We’ve had two fair, sunny, warm-to-hot weekends. Local festivals have started, and the seasonal businesses are open. It seems that, true to form, the Cape has progressed from winter to summer without the benefit of spring.
For a gardener, that’s the start watering season. I’m going to do things better this time and water daily or every other day at least.
Last year, I put myself on a once-a-week watering schedule, and the garden suffered the consequences, so I asked my landlord, Ed, how the water bill was doing. He said he’s only paying the minimum, so not to worry about it. In fact, he’s ecstatic about the water bill: his last tenants were my son’s family of five.
Last week, I put in two more Penstemon to “anchor” the garden in front of the fence, which was bare of taller plants now that the tulips have gone by.
The thing about buying plants that have been greenhouse-grown is that they are out of balance with everything else, being way ahead of those that wintered-over outside. So far, they seem to be holding their own, and I hope they “take”.
And one other thought on home improvement: now that summer schedules have pre-empted my usual guilty pleasures, I’ve been watching the home and garden channel, HGTV.
I like most of their programming, some of which is produced in Canada, especially their “Design on a Dime”, “Get Color” and “Sensible Chic” series, which feature low-budget, high-impact projects.
Yesterday, I wanted to get to what is probably the last garden club plant sale of the year, in Sandwich, but was working on a client project and didn’t finish until 9:00, the start of the sale. At that point, it wouldn’t have made sense to go.
So, I mowed the lawn, did a transfer station run, went to the bank and redeemed a bin full of cans and bottles instead.
My client said it was okay to upload the new files, and by the time I was finished, my neighbor invited me for a sit and a schmooze, a summertime ritual.
In the evening, I went to the Woods Hole music festival, a low-key affair.
I took my time getting there, opting for my favorite back roads, which are lined with gorgeous trees and expensive houses, plus the Woods Hole Golf Course and one of my favorite Upper Cape beaches.
Still, I was able to get there just in time for the last (free) harbor cruise and a couple of pretty good performances by local groups.
Incredibly, there were plenty of parking spaces, and a nice sunset, which several of us watched from the Fisheries parking lot before we got kicked out by a couple of guys who came tearing down the gangplank of a NOAA vessel to tell us to leave, we were in a restricted (albeit ungated) area.
This morning, the New York Times published another chapter in their series on class, this one, about the old versus new money on Nantucket Island, where the average price of a home is now over $1 million.
It ain’t much better on Block Island, Conanicut Island/Jamestown and Little Compton, but maybe the editors of the Times want to keep those places a secret, whereas most of their readers already know about Nantucket, which is after all too far away and inconvenient to be easily polluted by the curious hoi polloi.
Anyway, they interviewed this cool older lady, a doctor, who has a home on Nantucket with magnificent views; people are already trying to buy it, rumors of her death being greatly overstated.
This lady’s style appealed to me, and the thought occurred that we don’t have anyone like that in this neighborhood, which is really a shame: an elderly, old-school widow with no ax to grind, secure in her future, and, thus, friendly with everyone without being overbearing.
Then again, maybe that’s how some of the children in the neighborhood think of me, a generally nice old lady who says “hello” to them while they walk or ride by as she works in her garden.
In a world where women are not valued unless they are thin, crafty and “don’t take themselves too seriously” (direct quote from a personal ad), such a perception by the young ones in this neighborhood would please me a great deal.
Last weekend, I may have blown it with my granddaughter, though, who was here with her two brothers and, as a consequence, having meltdowns at 15 minute intervals.
In an alternate universe, it could be said that my granddaughter has “the wierding way”, the ability to make noises that sound like the death throes of a very large jet engine. That, and her crying, and the general volume of her speech when she’s around her brothers, can flay the myelin sheath off every nerve in your body.
By mid-afternoon, I’d had enough, and brought her back to her parents, keeping my oh-so-sympathetic grandsons until later that evening.
The work week was busy and offered its own frustrations, mostly in the form of a web services project that involves an interface with a totally foreign, Java-based environment.
It has been hellish to sort it all out, and I don’t think we’re “there” yet. Presumably, my partners and I will be a lot smarter about this when we’re done, but that’s cold comfort at this, the twisting in the wind stage.
Speaking of which, two friends are looking for jobs, having been pushed to the edge by lay-offs. I invited one to the monthly meeting of one of the local professional groups in the hope that she could make a contact or two. She didn’t, but greatly enjoyed the presentation, so perhaps it served as a morale-builder at least.
So, here are the constants: my generous neighbor and her parties. The gardens. The grandkids. Technical work that demands a “stretch”. Mowing the lawn. Local festivals. Little or no money. Realizing the rewards of non-procrastination, which this time of year, feels unnatural. Recognizing ones limitations in an unpleasantly, over-competitive world.