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Yesterday it was very hot. But fairly dry and with a good breeze. The two-foot extension on the fence on our western property line, made of reinforced lattice, has given the wisteria enough height that a corner of the garden gets shade from noon on. That's where I've sent the hippeastrum to summer camp so that the hot hot afternoon sun doesn't broil them but they get enough morning sun to feed the bulbs for next year.
There I repaired, noonish, with a lawn chair and a small notebook, and sat and thought. I'm not the reflective sort, as I've said once or twice, and my reflections turned very quickly to daydreams and plans. But I did note and marvel that I had two thoughts that ran parallel, like railroad tracks. One was a set of dreams about what I would do with more space and especially more sunshine. The other was a set of reflections about how all the plants came to be there, and how sad I will be to leave the ones that almost assuredly will be killed when we leave.
Our combined back garden for the two properties is 272 square feet, a little bigger than five average-sized prison cells. The "soil" is brick dust and construction rubble, amended over the years with municipal sludge and mulch. No spot in our garden gets full sun, although there are a very few places where plants will get six hours of sun, divided between earlyish in the morning and lateish in the afternoon (plants raised by being grown in tall pots fare somewhat better). And I don't like to spend money on plants or hardscaping, taking perverse pride in reusing the brick rubble and starting plants from seeds or cuttings acquired from here and there. I collect seeds and take cuttings as souvenirs, so just about every major plant is invested with important meaning to me.
( A plant provenance tour )
There I repaired, noonish, with a lawn chair and a small notebook, and sat and thought. I'm not the reflective sort, as I've said once or twice, and my reflections turned very quickly to daydreams and plans. But I did note and marvel that I had two thoughts that ran parallel, like railroad tracks. One was a set of dreams about what I would do with more space and especially more sunshine. The other was a set of reflections about how all the plants came to be there, and how sad I will be to leave the ones that almost assuredly will be killed when we leave.
Our combined back garden for the two properties is 272 square feet, a little bigger than five average-sized prison cells. The "soil" is brick dust and construction rubble, amended over the years with municipal sludge and mulch. No spot in our garden gets full sun, although there are a very few places where plants will get six hours of sun, divided between earlyish in the morning and lateish in the afternoon (plants raised by being grown in tall pots fare somewhat better). And I don't like to spend money on plants or hardscaping, taking perverse pride in reusing the brick rubble and starting plants from seeds or cuttings acquired from here and there. I collect seeds and take cuttings as souvenirs, so just about every major plant is invested with important meaning to me.
( A plant provenance tour )
