DEVIL DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

...and I don't mean the creme-filled chocolate cake we used to stuff in our lunchboxes as kids.

I was going to enter a picture here, but how do you photograph heat? Other than displaying pathetic images of crinkled leaves and withering, drooping plants that are now just hanging on, waiting...waiting for some blessed relief from this relentless heat.

But, the weeds...the weeds are thriving. Usually about this time of the season, I'm lamenting bare spots left by spent perennials or pooped-out annuals. But...strangely...this year there's very little spots that are without some greenery. Theose patches of green, however, aren't the welcomed, late-season volunteer salvias or rejeuvenated pansies. Nope. Weeds. Lush, flowing, healthy, stoicly rooted and nearly impossible to pull from even the most parched soil.

Weeds are normally insideously loathesome. The way they seem to grow almost from the same point in the ground where sprouts a beautiful celosia, or clump of phlox or a verbena. They hide amongst them. Use them as shields to protect them from the watchful (most times) eye of this gardener. Their little weed brains hoping that perhaps I'll overlook them, pass them by as they crouch behind a stalk...a stem of a prized perennial or flowering annual.

But when weather conditions are so torturous and relentless upon my cultivated garden as they've been these past few weeks with this intolerable, unceasing heat, the weeds assume a different personna. (Everything in my garden has a personna. What can I say? I have this penchant for anthropomorphosizing just about anything. Including, obviously...weeds.)

This opressive weather emboldens them. Gives them courage to come out from behind that leaf or stem of coreopsis. They brazenly reach and stretch; waiving their flowering seed heads over my poor withering beauties. Flowering seed heads just waiting for the next rain, a sprinkle of the hose or tiny cloud burst to spew their prodgeny over my garden bed and set the stage for their next generation's plague upon my little patch.

I think, sometimes, as I wander the paths, bending, stretching, pushing aside nearly bare stalks of hyssop and mildewed phlox, I think I can hear laughter. Mocking. Giggling amongst the weeds. Like I said: anthropomophosizing means I not only characterize them...I can hear them as well.

"Here, here...We're over here! See us? Waiving at you? You can try and pull us, but we've been hiding and growing and sucking the life and whatever moisture there is out of the soil and starving your..your little beauties...for so many weeks now, we can't be moved. You can pull on a leaf, even dislodge a root hair or two. But we're stronger now. We'll win this time. Put away that hoe. Pocket that weeding fork. Wipe the sweat from your eyes and give the garden over to us this time. For now anyway. Till us under or hack us out come fall and toss us in the compost pile. But for now, we rule the beds. The garden is ours!"

As my glasses smear with sweat dripping from my hair stuffed into the wide-brimmed hat which shades my face but does little else to afford comfort, I sigh. Put away my pruners. Swat yet another mosquito from my leg and give unto Ceasar that which is Ceasar's. If Ceasar was a weed that is.

Before closing the door behind me and feeling that first gush of life-saving air conditioning from within the house, I can hear them again. Snickering. Cheering.

"Go ahead, laugh and smirk all you want. Your Ides of March are coming and that should be sometime around Labor Day. Beware. Beware. Bwaahaahaaa!",I remind them. Then like any good Roman citizen...I head for the baths.

Now where'd I put my toga?

LILIES OF THE FIELD

It's July and that means lilies in bloom. It means loads of other flowers bursting with brilliance as well. But, these lilies are especially attractive at the very center of the center bed in my garden. Can't for the life of me remember the name. They were a gift from the American Horticultural Society when I joined up about 8 years ago. I've just been calling them "AHS Lily". Seems appropriate.

The gigantic rudbeckias are in full glory as well. They've been volunteering for nearly 14 years. Haven't started seeds since then. I just love volunteers. Make gardening life so much easier. I always find it interesting and a bit frustrating that those seeds which germinate and forthcoming flowering plants, always seem so much stronger and bloom-filled than the ones I nurture inside my greenhouse. I think flowers respond better to tough love.

Probably the single biggest joy in gardening for me, aside from the creative aspect of it, isn't the newly discovered seedling or surviving prized perennial. It's the joy I find in the garden's other living inhabitants.The knowledge that many of them are there only because I've planted and designed such a hospitable environment for them in which to frolic, mate, set up nest-keeping and raise their broods.

It's extra satisfying to see the same (if not at least the same varieties) return year after year to do it all over again. Much like me. Except I'm sure they keep their nests cleaner than mine during the gardening season, seeing how most of my time is spent outdoors.

I keep hoping my cats will do the laundry, make the beds and prepare dinner. But, alas....they're kitties and kitties don't do housework. They eat and sleep and occasionally play and give back to me the same kind of rewards I get from that garden of mine. Peace, love, gentleness, serenity and sanity,

A NEW SEASON BEGINS

With the advent of the first real, gen-u-wine Spring we've had in ages, I've been throwing caution and my bad knee and hip to the wind and burying myself in the warming soil of my gardens. It's not a good day if I don't come in with at least some dirt under half of what passes for my fingernails and a smudged cheek or nose, clothes so dirty that I can't even put them with the other dirty clothes in the laundry and the iniability to lift my right leg to climb the garage stairs into the house. But even pain can give way to the satisfaction felt from having cleaned and prepped a new spring bed already sporting new life without any help from me.

Life can be good and even better when I'm allowed to while away a few hours on most days revelling in the solitude and respite of my garden. Marveling at the return of a late-entry perennial I put in the previous November when I was sure there weren't enough warm days and slightly warmish nights to help it establish roots and reward me in spring. Like this Celandine Wood Poppy, with it's bright yellow coins and oak leaves that was one of the first to greet me this year.

