuals allowed to atrophy making it less painful for me to return their remains to the earth and the perennial beds left to their own devices. With school in session and less abundance of daylight, my plants futilely awaited me, like children drooping in their darkened bedrooms hoping for one more drink of water. I must care for what I can care for, and no more, whatever apology it may bring. I have inserted pots of mums in five colors to act as escorts in an attempt to cheer us on until the coldness comes. Record temperatures and lack of water confuse us all – my plants and me. The lavender has bloomed again in the loose, powdery earth, not knowing what else to do and the pumpkins are prematurely softening before their big day. My red geraniums now clustered on the back steps below an aging oak are disturbed by acorn-seekers. Soil is flung about; I scoop it up as best I can and pat it in again, reassuring my beauties, “there, there, now Lady Geraniums, try to keep your heads about you.” They whisper their wisdom to me. The diminutive alyssum does not jealously wish to be bigger than the geranium and, in turn, the geranium’s pride does not bully the delicate nature of the alyssum. The white alyssum simply spills out of the pot because it can, while the geranium must keep her elaborate coiffure propped up with strong elbows. To be sure, nature has its dastardly doers (poison ivy), its cunning tricksters (Venus Flytraps) and opportunistic squatters (weeds), but here in my pots, there is some containment, some control. Company clusters together for the waiting, waning times. Pot therapy.
