Monday, June 09, 2008

It's raining, it's pouring...

and my new Christmas jacket is as advertised. Yahoo! and also Hooray!! as there has had to be serious planting at The Poppa's house.

I grew up on the Island. I am used to, and even like, rain. I don't like being wet. When I came down in November to hang out with #2 Nephew, I realized that, after 23 years, my outdoor wardrobe was no longer Island-able. Wool jackets are great in the dry snow of the Interior but smell like wet sheep (in a bad way if one's jacket was made in Russia as this one was) and weigh about ten additional kilos when exposed to a proper West Coast rain. The beach walks I had looked forward to went from several to one because not only did it rain, it also snowed West Coast snow and then froze. It was an interesting time. Side note: Agnes and I were apparently the only ones out with proper snow/winter tires as we were not in the ditch and not all over the road. The Interior is good for some things such as winter preparedness and wine. And peaches. And summer nights with the nighthawks zinging by like bullets and sleeping under sweet nothing because it's "too darn hot....."

Ahem... the jacket works and the annual beds are planted and the Digitalis purpurea I have been sneaking into my father's garden (he's not fussy about them having used them as wasp traps as a kid until he and the wasps found out that stingers worked through flower trumpets) are quietly filling in corners of the perennial bed my mother and I made out of the old veggie garden (and a *%$$ of a lot of grunt work). The sage plant that used to anchor the "new" (circa 1980) herb bed has finally given up the ghost and I was charged with getting a new one because, according to Poppa, there has to be sage for Christmas. He now has two varieties which are planted in the midst of the burgeoning parsley bed. I didn't know parsley would make a bed but if one doesn't keep ahead of it and lets it go to seed, it will make a bed and then one has to dig up perfectly good parsley plants (I could have done quite well at the farmers's market - hmmm, wondering: is that a market of farmers or for farmers??? - if I were going to be here. Don't grief me out about the "s's" - I like it and it's my writing place. If you want to write your own and slag me off, go right ahead.) and (just in case you thought I'd forgotten what I was doing here) repot, replant or sling 'em onto the compost just so there will be sage for stuffing at Christmas. All you East Coasters who do savory can stop rolling about laughing!

So: it's June, the annuals are planted, the fuchsia basket for my mum is done. It sure won't look like the link for a while but I remembered the colours from my childhood and sneakily squeezing the flowers to pop them open... I know.... I was peculiar... but I put it to you: put an eight year old in front of a fuchsia - do you know how hard that word is to type???? - plant and there will be blossom squeezing just to see the pop!

And it's raining. Everything here is blooming late, late, late and I will be taking home (in JUNE mind you) an armload of paeonies to fill up the house with the scent and lusciousness that they are. My grandfather's "pinks" - the ones my mother, his daughter-in-law moved twice, will be blooming for my father when he comes back on Friday. Nobody left knows where the columbines came from but they are present as are the daylilies and iris Mum and I replanted in 2000. The crocosmia Dad and I bought at the market almost two years ago on the Saturday between her death and funeral has about a zillion new shoots. I think she will be pleased. The Sr Boy is glad he is not here in the rain.

There are so many different colours of green out this window.

Still breathing......

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home