Seems each new season is begun with me forgetting just how very much it all means to me. It isn't just a new plant here and there, a load of mulch, or a steaming pile of black-gold compost awaiting. It's that. All of that. But, so much more. It's like a gigantic, impossible-to-swallow-pill that every therapist and analyst wishes they had at their disposal. It's my yearly fix and no matter what the side effects, (i.e. aches and god-awful pains sometimes) I still keep coming back for more. An incurable garden junkie I guess. With a resulting high of more pluses than minunses; more rewards than disadvantages. And always worth it.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

With some encouraging news on the health front temporarily abated, my endorphins are being allowed to come out of temporary shut down and kick my gardening enthusiasm up a notch. Oh, it's been there. Just relegated way down on my priority list these days.

In between doctor visits & tests, I did manage to start some seeds. Not nearly half as many as I would normally have begun at the end of a winter/beginning of a spring season. But, the few I seeded, germinated and are coming along. S-l-0-w-l-y... However. But then...so am I.

So now with those enhanced endorphins I can get back into my "Seed-Starting Chamber" (aka: my writing & craft room) and start those seeds that would be direct seeded this time of year. While I will probably wind up having to direct seed more than I usually do, there are some (if given the opportunity------and I have) I'd just as soon start inside. I can manage them better. Don't have to worry about turning on the hose to water them outside if we don't get adequate rainfall or bemoan the deer tracks galomping and stomping down freshly seeded areas. No...I'm a masochist. I'd rather go through all the trouble babying my little seedlings inside; hardening them off in a safe area (no greenhouse this year, remember?) and then planting them out so the deer can galomp and stomp larger seedlings!

I know these poor little sprouts will sometimes get crushed by numerous hooves because those hooves are only headed toward some plant further back in the border that's already leafed out and just happens to be high on the Bambi Buffet Menu. *Note to self: Maybe if I moved all deer delights up front, they wouldn't have to go so far into the beds and borders to get to the main course?* A thought.

Most of the beds and borders have been cleaned and spruced up. At least things look a little neater. There's some early spring color from the creeping phlox and yellow wood poppy. The old fashioned bleeding heart, which I transplanted a week ago is taking well and is sporting buds. As are the two huge buddleas, a white and a rather unsightly yellow, we moved two weeks ago. I wasn't particularly fond of the yellow. It has a completely different, more open, almost spindly growth habit and much smaller inflorescence. It's positioning was way to prominent, being foolishly originally and naively planted in the border too close to the front of the house and despite seasonal whacking back to the bare ground, still managed to dwarf its neighbors and block a portion of the view of the house. But, the bees and butterflies still liked it (coming in a respectable fourth to the pinks, purples and whites - in that order.) So, as with any plant that doesn't fit the bill for one reason or another, it never haphazardly gets tossed! Just moved to a more suitable location. In the case of the yellow buddleia "Honeycomb", it fell into my plant logic of: "If you make it where I put you, fine. If not...well, c'est la vie!" So far it's pushing new growth and holding its own in between one forty-foot oak and an equally tall pine. It's a duking of the roots for dominance. The best I can hope for it is that won't die. Sounds cold. But, that can be life in the Plant World.

Heck, life in my Human Health World of late has seemed a little merciless at times. But, I'm holding my own and with digging in my roots as well. We don't always work out where or how we intended. Sometimes all we need is a little repositioning and someone - or some Entity - to give us a second chance.

IT ONLY HURTS WHEN I DON'T LAUGH

I'm beginning to wonder if the reason I've been getting off "fairly" lucky these past few years without any major health issues (aside, of course from the usual arthritis, fleeting and not-so-fleeting bouts of depression and various and sundry accidents that have laid me up and out of action for awhile) is because it's all been accumulating...saving up...to whomp me all at once. For the Chinese, this is supposed to be The Year of The Dog. For this half Italian/half Canadian, 2006 is playing out as The Year of the Bitch all right.

If it were one thing to have thrown my system..my life..my priorities...out of whack, it'd be enough of an upheaval and adjustment. But it's two, two, two-physical ailments in one (as goes the old jingle).

There seems no way to begin at the beginning, because I'm already halfway into the second act and trying to bring any latecomers up to date is a bother. Not the fault of the dear reader. But my personal dislike and impatience at having to synopsize three months of aggravation, fear, anxiety, impatience and still unable to conjur up a more picture. For now, it's a jumble of scattered puzzle pieces that (at times) do seem to fit....only if I whack them hard enough however.

When I'm not crying, or wringing my hands in worry, staring off into space, or staying awake till all hours (like now, at 3:30am)...when I'm not doing any of those, I'm trying my best to keep busy with the whatever I can. "Whatever I can" usually pans out to be the more mundane. That which requires the least amount of grey-matter usage or anxiety which I don't need more of right about now. This is where my gardening and all the precursors that attend it (the seeding, coddling baby seedlings, prepping the soil, etc.) come in. Having been around the gardenig rodeo for over 20 years, much is done by rote, although it's still not easy. The effort I expend is more physical and creative. The physical I can handle if I pace myself and the creativity is like manna for a hungry woman. It's the juice or grease which lubricates the brain gears. Makes the real arduous use of those synapses, electrons and neurons in my system work at optimum speed and agility when I need to kick them up a notch in prep for another test, another bit of blood drawn, another doctor visit and another arduous sretch in yet another hospital outpatient waiting room.

In this particular instance and at this particular place and time in my life, gardening provides a welcome respite in which to lose myself. Albeit temporarily while coddling a cotyledon or weeding a bed for seeding, it gently nudges me and my cares down that garden path and off into another direction.

All I have to do is glance at my calendar and see the week of scheduled appointments ahead of me. But, for today, I'll check my garden calendar and see what seeds best be planted now and which of my temporarily heeled-in perennials in my back "nursery" bed are stretching their reborn arms and crying to be replanted. Gotta go. The "kids" are calling.