Late Summer

Morning Glories, bee balm, and daisy-like flowers; Deb Marshall photo

The garden, this time of year, is a magical place. The Chinese have five seasons to our four: the fifth is called Late Summer, and when it starts can vary from year to year, and how long it lasts can also change. It sets between Summer and Fall, and it’s here when every growing thing is at its richest, and ripest, and fullest; when the fruits are sweetest, the pumpkins big and glowing, the beans bursting their shells, the sunflowers at their tallest and turning their heads down, away from the sun, in the heaviness of their ripening  seeds. It’s the moment in the year when the seasons hesitate and, if we’re very lucky, doze along for days, or weeks, or maybe even a month or two. In Late Summer we can taste the richness of the work the earth has been doing since Spring. In the heat of the sun, we can still taste Summer; in the tang of coolness in the breeze, we can feel the bite that will come with Fall.

In Summer our hearts are aflame with warmth and growth and joy; in Fall we taste minerals in the foods that are swinging past their prime, and our hearts feel the bittersweet pang of sadness. The world will slow even further, and give us, who live in the northern circles, a violent blaze of joy and pain to fill our eyes and noses with the glory that can occur with the world’s ultimate descent into death, and cold, and quiet.

Three weeks ago I saw the first red leaf; since last week, one maple on the edge of the front 40 has sported a blazing branch of autumn glory. The peaches grew heavy and began to fall from the tree; we’ve had a basket of them on the dining table, perfuming the air and making breakfast a special treat. We’re down to the last few, now; many have been frozen, two peach and basil galettes made and consumed, and the Husband and I keep moving the last remaining peaches about in the kitchen, hiding them from each other as they reach perfection, hoping to be the one who gets the last, perfect bite. Truth is that guilt will set in and whoever cuts the last peach will reluctantly share it with the one we love most – and I’m not talking about the Barkie Boys.

Scarlet Runner beans; Deb Marshall photo

 My garden, because of the way it’s situated, becomes a secret fairyland when late August arrives. The peach tree stretches out luxuriously over two pathways so one has to duck below it to pass from one area to the next. The oatgrass that took over one brick path has finally released its grip so I can clear that path, but the sage – which is more a bush than a plant, now – brushes legs on that path, and covers part of the path on its other side. The sunflowers are tall and thick, and their heart-shaped leaves are huge, something else to duck under or push open to travel from one part of the garden to another. Scarlet runner beans cover nets and form not only a screen on one side, but an arch, and the pathway under the arch has been taken over by an invading butternut plant, rogue marjoram with its purple flowers, and a daisy-like plant that I didn’t plant but which has spread itself from the back fence row. On that back fencerow, beebalm, marjoram, and the unknown daisy are all nearly 4 feet tall and the Jerusalem artichokes, which have yet to bloom, are over my head.

Catman’s main catnip patch is busily sending out new babies, and I’m having a hard time keeping up, weeding them out. The main patch is also 4 feet tall, in spite of his twice-daily ministrations. The far end of the garden is partly bordered with raspberry canes which have become a jungle this summer, and the fall berries are beginning to ripen. Blueberry bushes, finally all finished ripening, are beginning to turn a vibrant scarlet. Some weeds I allow to sprout yearly are tall and in bloom – yellow and pink and purple – and orange calendula and California poppies wave in the breeze, knee-high, and multicolored nasturtiums climb and crawl and stretch everywhere. Pink and purple morning glories have covered the back fence and climb the bee balm, Jerusalem artichokes, marjoram, and some sunflowers. Love Lies Bleeding drips its elegant long red tresses down to the ground, countered by its cool green cousin across the way. Carrots, and parsnips, and parsley root, and beets wave their tall tops in amongst the other plants.

In the center of the garden; Deb Marshall photo

In the very center of the garden – if you can figure out how to get there – is an open space, with extra compost bins, bird bath, and the solar-powered ball-that-changes-colors in the night. From that spot – oh, that spot! – you can see all the colors, hear Buzzy Boy the hummingbird singing his war song at all invaders, hear the drone of bees on all sides. The bees, and the butterflies, fill the garden, and follow the long-reaching limbs of the buttercup squash plant up and over the resting compost bin and into the yard. The resting compost bin is not really resting this summer – it’s filled to overflowing with volunteer tomato plants and a long tendril of the buttercup.

Finally the few tomatoes that set this year are beginning to color; and the beans, except for the runners, have been picked and pulled. There’s great satisfaction in harvesting the last of some vegetable: To the compost! Become food of the earth! I say cheerily to the plants as I pull them up and admire the nitrogen balls on the bean plant roots, and tuck them lovingly into the working compost bins. The green, yellow and purple beans are mostly done, as are the purple-speckled shell beans;the potatoes are dug, and most of the onions have toppled over and been pulled, braided together to hang from a peg in the kitchen to dry and be used through the fall. My freezer slowly fills: lots of zucchini and summer squash and beans, a few tomatoes and bags of corn, all destined to be turned into breakfast soups every week through the winter.

Pink runner beans, the daisy-like flower, and marjoram; Deb Marshall photo

In the very center of the garden – if you can figure out how to get there – in its open space, the sun is warm and the breezes usually don’t reach it. The ground is covered with a deep layer of straw mulch on deep layers of newspaper and cardboard to battle the grass that still finds a way to poke through here and there. In the very center of the garden, if you sit in the mulch near the birdbath, you can see that the critter hole that opened under the French peas earlier in the summer has been filled in, and a new hole opened amongst the fava beans. You can lie back and see the faces of the tall sunflowers. You will notice that you’re surrounded by the hum hum hum of bees: in the catnip, scarlet runners, beebalm, sunflowers, poppies, calendula, squashes, sage flowers…

Sage flowers; Deb Marshall photo

In the very center of the garden – if you can figure out how to get there – in its open space, Buzzy Boy will come to see what your’e doing. Catman will sashay through, eyes blinking in the sunlight, tail waving. The Barkie Boys will circle the garden, not sure how to reach the center. Biscuit will stare at you from under the raspberry canes, bright eyes all that can be seen in the shade all around her. You will hear the breeze ruffle the peach tree leaves. The sun will sink into your limbs. You will sink into the earth. You will become part of Late Summer, and when you doze, the dreams you dream will be magical.

In the very center of the garden – if you can figure out how to get there – all will be well; all will be well; all manner of thing will be well.

For the blog, August 31, 2017

Morning glories, catnip, sunflower leaves; Deb Marshall photo