The frost advisories of fall have begun, so there may not be much time left for this year’s garden. I’ve purged all but one of the containers because most had become partial casualties of repeated late summer and early fall heat waves. What is left is more stalwart, petunias planted in flower beds and echinacea that offered a surprise late blooming.
The nights have gotten chilly. I may need to turn on the heat in the house this week. I am ready for the cold, as long as it doesn’t get too harsh. Last night I woke up in the middle of the night and felt chilled enough for a second blanket. I have longed to be just a little cold, as if I need that chill to settle into my bones for just a little while.
The construction phase of the yard sidewalk project is now done. The crew took an entire month to finish this job, but a small percentage of this month represented actual work. I have been stewing in irritation over that fact all the while. I admit that the majority of this anger was irrational, but I did not appreciate the time of their actual work at all. For example, I had just three days of true vacation this summer. Of course they did 60% of this project’s labor during those three days.
I could vent on this matter more deeply than is healthy for me or my readers. My enthusiasm for this project has been indifferent at best, and I feel selfish that I haven’t been more supportive of something that is important to my husband. Why is it that I can’t just be smooth in enduring things that don’t interest me but matter to someone I love? Why did I have to be the mom who was secretly relieved that my child quit band?
The garden is enduring the late summer heat. This weekend I pulled some of the flower pots. They hadn’t fared well with the contrasting heat and rain of this past month.
The hibiscus bush is blooming at a different pace this year compared to the last two years. While it had a mass flowering in July and October during those years, this year it hasn’t stopped blooming since it started.
This weekend we received some much-needed rain and cooler temperatures. The turn in weather bore hints of fall, which I would whole-heartedly embrace if not for the turmoil I feel within when thinking of what fall may hold for us this year. It’s no good to consider the future with worry over what could go wrong, but that’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m terribly worried that we’ll have another school year that my daughter will barely tolerate. I keep telling myself that it’s utterly counterproductive to think in such a way, that worry improves the future about as well thought alone can make the hands of a clock move faster.
Last week I read Dicken’s A Tale of Two Cities for the very first time. I’ll try not to spoil the plot for those of you who haven’t read this classic, but I will mention that there is a poignant reverie wherein one of the characters imagines some glorious aspects of a future that stretches across several generations. Perhaps it is not natural for anyone to think so far into the future, but I found that I could not or would not think more than two to three years into the future. To look any further seems like delving into a choose-your-own-adventure where the choices seem impossible to make.