The bedraggled flower strip near the power pole.
Monday, Labor Day, was hot--summer hot and still humid.
Jim took a notion to drive to the Mennonite produce auction to see if there was anything interesting on offer.
I informed him that I was not in the market for any produce that would require canning or freezing.
As it happened, perhaps because of the holiday, there were fewer vendors and fewer buyers than usual--nothing that appealed.
I crossed the road to the mercantile to shop for replacement kitchen items, then we pottered along to the discount food store and the lively produce market.
I was pleased to learn that the produce market--which also stocks dairy goods and a few frozen meats--is now open year 'round.
It is a shorter driving distance than any of the area supermarkets.
Since we keep many staples on hand, it is fresh produce, milk and eggs which need to be replenished at least once per week.
Walking down the lane in early morning mist, the lower house and barn looming.
I had a dental appointment on Tuesday which cut into the middle of the day, and several errands to do while in town.
I returned late in the afternoon to find that Jim was applying 'texture' to the kitchen ceiling prior to painting.
I thought I would finish the living room curtains--a project started in early June--however since I must do my sewing at the table in the kitchen alcove, this wasn't practical with painting stretching well into Thursday.
I admitted [to myself] that I was feeling clobbered with tiredness--a sense of wading through deep water, or wallowing through snow drifts.
A week in which I had hoped to accomplish a fair amount was frittered away with the desultory tasks of meal preparation, laundry, reading a book; in the evenings Jim and I watched the 25th anniversary presentation of Ken Burns' 'The Civil War.'
We have sat, enthralled by this series, numerous times since it debuted in 1990.
New details emerge with each viewing.
The sense of sadness, of terrible waste and loss, burdens me afresh each time I see the now-familiar faces in the speckled and creased old photographs.
Each time I am intrigued by the scraps of history and anecdote recited by
historian/writer Shelby Foote.
A spider's web shimmers amid rusty leaves.
Goldenrod--its glory undimmed by the fog.
Two varieties of wild morning glory--'small red' and the more common blue.
Both are tangled in the area where I hoped to start a 'wild garden'--you might say the wild aspect of it has happened in spite of [because of?] neglect.
Charlie and Willis seldom fail to accompany me down the lane and back.
Their fur was damp with mist, their colors muted.
Willis honing his claws.
A spatter of leaves from the tulip poplar--one of the earliest trees to shed its leaves.
Boneset, Queen Anne's lace--long past its prime--a billow of Joe Pye weed in the background.
This flower is entwined with the morning glory.
I have wondered at its larger size and exotic markings.
A wildflower website discovered tonight has me thinking this may be 'ipomoea pandurata'--with common names of bigroot morning glory or wild sweet potato.
Trudging back up the lane--our house almost hidden in mist.
A weathered fence post wound about in wild honeysuckle.
Halfway up the lane.
I have some bi-colored cosmos this year--perhaps a hybrid arising from last years' seed?
I will be watching for the seed heads to dry.
One visible accomplishment for the week.
With still no garden spot prepared to plant out my seedlings, it was vital to move many of them up to larger pots. I lost several small lavenders which languished for too long, roots crowded and dry.
I removed spent blossoms from the begonias, tidied the vintage geraniums, wrenched a straggling fern from its pot and moved it to larger quarters.
Charlie and Willis got in my way, the hummingbirds whirred overhead.
As I lined up pots along the porch edge, rain began to fall.
Today [Saturday] another misty morning, mid day clear and cool.
This evening rain has pelted down, the temperature has fallen.
Regardless of the calendar, autumn has arrived.