August, when the morning glories are at their best, gracing each morning with glorious blue. I have tried to duplicate this color, with paint, with cloth, with thread, but it can not be duplicated. I think its only made by God. The Raggedy Garden begins to look a little weary, in August. It has been hot and dry for many weeks. The grass is brown, in spots, and leaves are dusty. The humming birds are here, full force, they empty the feeder every couple days. So tiny are they as they dart to and fro, from flower to flower, up to the feeder, over to the lilac bush, then back again.
See him, there, hovering on his mighty wings? Of course, its blueberry time. Is it really worth sweating over in the wild bluberries, trying to get enough in your bucket to make bluberry jam? And not get too many sticks or leaves, or bugs? Um. Yes! It really is. And sweating in the hot Raggedy Garden kitchen, slaving away with boiling jars and stirring and stirring? And ladleing hot jam into hot jars and turning the lids tight, so they seal? Yes, I know it is. When I slather it on toast , come a cold January morning? I won't remember all that. I'll taste the sweetness of warmth and sunshine on my tongue, and hear the merry voices of children, and the buzz of a bee, and the song of the dove.
And guess who came to dinner one day? In a large white styrofoam box, all taped up? We gingerly open it. A large orange lobster claw waves at us. A long feeler reaches up wards. We hold our breath, and stuff them back in, laughing. Will we be like Julie, in Julie and Julia? Not looking when we drop them in the pot, and jumping and crumpling when the cover flies off and that orange claw gives us a good bye wave?
He is rich and delicious. We have the Persied Meteor showers in August. It rains the first night, so we can't see them, but we need the rain and we are thankful for it. The next night, though, is dark and moonless and we lay in the dewey darkness and watch the stars rain down. They go so quickly, leaving their tail of sparks. Who can know how long they have been out there in the void, only revealing themselves to us as the rush earthward. Beautiful, silent glowing pieces of the universe. There's something about meteor showers, something that makes me feel glad to be alive.
These weed daisies flock around an old sap bucket, left there by children who used it for some wonderful game. I can't bear to mow them, they are so clean and pure looking, so I leave them to grace the lawn. Its time to cut the lavender. I hang some in bunches, and cut some for potpouri. The bees love lavender, too, you have to work around them. It leaves a lovely soft, clean scent, when you walk by the rafters in the garden house where they hang, but its almost over powering while you are working with it.
Rumbles of thunder, flickers of light, I lie awake hearing the rain bucket down on the roof. I hear the voice of St. Francis of Assisi say, " Be praised, O Lord, for sister water, the which is so useful, humble, precious and chaste." So long ago this humble man knew, like us, how much we need water. When the earth has been so long dry, then you can smell the way it drinks in the rain. It is scented of mustiness and growth and greenery and the dryness drinks up the damp, quickly assimilating its wealth of goodness.
The dill scents the air, when the breeze comes by, when you brush against it. Dill I planted long years back, but every summer it is back again, cropping up all over, anywhere it finds a spot. I love the smell of dill. And you know, dill will keep the bad witches out of your garden, so I might as well be on the safe side! Once by mistake I used dill seed instead of caraway in a batch of bread.....oh, that was a glorious mistake! Imagine the possibilities!
Oh, garden of August, gone so soon. September will come, after the blue August moon. Lucky are we to have two moons of august. The green corn moon to sing it in, and the blue moon to lullaby us out of summer and into fall. Come back, friends, and sit here with me in the Raggedy Garden in this last lingering loveliness.