I fully intended to come home this windy, rainy Friday afternoon to be the backyard gardener, and at least heft the wheelbarrow-full of grass clods to the compost area. It rained too much today and I feel married to my warmest long black pullover wool sweater as well as to the prospect of settling in for the new episode of Madame Secretary with leftover pulled pork this evening. I am, like my cat, settling in.
It’s just too wet to get out there and lug clods around. The grass clumps I piled high in the wheelbarrow a few days ago, when it was sunny and warm, are defiantly growing where they are. “Watch us,” they leer, “we’ll just be weeds right here.” And the pile on the ground by the wheelbarrow answers, “Us, too!” Somehow their attitude comes through — in the spiky way the grass blades perked back up after pulling — radiating out of the root clumps, green and vigorous.
The grass I didn’t get to in the circular garden is smirking. I can read the thought balloons, “She’ll never get to us. We’re gonna go to seed…”
Really I shouldn’t care, but I bought two heirloom tomato plants that are eager to get in the ground: They’re already blooming in their peat pots and don’t make good bonsai.
I will be able to enjoy the buds on the flowering cherry, the onions going to seed and flowers on the Meyer lemon when I can get the piles and pounds (tons?) of sod out of the way, properly composting and giving back the nitrogen and nutrients it took.
Meanwhile, some more blustery chill makes the evening feel wintry. The weather app claims it will clear up tomorrow morning.