And so, on this warmer than usual weekend in November, the garden becomes the reflection of what has been. The leaves are off the maple trees and thrashed to shreds in the lawn. The grasses are still green from plentiful rains. A few violets have reappeared, confused by the waning sun but warmth of some days.
It’s time to harvest the herbs. Lovage, thyme and tender oregano are picked and dried for many a lovely pot of stew. The blueberries almost recovered from the attack of the gypsy moth caterpillars in June. The greedy things ate all the leaves giving the bushes a desperate, deadly appearance. A second foliage did grow out by September. No berries, not a chance.
The peach tree blossomed and produced a massive crop of fruits. After three years of late frosts that nipped the buds, success! To quote a line from Nathaniel Hawthorne’ s Introduction to Mosses on an Old Manse, “and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. ” I learned to make a lovely peach butter blended with blackberries. A scrumptious dessert for everyday.
The perennials give way their strength and return to the earth. The vinca vine seems to be spreading over rocks and into the field. The lilac is perfect. The forsythia has gone crazy and is overwhelming everything. How did they get so large! Plenty of pruning for winter afternoons. Now is the best time to consider the winter trim to the massive maples starting to cast too much shade on the yard. How high they reach to the sky now. All to do still.
The one friend who won’t be returning to the garden next year are the dear old shoes. Four years of tramping all over has worn them to shreds. These shoes were always a bit too large. We went all the way to Sicily together the first year. They climbed up the hillsides of Segesta, past the fig trees into the amphitheater and gazed out at the azzure blue sea. We climbed the cliffs at Scala dei Turchi. We walked through the great cities of Modica, Noto, Taormina, Naro, and Ragusa. They felt the pain of the blood blister that grew to be a frightening thing. We stood in the mists over Tripani and felt the presence once again. She is here. The goddess did make herself known at Donnafugata, Ortygia and Erice. My foot was so swollen by the time I got home. How I will miss them. Maybe I’ll save them for the annual brush burning and give them a dignified exit. Let the element of fire take them to ashes. How I will miss them.
So, the bunny comes out of hiding once more to greet the walkers on their daily journey. This bit of whimsy under the rhododendron and settled in a bed of sweet woodruff. Now comes the dream time to plot and plan for that great garden to be. Next year, I promise to be more attentive and grateful for this space. This beautiful garden. My solace and my savior.
LuceStellare 