I like June. It’s a fresh month, the beginning of summer, full of hope and promise. I water the garden heavily (when it’s not raining) to establish the annuals and newly purchased perennials.
Then suddenly, June is gone. I start to panic. I haven’t begun a single summer project (however vaguely defined). So much to do and one-third of the of the summer is past.
And yet, two-thirds of the summer stretches in front of me. There’s still time for leisure. July is the height of summer. It begins with Blues Festival at the Waterfront (E’s favorite weekend) and caps off the Brewer’s Festival (my favorite weekend). The days are hot and languid. Nights are steamy.
Mentally I’m still on school schedule. Why does summer make so much a difference? I still go to work M-F 8-5 in a climate-controlled building. And yet, and yet, I respond viscerally to the longer days, more light, more heat. As much as we try to control our environment we can’t fully escape our connections to the seasons.
At least one summer project is mostly done: spiffing up the front porch. Never mind that paint is peeling on the overhang or the stairs are sagging (E promised to look at them before someone breaks a leg). We’ve hung a wooden sculpture the ‘rents (E’s, not mine) gave us. I bought a couple chairs and a few side tables and some plant stands. Yesterday we put together a bench. Except for the bright yellow recycling bin, the porch looks so much nicer now. I still want a little cabinet for storing garden tools and shoes that I like to keep on the front porch.
I’ve got some red and yellow lily bulbs to plant, and some crocosmia, summer flowering bulbs. Not sure where to put them just yet.