Stalled Summer

Sometime in mid-July I was gifted a little variegated Hosta that was starting to struggle in its home environment, so I planned to make it part of my peace garden project, to find a spot where it could flourish.

I took it out of the truck, set it in the wood chips on the east side of the front porch, and it sits there as I type.
Because we’ve had a. lot. of rain, and because it’s conveniently located next to the hose, which is conveniently located to anyone going in or out of the garage, to or from the barn, and up or down the driveway, the plant gets watered frequently and enjoys a healthy dose of morning sun daily.

But it must be strongly rooted in some soil of serious sustenance, because even in this minimal maintenance mode, after all these months, it is still hale and hearty, bright and unblemished by deer, dogs, slugs, grubs or other bugs.

The opportunity to prove its survival skills has been provided to the hearty Hosta by the amalgamation of rainy days, procrastination, hot days, sloth, and low positioning on the priority list.

Its chosen spot in the front yard garden is currently occupied by a sedum plant that is slated to be moved to a sunnier side of the yard, which is presently populated with a couple of columbines.

The perennial repositioning may finally reach the top of the roster this week, given that our summer has stretched though September and beyond, with a couple 90-degree days possible before the weekend.

I appreciate the extended sandal season, but flip flops, capris and short-sleeved tees are not usually part of my back-to-school wardrobe, and the unseasonable warmth is wearing out its welcome.

The Land of Oz apple trees that line the yellow brick road that is my boardwalk to the barn pelt me with random plunks of their overripe fruit, the flesh now bored by beetles and bees. I take no pride in the sinister satisfaction derived by dousing them with insect spray, but I do it anyway.

The lilies, phlox and astilbe surrounding the barn are dead and dry, ready for their seasonal shearing, a chore usually completed in a 40-degree drizzle. But this year the soaking will be from the sweat on my back in the 80-degree sun.

Dead brown leaves fall onto live green grass in the pasture, allowing the three hundred bales of inventory in the loft and hay stalls to remain stable as the horses enjoy fine dining on fresh grass.

Flies still follow Chicago and Moe into the barn, but the absence of an autumnal chill has aborted the usual heat-seeking mission that keeps them hanging on the horses, in favor of a hover, touch and go and buzz the human operation.

The days are hot, but the sun now sets before seven, giving way to clear skies and cool nights. Backyard bonfires, sweatshirts and s’mores can’t be far away, with burning logs in the living room fireplace, insulated overalls and decorated sugar cookies right on their heels. Let’s think about that tomorrow.

Today, I’ll consider the Little Hosta That Can, digging deep roots in a permanent place in the Peace Garden by Friday.

Or Saturday.

For sure by Monday.