It’s disturbingly hot.
This evening the baby and I watered the garden. I have a red tin watering can, and when you fill it from the hose it makes a huge racket. The baby sqeals and runs away, then laughs and runs back to see. He sticks his hand in to slosh the water around, and then points to the dusty garden.
We watered the pumpkins and the strawberries, then the lavender. The lavender was best – water on hot leaves made the scent rise through the air. Finally I watered the rhubarb, but I don’t think it will survive the heat.
I haven’t done much to the garden this year. It was Ryan’s thing, really… so I sort of neglected it on purpose. No, that’s not true. It just never made it up the list past caring for the baby, caring for me, sorting out a separation and finding a job.
Now I’m discovering plants are very forgiving. I came back from my Christmas holiday to find a jungle of tomatoes and herbs in the veggie patch. The corn is as tall as I am, and the mulberry sapling, which I thought succumbed to the frost, has sprouted four new branches.
The baby loves it. He stubs his toes on the concrete every single day, but he keeps running anyway. He picks the cherry tomatoes but doesn’t eat them. He does eat the plums and the strawberries when he can get them. And when he’s tired of gardening, we blow bubbles in the hammock.