"Rinse and Repeat"

 

Front garden   

            February in San Antonio plays out in a pattern of freezes followed by temperatures nudging close to 80°. Today’s clear day will top out at 83°. Annually, I use President’s Day to mark the first round of fertilizer on the gardens and yards.
            This morning, I’ll check the bin outside that houses the sprayer to see if it contains enough Miracle Grow to cover everything. If I enough, today’s “exercise” will focus on thoroughly watering all the beds with added nourishment. For tomorrow, another projected day of warmth, I’ll determine the best way for me to clear leaves from the front yard as my right knee still pings warnings if I overuse it. I may simply sit in place and use an old, broken rake to clear the areas needing the most work.

On this week's agenda

          The other part of my spring cycle entails checking the nighttime lows for consecutive 60° or above temperatures. Once the warmer nights hit, the plants being green housed inside will move back outside where I’ll assess their need for larger pots. This annual routine signals the return of spring.
         I love the repetition of life as I move from one season to the next. The reprise becomes my ritual now etched into my daily habits.  Rinse and repeat, year after year, brings comfort to me.

 

Waiting for warm nights

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I use my love of gardening with its hard work and rituals to handle Life's stresses. I also use music!

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"The Last Rose"

         Texas summers sizzle starting the end of April. Sundrenched days, with soaring temperatures, sap energy so that by August, even birds of prey sag as they catch thermals. Dust carried over the ocean from Africa finally rests on Live Oak leaves or coats tired purple sage. The large leaved cannas unfold in the shade, avoiding direct sunlight by tucking their blossoms into the shadows. The oppressive heat kicks our world into slow-motion. We wait impatiently for the first cold front that signals rusty Autumn.

         That first push of cooler air hits around the end of September, bringing Texas’s second Spring with raindrops and thunderheads. Our Mother, cracked crazily by heat, thirstily gulps each droplet. Her fissured face softens with the moisture. She smiles and sighs, her joyous relief sprouting grasses dormant from the drought, budding blue blossoms on plumbego, rejuvenating Mexican lantana, and pulling the wandering Jew out of dimness and into this kinder sunlight.

         Outside my window, tucked into an L of our house, grows a pink rosebush. Brought home years ago as a gift for Mother’s Day, this little plant survives each year, coming back tenaciously after brief freezes and lengthier dry spells. When our second Spring arrives, this small rosebush celebrates with one last rose.

         Trapped within the confines of the house in caring for my mother, my eyes constantly drift to the windows’ views. As I wash dishes, I watch our squirrels hoard acorns from the Live Oak. When this lone rosebud appeared, I felt drawn to capturing its beauty, to chronicling the last rose of this year.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman