First the press of business kept me out of the garden, then the rain, followed by an intensely hot, sticky spell. I managed to water every day during the hot spell, which was necessary, and I pulled a few weeds. However, trying to do anything more strenuous was akin to conducting an orchestra while wrapped in a wet shower curtain. It was not worth it.
Fortunately plant growth slowed down a bit, though the poison ivy that continually attempts to creep in through the privet was undeterred. Like everyone else suffering in the ninety plus degree heat and eighty plus percent humidity, I kept myself cloistered in cool spaces and drank lots of liquids.
And I was miserable.
Being outdoors is necessary to my physical and mental health and being outdoors in the garden is the icing on the cake of life. When I can’t do either, I go through a very unpleasant kind of withdrawal. It is not like winter when I can sit with catalogs or garden books, plotting great things for the growing season. Even those of us who don’t emulate the wildlife and hibernate get a little drowsy and torpid in the six weeks after the winter solstice. During that time, I tend the houseplants or bake bread or—if there is a blue moon– even clean and reorganize parts of my house. I still try to walk every day and most days I finish those walks by plodding around the landscape inspecting its bones and dreaming of the first snowdrops. It isn’t a substitute for gardening, but it suffices.
Last weekend, we finally had a small break in the outrageous weather. The temperature went down by at least five degrees and the humidity abated by at least ten percent. I was so overjoyed by that development that I raced outside first thing Saturday morning and did what I always do in such situations—I worked until I fell over.
I didn’t really intend to commit a flagrant act of insanity, but being outside felt so good and there was so much to do. The wisteria was sufficiently overgrown that it was threatening the structural integrity of the arch that holds it up. The hedge on the north end of the property looked as if it last enjoyed the tender ministrations of the hedge clipper about five years ago. Weeds were everywhere in the upper back garden and the ivy was threatening to envelop parts of the lower back garden. Once I had the tools in my hands there was no stopping me.
My intentions were good. Knowing that it was still very hot and sticky, I vowed to spend about fifteen minutes on each chore, taking breaks in between for liquids and air conditioned respite. But the wisteria had a hypnotic–or possibly hallucinogenic–effect and the more I trimmed the better I felt. I was so elated when it was finally under control that without even thinking about hydration, I ran to the garage and grabbed the hedge trimmer. Half an hour and many linear feet of privet later, the north side hedge was respectable once again. Even Mr. Antlers, Jr., munching stray vegetation and watching from a safe distance away in the neighbor’s yard, seemed impressed.
Of course, I already had the long, heavy-duty extension cord out for the hedge trimmer, so it seemed only logical to do the weed whacking before putting it away. Hanging up the hedge trimmer, I connected the string trimmer and went to town, neatening the edges in the upper back, clearing the paths and lopping off adventurous English ivy tendrils that were making their way into the lawn.
By the time I finished with that, coiled up the cord and put away the string trimmer, I noticed that my clothing was completely soaked and I was feeling curiously light headed. I considered the idea of simply turning the hose on myself, but decided that I should probably hydrate my insides as well. I drank about a quart of water, took a very cold shower and collapsed. After a two-hour nap I had the strongest urge to go out and start gardening all over again. Fortunately my husband intervened, but that is the kind of incurable hort-mania that infects thwarted gardeners.
At least I was wearing sun block.