After the Rain

Sunday noon it rains, a straight-down no-thunder rain for fifteen minutes. When it stops, I spray on sunscreen, don hat, socks, and boots, and head to the garden.

Amid an earth-scorching heat wave, I haven’t gardened for two weeks. Last week, sun-deprived, I found a skylight in the air-conditioned Central College student lounge and soaked in sun.

The garden has been calling to me since we took our weekend guests on a walk-through yesterday. While I had been away, the weeds had been at play.

Today, choosing an area of dappled shade, I trim lemon balm to uncover the recently planted bergenia it is sprawling on top of. I cut off tall gone-to-seed hosta blooms, tossing all waste in a wheelbarrow.

It feels right to be back outdoors again, even to sweat. I pull crab grass, wandering Jew, and Burr Oak seedlings. Was this area once an Oak Savannah or is there a better prairie term for it?

To keep or not to keep the false oregano? It’s such a striking purple contrast—and so invasive. I pull it from the border, but leave it in the rest of the bed.

I trim back the Missouri primrose, dying and full of holes where late June they bloomed buttercup yellow.  Soon the tiny starters will peek through, preparing for next June.

The barrow full, I wheel to the compost area, dump the contents, and start weeding the edge of the bed right there. I loosen the dandelion roots with my digger, then slowly ease them out. They can rejuvenate from just a quarter-inch of root, I’m told.

The invasive chameleon I hid with newspaper and mulch before the June garden tour, is peaking up at the edge and close to the hostas.

I look at the stubborn chameleon, and beyond it to an entire backyard border overdue for grooming, and the pendulum shifts. What has been play now looks like work.

I head for the house and remove boots, socks, and hat. I pour myself a glass of cool water.

In air-conditioned comfort, I open my laptop and play in second place on this Sabbath afternoon: in the garden of words.