Summer Evening

My garden is much neglected.  In the last couple weeks or so every time I decided it would be good to mow the back yard it would rain before I got home or the rain was imminent or it had just rained and mowing not such a good idea.  The perennial garden was a jungle with the fall blooming clematis and the trumpet vine taking over the the aged cedar arbor.  It is a bit unsturdy under the weight of the vines.   I pull out a  large number of milkweeds that have taken over places in the garden that I do not want them too.  Clear away enough trumpet vine so that the tall and bright Shasta Daises are out in the open and standing on their own.  I also pull out more milkweed so that the Stella D’Oro Lilies are also opened up.  The bees buzz around me angry at me removing the sweet clusters of pink flowers from their forage.  I had begun calling my garden Meg’s Jungle but just an hour or so of clipping and pulling and the Jungle is tamed, somewhat.

I love having a laptop because now as I sit on the veranda, shaded by the sycamore, the honey locust and the house, I am watching as a chipmunk cleans up the spilled black oil sunflower seeds under the bird feeder.  I listen to the gurgling coo of a woodpecker, and two chickadees calling to each other, one in the distance and one in the arbor vitae near the feeder.  I had left the Venezuelan handwoven hammock out in the heavy rain.  I laughed when I looked out at it when the rain was drenching.  It feels good to do such things, the same as it feels good to let stuff grow in my garden, just to see what may come of it.  I tell my Mom this, and she says she does the same thing, as it turns out so does my pirate.  It makes me grin hard to think of being this way.  In the sun and breeze the hammock has dried.  I lift it to smell it, the musty closed up in a closet for too many years smell is gone.  I know it was a good thing to leave it in the rain.  I smile as I smell it.  It smells clean and good, and it is none the worse for wear.

I drink a beer while my Mom reads, my own book The Wasp Factory by Iain Banks spread open on the table, put down for the disturbing images that leave the mind questioning.  My cousin, her husband and two beautiful daughters are due to arrive at anytime.  It is a beautiful evening.  I feel content.

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