I know that it's autumn, and that winter is coming...
I've bought mitten clips for small hands, careless of their coverings
I've planted my usual 100 or so bulbs, this year buying mostly naturalizing bulbs, and imagining drifts of color in spring when I know I'll get mostly spikes of color - the ones that escaped our marauding squirrels
I've actually remembered to rake leaves, spread manure and mulch, trim deadwood against the coming cold.
I have a list of winter-proofing things to do, inside and out and it's endless.
I'm beginning to look wistfully at my garden, missing the darkness that comes with too many trees and too little space, regretting the light where I once wrathfully swore vengeance on the trees for blocking it.
Abandoned by MIT students afraid of frostbite, the Eldest, Toddles and I have played happy soccer on the nearby MIT field. Panting, we peeled off layers in happy abandon. It's easy to be so reckless, of course, with a nice warm cafe across the street...
I'm happily paging through my gardening porn, planting the ideal garden in my mind's eye, with swells of flowers and green, drooping ferns and spiky iris next to a small pond, splashing water...sunny open grass and a pragmatic kitchen garden, with warm ripe tomatoes. Clearly, the Burpee and Brecks people are bad for me.
And I'm resisting the urge to plaster the first copy of my column all over my house. I got a sneak preview and the photo of the Eldest is wonderful, though the editing makes my prose a little odd. But such is the life of the edited, I suppose.
Rabot M., I am thinking of you tonight. May your toe be only erroneously dipped into my wading pool.