As I was out watering the other day I noticed something unusual. My snow drops are blooming, and the other spring flowers are coming up. It's lovely but I wonder what will happen to them in the spring.
The garden has been a bit neglected over the past few weeks, and it's times like this I wish I had an assistant like on the gardening shows. Every winter I have to fight back yellow clover. It's invasive and crowds out everything else if I let it. Well, needless to say, it has gotten quite a foot hold now and I will probably be fighting it all winter. Here you can see it starting to take over in the herb garden.
I have been hearing lately that we here in California are coming to the end of our luck water wise. If this winter is as dry as the past few years have been, we won't have enough water in the reservoirs to cover the summer demand. You know what that means.
My husband and I had an idea we thought was pretty good. Because of my hand limitations I use quick connects on my hose, etc. They are indispensable, and we found a way to make them even more useful.
I have soaker hose laid in the herb/rose beds and it works beautifully while keeping my water consumption down. The rest of the beds have no ready access to water for the soaker hoses, but if we lay the hoses any way and put a quick connect on the end, I can simply hook the hose up to it when I want to water. This way I can rotate watering the beds, save water, and be discrete - all without major excavation.
But you probably already thought of that.
I picked the pomegranates. They are wonderful! My little tree gave me just enough to fill my big basket and I will be making jelly.
I'm still harvesting tomatoes and peppers.
The Verbena has not faded one tiny bit.
The Lavender is all wild and happy.
My Bay Laurel an Holley are doing great. They have both grown quite a bit this summer.
- John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.