Hope in the summer
It was 105° in the shade in late afternoon. Could be worse. At least I don’t live in the same state as Greg Abbot, plus it’s hot there also. The grass is crisp and crunchy, and my nose is sweating as I saunter under a floppy hat to my forlorn garden.
My resolve to nurse the garden through this weather is equal to the determination of the heat, and I hope the panel of weather operators in charge can see in their hearts to give us a break. England has never been this hot, but have been regularly.
Mulch is the blanket of hope for struggling plants during July, so my floppy hat and I water the mulch. The soil beneath is doing the best it can, and plants respond to the soil, so I hope the soil vigor/heat trauma ratio is healthier than history.
My floppy hat arrives at the neighborhood of basil, and I notice the plants are holding firm and still green. They are not as tall as in other years, but they smell good as basil should, and there is the hope of a decent harvest in spite of the austere attitude of the panel of weather operators.
I don’t know the panel of weather operators at all and maybe their family lives are in turmoil or maybe they got locked out of the control room by an absent-minded custodian. What I know, though, is the unchecked thermostat knocked down a row of cucumber vines and a bed of melons which not long ago were green and groovy.
C’est dommage. Heat happens.
I also notice by the celosia patch a pepper plant looking strong like bull, and it had put on an actual pepper, a very hopeful sign. Bean vines nearby, however, had climbed the trellis but look a bit haggard with no blossoms. Yet, at the other end of that trellis were Suyo cucumber vines with tiny cukes not even two inches long, and their heritage indicates they might reach 18 inches or more if climate change will allow. And right in front of them were three hale and happy Aja Cachucha pepper plants and a spread-out petunia not to be denied by a silly heat wave.
These were hopeful signs, so I watered around all of them while my nose was sweating.
It dawned on me I was sweating because my microclimate had changed. The oppressive heat had been dry, not humid like this, and – lo, and behold – in the northwestern sky there were clouds, some with shades of aubergine like rain clouds. I wondered if the panel of weather operators had found the key to the control room. Could it be? Do I dare hope? Would it be wasted if I did my rain dance?
A rain dance is never wasted even if it does not bring rain, and after that I watered the mulch toward the lower end of the garden. Again, I found mixed results. Pepper plants were alive but did not look motivated, yet two of them were pepping! More hope in the middle of summer. On the trellis behind them were vigorous Armenian cucumber vines with blossoms and tiny cucumbers. “To heck with your heat! We’re Armenian!”
If you don’t know, Armenian cucumbers grow to 24 inches or more and they are so sweet you can use thin slices on a sandwich in place of lettuce. Plus, Armenia is also known for its pomegranates, apricots and Levon Aronian, one of the top five chess players in history.
But back to our friends, the aubergine clouds. Yes, indeed, a breeze shepherded them our way with thunder as a back beat, and this time my rain dance worked, so I did another dance in the rain. It was a blessing, but to be honest, I was hoping for more rain than we got.
All this hoping is making me tired. I need a vacation.