“Oh, look,” whispered the sweetest of voices on the slightest of breezes each night when I stepped outside. “We have created enchantment here.”
I thought I was alone, but the powdery scent of perfume had me thinking otherwise. The voice was quite feminine, I imagined, and absolutely southern — dripping with refined charm and long, slow vowels.
I know. I know. This was supposed to be the on-the-road post, the one where I post a picture and you write the caption and Joe and I drive back to New York. The car, though, had other plans and is now sitting in a repair shop — which means the you-do-the-writing post 
will have to wait.
As will we — waiting for our car and for the arrival of Saharan dust. Yes, you read that correctly. A cloud of Saharan dust is making its way to South Florida. Forecasters say the most noticeable effect will be a milky, hazy sky — nothing blue about it. All I know is that it’s a little something extra to make the heat feel hotter. I guess you could say it’s a dry heat, and how often can that be said in Fort Lauderdale?
So what should a couple of disheartened travelers do on a clear, dust-free night? Take a walk, of course.
My plan was to have a post featuring the blooms of the waning days of summer. With camera in hand, I captured bees tending to their chores on a day that felt more like July than September. If you could see their bee faces, I’m sure they were aglow with autumn joy.
Then, in a matter of hours, a cold front roared through. The clouds thickened and darkened, the wind grew stronger, and fat drops of rain splattered everything. And all the while, the temperature plummeted — so much so, that by sunset, it felt like late October. When I looked out of a window, I saw the last canna bloom (was that a shiver?) glowing. I again grabbed the camera, this time to capture the canna’s last stand — and I was blown away by the vividness of color.
A few of the old standbys: a faded Hydrangea (take that Madonna!), Liriope spikes, Coleus “Tartan,” and a Caladium close-up.
The Sunflower Sisters, one streaked with orange, the second like a faded version of the first, and the third looking more like celestial eclipse.
Finally, another glimpse of “Autumn Joy” Sedum. The bees were probably in a state of suspended animation at this hour and temperature.
My late-night expedition into the garden was a wonderful way to close-out summer. (Note to self: Next year, don’t wait until the end of summer for a nighttime photo shoot.) Looking back on this growing season, it was exciting to enter the blogging world and to share my life and garden with you. I appreciate greatly all of the comments and encouragement. Now, it’s time for cleaning up, digging and storing tender bulbs, protecting terracotta pots, and the never-ending raking — in other words, the joys of autumn.
I’ve noticed that many bloggers post a “Wordless Wednesday” each week. Try as I might to follow the rules of widweek alliteration, I cannot not use words.
A few posts ago, I wrote about a community garden, The Common Ground, in Sayville, NY, because it is home to a labyrinth garden and truly represents what a community garden can and should be.
Recently, I had the pleasure of returning to The Common Ground, this time to see another, more musical side of a community garden. Our friend plays saxophone with the Atlantic Wind Symphony, the oldest fully professional concert band on Long Island. This photo is the view from my lawn chair. It was a beautiful night, much needed after an earthquake and a hurricane. The band entertained the crowd with marches, standards, show tunes, and popular music. For me, the highpoint was a military set, with a song from each of the branches. Before the set began, the conductor asked veterans from each of the branches to stand up when their particular song began. To see these men and women, of all ages, stand for their branch and be recognized was quite emotional.
And that is the beauty of a community garden — the simple idea of feeling connected not only to the land but to people, to a commuity.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 