Signs of Summer

I think summer is here and not just because it was hotter today. I went down to the beach for my first after-dinner sunset walk this evening. I don't think I've done that since last fall. It was after 7:30, and it was still balmy with a lovely breeze.

Here are the signs of summer:

• people clinging to the beach; wanting just a little longer before packing things up, washing off feet, heading back inside for the night.
• a kid crying because of the above 
• a red-necked man, with white legs and a generous belly, out on the balcony leaning into the sunset, perfectly still, relieved for the moment from the busyness of life. 
• a tall, muscular man, wading in the edge of the water with a 2-ft. little person in a pink-striped romper attached to his index finger - the look of terror and joy on the little person's face.
• a limp kite, half buried in the sand beside a sand-bucket castle slowly eroding into the tide.
•  adolescents walking hand-in-hand, hopelessly in love and lust
• jellyfish, who traveled here to die at Emerald Isle, rolling up and back with the waves.

What a night. What a sunset. How did summer come so quickly?

Chili Red

Ok, I always write about gardening. I'm obsessed: I know. But I ask you, who, among you, could resist a chili-red flowering plant named "Carlos Lantana"? I kid you not.

I think I can hear the percussion already.

Waiting

These are the days which try my soul. My countless seeds, so carefully, not-too-deeply planted into soft, ready soil keep me waiting and watching.

Oh, I'm grateful for those eager, early germinators, who poke their tiny leaflets through the dirt almost as soon as they hit the ground. But then there are those more reluctant ones; hedging their bets for more warmth and moisture. Oh, they are too slow!

And then there are those - too many -  who simply fall asleep where they lay, and never bother with the seemingly arduous task of germination at all. Why, oh why? Do they not see their potential?

That's only the half of it. I've just returned from yet another morning perusal, and there they are - tiny zinnias and marigolds, bachelor buttons and globe amaranth - leaflets as fragile as air. They seem stuck forever in their infancy.

I have a vision of strong stalks and heavy heads of riotous colors. I see flowers so resilient they bend to our endless winds, but never break and with determination and some mysterious fortitude bear their flowers until frost. How will these pale upstarts ever make it and when? It seems the impossible dream.

Lord, I am too impatient for gardening. If looking could wither, my seedlings would be dead. I'm out there every morning, doing my part. We even had rain this week. Waiting is agony. Instant gratification where art thou?

Love on the Beach

You have never truly experienced love until you have been leaned upon and kissed by a 100+ pound yellow lab who has been retrieving an old shoe from the ocean all afternoon.

Ed Camp's Gardenia

I began this day with something beautiful and a happy memory to go with it.


I knew Ed Camp from the Farmer's Market in Polk County, where I used to live. Ed was a sweet and lively old fellow, both wiry and resilient. He was a Polk County native. He had lived the history of the county, and he loved to entertain the market regulars with his colorful stories.


His first job was trapping muskrats in the creeks and selling their pelts. He worked in the Pacolet Valley vineyards, back when locals sold grapes to tourists when the train stopped in Tryon. He was a mill worker and served as a local constable - the source of many of his entertaining stories. He served in the Army during World War II, but returned home to Polk County to live out the remainder of his long life.
  
It would be accurate to say that Ed was the heart of the Farmer's Market. He came for its struggling beginning and rarely missed a Saturday, though he was in his 80s. He sold home-made apple butter, which he cooked in his oven overnight, and he always had a few plants to sell, cuttings which he had rooted from the plants in his yard. He sold a few things, but I think he primarily came to market for the fellowship. He gave away his laughter and his stories for free, and he was more than likely to slip you a little jar of apple butter for free as well. If he met a stranger, he remedied that situation in short order.


He called his gardenias "old fashioned." I don't know the name of the cultivar, but it's a good one. We brought one of his rooted cuttings with us when we moved. Last year, it grew a fine healthy shrub, but not one flower. This morning, as I was out with my coffee for the garden walk-about, I thought a piece of white paper had caught on the gardenia. Oh, no, there instead was this magnificent blossom. I don't think I've ever seen one like it, or one so beautiful. Gerry thoughtfully planted the bush next to the screened porch. It's covered with buds, so we will be enjoying its sweet fragrance as we sit outside.


We made a sign for Ed for his birthday one year - "Ed's Garden Spot: Famous Since 1924". He loved it and displayed it with his market goods every week. We don't have a sign, but I'm happy to say that dear Ed's garden spot is blooming away in our back yard. I'm happy for the lovely flower and the sweet man who gave it to us.


The best plants in the garden are those that come with a story about the person who gave it to you.