Not the most creative headline, but it is brief and straight to the point — and that’s what I’ll try to be in this post.
First, I want to thank everyone for their support and prayers. It has been a very long day of wind and very little rain here on Long Island. With each passing hour, the gusts have grown stronger. Each time, we hear the house creaking and the sound of debris hitting the windows.
Sandy’s opening gusts on Long Island.
Today is far from a beautiful day. Sandy is on her way, and Joe and I have packed up the yard and we’re now inside watching fall actually fall. Autumn foliage is falling like confetti now, as the first gusts of wind make their way to Long Island. Flocks of birds are racing for cover; squirrels are gathering their provisions. Even the air feels strange. Sandy is a tropical system, but the air is chilled, as the tropics crash into a cold front.
And that’s why I find it so ironic that I’m creating a post about beautiful things. I can think of so many things that are beautiful. Sunsets. Rainbows. Dahlias. Maybe even waves of blowing leaves on a gusty day. But something with the words “nitty” and “gritty” and “dirt?” No way.
Dogwood.
What has happened to raking?
I always remember raking as a communal event, one that involved most neighbors and all members of the family in some capacity. Give the neighbors a perfect autumn day, and they’ll give you one universal thought: “It’s cool and crisp and there isn’t a breeze – this is a perfect day for raking.”
Okay, maybe not in the entire world – but certainly in my world.
This is the first weekend where fall really feels like fall – as in leaf fall, temperature fall, and mood fall. As much as I would love to live in denial and believe that I can still put on a pair of shorts and sandals and play like it’s July, the cold front that came in last night has proven that the calendar is indeed correct.
Today was a day to begin cleaning up the fall.
The first order of business was to hack and dig the tropicals and prepare them for winter storage. The sensible voice in my head knew that this was a mercy killing, a necessary evil so that the canna and elephant ears may live to see another summer – at least in my zone 6/7 garden. But the emotional voice inside of me said, “Waaaaaahhhhhhh.”
Indian summer is like a woman. Ripe, hotly passionate, but fickle, she comes and goes as she pleases so that one is never sure whether she will come at all, nor for how long she will stay.
This is the quote that runs through my mind on any autumn day when summer-like temperatures breathe their last breaths – much like this past Friday when an October day, with its changing leaves and angled sunlight, seemed to conflict with the June-like temperature.
There is a certain sadness when I look about the waning October garden. So many blooms have faded and turned to seed; so many leaves have dulled.
And then there are the red hot flowers, looking a bit out of place and overly made-up amid the first flush of autumn’s golds and yellows and rusts.
Celosia — a few plants from last summer reseeded themselves for this year’s garden. Surprise!
And that’s when my imagination takes hold.
Clearly, I was mad about Madonna — but mad enough to save an issue of People?
In the previous post, I opened up what can only be considered my personal time capsule, a set of crates that held objects from my past. The last post ended with a reference to a list of songs scribbled on a piece of paper . . .
Some of the song names had been crossed out, so I think I must have been able to record them from the radio and onto a cassette — remember those? The photos on this post should give you an idea of what I listened to, but if you’d like more – here we go: Soft Cell, The Clash, The Ramones, Depeche Mode, Spandau Ballet, Romeo Void, Stray Cats, Adam & the Ants, Joan Jett, Duran Duran, Lene Lovich, Bananarama, Fun Boy 3 — and so many more. I walked a fine line between the New Wave and Punk genres, with a definite leaning toward all bands British.
Then there were the letters and cards – so many written words from a time when people actually wrote and mailed letters. I had to wonder what would possess me to hold on to all of this correspondence and as I reread them, I was struck by the energy and passion of the writers as they – we – were all on the verge of stepping into adulthood, all eager to make a difference, to have an impact on the world.
I know. This is a gardening blog and this post will not exactly be a gardening one – but I will try and find a connection. It may be a stretch, but it will be a gardening connection of sorts. Besides, how often can anyone say that they’ve had the chance to meet themselves – or at least their 20-year-old self?
In past posts, I’ve explained that there is a cement crawlspace behind a closet in my house. It’s my winter storage bunker for elephant ears and canna. What I never told you is that my perfectly dry and evenly cool space also holds some boxes and crates filled with my past.
I’ve always thought about cleaning things out, but whenever I’m in the bunker, I’m either loading or unloading plant materials – and gardening, like time and tides, waits for none. So, my past has remained undisturbed for the 25 years that I have lived with Joe.
Until the other day, that is, when a local cable guy arrived to rewire the house and I had to empty out the bunker – without the excuse of elephant ears and canna. My personal time capsule would, at last, be opened.
I’m a fraud. A fake. A pretender. And the proof is in the potting shed.
Yes, this is my jewel of a potting shed – the one that takes center stage in many of my photos, the place where I find peace in the middle of winter as I start my seeds, the backyard structure that allows me to believe that I have a Martha (no need for last names here) existence.
Clearly, though, nothing could be further from the truth.
I came to the realization long ago that I am not, no matter how hard I try, Martha-esque. I get dirty when I garden. I have a tendency to use every pot in the kitchen when I cook (although I now know to clean as I go). And I have been known to step on the prongs of a rake, sending the handle swinging up into the side of my head — on more than one occasion. But it’s the condition of this shed that really says, “You, sir, are no Martha.”
Black-Eyed Susan.
It seems fitting that after an interesting amd intense couple of days, I have to extend my thanks to a few people.
First up is Cheri, a WordPress editor, who selected my previous post about 9/11 to be Freshly Pressed. That means that my blog, for a few days, was one of the featured sites on WordPress — and the response, as you can imagine, was overwhelming.
That brings me to the other people I would like to thank. You. All of you. All 2,400+ readers and the 200+ who chose to follow this site. I cannot even begin to explain how much your comments and likes meant — and how absolutely moving your comments were. I’ve had the chance to “meet” people from all over the world, to read of their memories, and to visit other amazing blogs.
And now that the rush has fallen off, it’s time to get back into the garden. The September garden is an interesting place. Some plants are worn out and tired, while others appear to be putting on quite a show — like a fireworks finale. I’m not sure if the hint of cooler weather is rejuvenating their energy, or if they somehow know their end is near.
One thing is certain, though. All of the plants — and this gardener, as well — are ready for a chance to re-energize for the next growing season.
So, without further delay, here is a stroll through the garden and a look at the blooms from the closing days of summer.
Nitty Gritty Dirt Man 