So Soon Gone
It's hardly to be credited that the summer of 2008 has so peremptorily departed. We're now officially into the fall season. That which has passed will not pass this way again. It will of course, be renewed in a sense, but into another year; we and the world we know a year beyond. There, we’ve slid quietly into fall, goodbye summer of 2008.
But wasn’t nature kind to so gracefully offer us a day redolent of the kind of weather perfection late summer is capable of, yesterday? The weather we experienced here yesterday must rank as the epitome of perfection at that juncture when summer submits to fall. Despite morning frost on the roofs, the sun warmed up to 24-C degrees, with a clear sky and a teasing breeze.
We’ve experienced a truly peculiar summer, this year. Not nearly as hot as it often becomes during the dog days of summer, but inordinately wet with continuous rain, whether from light showers or alternately violent thunder storms. Still, we did have our share of sun and warmth; no complaints. Still, it was awfully wet.
The result of which has been that it turned out to be a miserable year for soft fruit; hardly any apples on the trees here, scant plums, and the raspberries, strawberries and blackberries, with insufficient sun, haven’t ripened to their usual piquant sweetness.
And the constant rain meant also that the fruits absorbed too much liquid and as a result weren’t able to keep long before spoiling. Corn, on the other hand, that we’re acquiring from the our community's nearby fruit farm and occasionally other roadside farmers’ stands, is as good as it ever is.
Our dahlias, those giant dish types, haven't been blooming all that long, and now they're on the cusp of expiring with the next really solid overnight frost. That fabulously-blooming passion vine that I had so assiduously cut back for the winter, taken down into the basement to sit directly under a window overlooking the back, only began taking on a growth spurt a few weeks ago. Not one bloom did we get.
The tomatoes growing on our vines have finally, in the last several weeks, turned bright orange, ready and ripe for picking and eating. They've no aroma typical of sun-ripened tomatoes, though their heft and feel are promising. A promise dashed as soon as they're sliced for the table, for they've no flavour nor have they the acidity that normally balances sweetness.
On the other hand, the garden fared relatively well, with hardly an effort on our part to keep it well moistened; nature did all that for us, this summer. We had ample fresh green parsley, aroma-laden sweet basil, and chives nicely sharp for our salads, soups and pizza, so no complaints there. The texture and colour of the gardens didn't lack at all, the perennials coming on stream when they should.
Now, when we enter the ravine for our daily walk, the bees that have built their hive high up in a hole of the great pine at the bottom of the first descent are not in evidence. Yet when we complete our hour's ramble, ready to ascend that same hill, the sun has sufficiently warmed the hive so the bees are once again active.
That same tree houses red squirrels and chipmunks; the aggressive squirrels will chase the smaller chipmunks, but they live together in some semblance of harmony, each feasting at this season on the plentiful pitch-and-seed-laden cones of the ambient spruces.
Already the hawthornes have lost all their small green leaves, and the trees stand there, stark, dark against the verdant backdrop of pine, spruce and fir; but for their bright red hawes their skeletal, forlorn look reflecting a winter landscape. The showy billowing scarlet of sumachs festooned with their bright red candles give promise of a brilliant fall showing.
Robins in adolescent packs flit through the trees, scatter themselves along the trails, working up their readiness for migration. Which the Canada geese have already begun, and we hear their mournful departing honking, look up to see them creasing the sky above. Occasionally, the piercing cry of a bluejay, the whirring wings of doves.
We're entering another season, another reason to respect and appreciate natur, in all her manifestations, from the furry bright yellow caterpillar ambling along the trail heedless of danger, to the bees determined to carry away the last bits of pollen on goldenrod and asters.
We'll soon enough be shuttered indoors against the icy blasts of winter.
But wasn’t nature kind to so gracefully offer us a day redolent of the kind of weather perfection late summer is capable of, yesterday? The weather we experienced here yesterday must rank as the epitome of perfection at that juncture when summer submits to fall. Despite morning frost on the roofs, the sun warmed up to 24-C degrees, with a clear sky and a teasing breeze.
We’ve experienced a truly peculiar summer, this year. Not nearly as hot as it often becomes during the dog days of summer, but inordinately wet with continuous rain, whether from light showers or alternately violent thunder storms. Still, we did have our share of sun and warmth; no complaints. Still, it was awfully wet.
The result of which has been that it turned out to be a miserable year for soft fruit; hardly any apples on the trees here, scant plums, and the raspberries, strawberries and blackberries, with insufficient sun, haven’t ripened to their usual piquant sweetness.
And the constant rain meant also that the fruits absorbed too much liquid and as a result weren’t able to keep long before spoiling. Corn, on the other hand, that we’re acquiring from the our community's nearby fruit farm and occasionally other roadside farmers’ stands, is as good as it ever is.
Our dahlias, those giant dish types, haven't been blooming all that long, and now they're on the cusp of expiring with the next really solid overnight frost. That fabulously-blooming passion vine that I had so assiduously cut back for the winter, taken down into the basement to sit directly under a window overlooking the back, only began taking on a growth spurt a few weeks ago. Not one bloom did we get.
The tomatoes growing on our vines have finally, in the last several weeks, turned bright orange, ready and ripe for picking and eating. They've no aroma typical of sun-ripened tomatoes, though their heft and feel are promising. A promise dashed as soon as they're sliced for the table, for they've no flavour nor have they the acidity that normally balances sweetness.
On the other hand, the garden fared relatively well, with hardly an effort on our part to keep it well moistened; nature did all that for us, this summer. We had ample fresh green parsley, aroma-laden sweet basil, and chives nicely sharp for our salads, soups and pizza, so no complaints there. The texture and colour of the gardens didn't lack at all, the perennials coming on stream when they should.
Now, when we enter the ravine for our daily walk, the bees that have built their hive high up in a hole of the great pine at the bottom of the first descent are not in evidence. Yet when we complete our hour's ramble, ready to ascend that same hill, the sun has sufficiently warmed the hive so the bees are once again active.
That same tree houses red squirrels and chipmunks; the aggressive squirrels will chase the smaller chipmunks, but they live together in some semblance of harmony, each feasting at this season on the plentiful pitch-and-seed-laden cones of the ambient spruces.
Already the hawthornes have lost all their small green leaves, and the trees stand there, stark, dark against the verdant backdrop of pine, spruce and fir; but for their bright red hawes their skeletal, forlorn look reflecting a winter landscape. The showy billowing scarlet of sumachs festooned with their bright red candles give promise of a brilliant fall showing.
Robins in adolescent packs flit through the trees, scatter themselves along the trails, working up their readiness for migration. Which the Canada geese have already begun, and we hear their mournful departing honking, look up to see them creasing the sky above. Occasionally, the piercing cry of a bluejay, the whirring wings of doves.
We're entering another season, another reason to respect and appreciate natur, in all her manifestations, from the furry bright yellow caterpillar ambling along the trail heedless of danger, to the bees determined to carry away the last bits of pollen on goldenrod and asters.
We'll soon enough be shuttered indoors against the icy blasts of winter.
Labels: Environment, Nature, Perambulations
posted by Pieface @ 1:34 PM
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