I woke this morning sleepily conscious of something different. A cool breeze was blowing through the window. For days I have been planning to write about heat. Relentless heat. Sticky heat. Air so thick it is almost a physical barrier, making one move slowly. For a month I have spent almost all my time indoors, deprived of nature. The heat makes me dream of Maine, where we go tomorrow. Cool sea breezes, salt air, the scent of balsam fir on a shaded woodland path. Piles of blankets. Sweatshirts! Skies that are clear blue, not white with heat and ozone.
My poor garden lies abandoned, a sea of wilting green. Here's how it looks this August.
I used to think the garden's appearance in August reflected badly on me as a gardener. But I notice most gardens around town look the same. Too many days of 90-degree plus heat and summer dryness for plants to do much more than survive.
Here's the same garden in May.
I grew up in Michigan. Each year by mid-February we became restless after months of snow and cloudy skies and cold. During the school's mid-winter break, everyone took off for Florida, desperate for warmth and sunshine. In the South, I have the opposite experience. Each August I become crazed with the desire to go North, tired of hiding from the noonday sun and the mosquitoes that make the cooler morning and evening hours intolerable.