Rain

Last night we sat out on the porch until well after midnight, strategically poking, every few minutes, the temporary tarp we’ve erected, trying to keep ahead of the downpour that threatened to bring the whole thing crashing down. Water gushed from every corner for long enough to worry but, I’m glad to say, both tarp and garden are still in place this morning and ready for the 4th.

Even though I only lived full time in California for five years, I got used to the fact that in the summer, rain would never, ever come and in the winter, its behavior proved always uneventful. No thunder, no lightening, no dramatic clouds. Just hard rain for hours at a time (at least before the drought). And so it is still a surprise and delight when these East Coast thunderstorms blow through, lighting the sky and bending the trees, here for a time and then as quickly gone. You can see them coming through small openings in the woods and sense their approach by the behavior of the birds. We are enchanted.

We probably would have lingered under the eaves even if the rain had passed us by and the tarp had not been threatened. On nights heavy with humidity but no sign of rain, the lightening bugs and the sound of quiet woods are enough to make us linger in the dark until the mosquitos drive us in. But as it was, last night we stayed a tad bit longer, listening to thunder as good as any fireworks, and poking the tarp until the runoff nearly drowned our newly planted flowers. This is our summer. This is our life. It is enough. And more.

Family

Two sparrows are building a nest in the eaves right above the patio where John and I take intermissions from our own race to make this new place our home. Although it’s sometimes much too hot for strenuous work, the small birds, at least, remain determined. They swoop low across the lawn, looking for bits of dried grass and twigs, occasionally pulling up roots of plants I just put in the ground. From dawn to dusk, we watch them carry their heavy treasures to the nest in which they’ll raise a family.

This house, this place has increased my understanding of the communal nature of home ownership. We share this little haven with a whole family of foxes, a groundhog, numerous generations of rabbits, deer, chipmunks, and especially birds. In addition to the sparrows above our heads, we have in various trees, pairs of cardinals, bluejays, mocking birds, grackles, mourning doves, robins, and house finches (at least one vulture, too, lives close enough to regularly circle the yard, swooping down to clean the foxes’ inevitable mess) - more birds, I’m sure, that we have yet to identify, but fewer, our neighbors tell us, with every passing year. None of these creatures are simply on their way to somewhere else. They all live here, and we derive endless pleasure getting to know their patterns and their songs.

As the so-called ‘owners’ of this space, we’re feeling keenly the responsibility to ensure that this small piece of land can keep our fellow inhabitants strong and healthy (except the deer, of course, who we secretly wish would find another woods and garden for their nightly feasts). Now and into the treacherous and uncertain future, we want to keep them well and safe as best we can. We are a family after all, and that’s just what families do.

For the sparrows, at least, it’s simple. We’re leaving what seem to be their favorite twigs within an easier reach (everything we’ve offered so far has been taken). In the garden, we’re planting (mostly) flowers that will attract and nourish various bees and butterflies, and bushes that will bear berries for the birds. But we’re still learning. Sometimes when yanking out the invasive honeysuckle that’s strangling our trees, we inadvertently disturb some creature’s secret shelter or trample their potential food. Just yesterday, we destroyed some Pokeweed that, though poisonous to humans, provides food for the very birds that are nesting in our yard. It’s a terrible feeling when you get it wrong. But there is this: in all families, we make mistakes, we ask forgiveness, and promise to do better. Who ever knows if it’s enough?

The news outside the limits of our little world has been especially grim this week - human rights and covenants broken, lives in jeopardy, a country losing its purpose, values and direction - virtually a world on fire. Fighting off the sense that there is nothing I can ever do to make these problems go away, I break off another branch and leave it for the birds.

Waiting

My ex-father-in-law used to grumble on the 4th of July. “Summer’s almost over,” he’d grouse, even before his first tomato had ripened. I’m beginning to understand his angst. I’ve been waiting since March for my garden’s hard-earned blossoms to arrive - reward for all the rocks and stones unearthed, the research and planning done - but as each bud emerges, I begin to regret how fast it will be gone.

This is where I am these days. I wake in the mornings excited about the work and the rewards not only in the garden, but in our new place, our new life. I am impatient to see what’s coming next - old and new friends to visit, country drives to take, local fare to try, more blossoms yet to come. At the same time, I want the clock to stop completely, freeze in this very moment, as I sit out on the porch at midday, watching the trees sway gently, listening to the bees and birds.

This, perhaps, is going to be for me a decade of sweet contentment and inevitable regret. The sense of urgency is palpable as I approach my 71st birthday and the limitations to my lifespan become ever less abstract. How much time do I have left? Will I live to see the weeping willow grow, the hydrangea reach full width and height? Will I watch my grandsons graduate from high school? Will I take just one more trip to China or to Rome?

I know that it will take time for my garden to get established, the plants to settle in, and sometimes I’m content in just the beauty that they offer me today. I feel lucky. It is more than enough. But then I am reminded that next summer’s blossoms will be more plentiful and spectacular (if I’m still here) and it’s very hard to wait.