Last week, I spent days digging weeds out from around the my trees. I then hauled mulch to each tree and carefully created the “donut hole” to keep the cedar mulch from touching the trunk.
That was last week. Today is Monday and as I walked around my trees, what do I find? Weeds. Growing through the fresh mulch.
So here I am again, pulling weeds that by rights shouldn’t be there. Is gardening frustrating? No doubt. But so is everything else, or so it seems.
Take this blog, for example. When I try and key words into the paragraph blocks, the screen flips back to the top of the page, so I can’t see what I’m keying. It’s never done that before, What gives, Word Press? Is it me? Is it you?
And I keep getting the “WordPress.com is not responding” message, so have to recover the page. Meaning I have to keep saving or simply plan on losing it all. When I start a new paragraph block, it takes a while for the “type words here” message to show up. Like 30 seconds or even more.
I have a lot more to say about weeds, but not here and now. Oh well, maybe I’ll figure this out.
I keep thinking about the old IT staff joke about PICNIC. Problem in Chair, not in Computer. It’s probably me. Help!
Guess I’ll save my discussion of weeds for another time. Anybody else having a Word Press problem?
We got out early this morning to water the baby trees, and found cottonwood tree leaves in the lawn. Okay–let’s call it what passes for lawn at my house.
The cottonwoods lose about half their leaves between mid-July and mid-August. Maybe more if it’s been a dry year. For me, it’s the start of Autumn.
According to the “old” calendar, Autumn begins on August 2, cross-quarter between the Solstice (June 21) and the Equinox (September 21), when the days shorten perceptibly. Just as February 2 is the start of Spring, when the days lengthen perceptibly.
Of course, it depends on where you live.
And here, thriving in the ashes of the burn pile, are morning glories. Glorious this morning.
If you’re gardening today, I hope the weeds are few and the rain is just right.
Here’s a tree that’s doing well despite the lack of rain. It was here when we arrived–almost two decades ago. It looks like and grows like a maple, the leaves turning bright yellow in fall, with roots above the ground and lots of suckers needing to be cut.
We’re promised rain later today, and the radar shows us covered in green. Fingers crossed.
I went out back yesterday, and in addition to experiencing the ridiculous heat index of 100 plus degrees Fahrenheit, I experienced dismay at seeing cottonwood tree leaves. Yellow and on the ground. My six-year-old trees, stressed to the max, and it’s only mid-July. Darn.
Cottonwoods, native to the Midwest, typically lose leaves in late summer or early fall. Or when it’s extremely dry or unusually hot. No, it’s not late summer. But the heat and lack of rain has caught up with the trees. They’ve shed about 10 percent of their leaves, which helps the tree survive. All the extension office websites I checked agree that the trees aren’t in danger. Yet.
Is there a lesson in that? For me? For you? For the country?
I’m at that point with my work in progress (WIP). Time to chalk it up as a bad experience, lessons learned, and move on. Maybe I’ll give up writing altogether–or so I tell my fabulous editor/coach.
No, no, no, she emails back. You’re closer than you think.
And while I’m cogitating, Jim asks me what I want to do with the ‘old tree out back’. This poor thing was a 40 foot cottonwood that has been here since before the acreage was divided and the house was built some 30 years ago. It’s been dying a slow and painful death since we moved in. This spring, Jim cut the tree down and left the stump.
I thought we’d poly it and use it as a garden seat. I neglected to say the words out loud to Jim, and he left it be. As you see, the tree persists in being something. Not the cottonwood it was. Maybe a cottonwood bush. And surrounding the stump are little trees popping out of the grass. Like so.
I have this notion that I should be able to write three or four novels a year. And I have, but not different books. I’ve rewritten the same book, three times going on four.
Now here I am, at the start of the second year, deciding whether to persist. Have I learned to be more tree-like?