Last night Skipah and I were chattin about our Hoosierland gardens, although commiseratin might be a better verb choice.
The spring was too wet, too cold, and too late for gardening standards. If you read me in the spring, then you know that I got sick of the rain, which is no small thing.
Seeds got washed out, displaced, stifled, drowned…
Couldn’t till new beds…
Onions all molded…
It occurred to me that I could quite possibly sow some things now and have a crop, or in some cases, another crop, come fall. If this summer’s heat is a hint, we may well have an Indian summer — I say this casually, vernacularly.
This here summer is one of the summeriest summers I can recall. Right now, we’re in the midst of the dog days of summer, evidenced by the sound of dog day cicadas round the clock. I’ve always thought of them as a warning system, myself. They’re much more honest about it than the meteorologists, who smile while they talk about 91 degrees and sunny like anyone ever wanted to hear that.
How hot is it?
It’s Georgia hot.
I can’t breathe my breath.
Oh My God, Imma spontaneously combust.
I need a hat.
Well this is just downright unnecessary.
Is my face on fire? My face is on fire, isn’t it?
101 felt like 109, they said. Whatever day that was, my straightening iron laughed at me. Maybe I wanted to look like a muppet until the rain came, you don’t know.
“Much better today,” they say, “Only gonna get to 91 today,” they say, with that same sadistic fucking smile.
So while I think about planting another section of basil, taking a third swing at the lavender, second sowing pickle cukes for a late crop…while I think about tilling and planting echinacea and coneflowers midsummer, hoping they’ll flower and re-seed this fall…y’all know I ain’t gonna work out there when it’s like this. I can barely stand to sit on the porch at dusk. Too hot to do anything but sit in the shade and think about what you would do if it wasn’t ungodly hot. I sit so still, it’s a wonder the vines don’t grow right over me. Maybe they don’t like deet.
Hand to God, that medication label told me to avoid sunlight, so I can’t weed right now.
I heard tell it’s supposed to be coolish and wettish next weekend. We’ll see.
What’s the weather like there? Can you hear cicadas? Are there vines growin up yer porch?
SoCS ‘second’ is brought to you by the always cool LindaGHill