Remember how I grumbled and moaned about the rain in February and March?? I'm a little chagrined to admit this morning, I was disappointed to wake up and not find it already raining.
Of course, since those dreary months of rats and sporadic heating, I've had the opportunity to fix the level of the garden above the level of the rainwater that pools out in front of the garden, and so partly, I'm eager to see how things fare with some substantial rainfall. Also, we haven't had any in a while...and finally (my selfish reason), I'm just giddy knowing what all those plants will do out there after a day or two of serious rain, in Wednesday's sunshine.
In past springs here on the Cape, I've been lulled into false irrigational security by dire forecasts of rain to come, only to have those storms break up as they crossed the bay. So I debated whether or not to give things a watering this morning, before deciding all would be well. You have to have some faith in a 100% chance of rain, I guess.
Meanwhile, the hostas have begun to emerge. This is one of the many at the place in Eastham, the one which came along with us. The garden elf was my Grandma's. I can remember him residing in two different gardens of hers, before coming to live in each one of mine.
His age is showing and a fresh coat of paint has long been planned. Perhaps this summer I'll get around to sprucing him up.
Until today, I was uncertain as to whether Big Daddy hosta made the move with us. I could remember hemming and hawing about potting him up, so pleased was I with his performance in the former location. But then this morning, I spied those distinctive blue-green horns coming up from a spot I honestly don't remember planting him in (great sentence, eh?).
Not only is this a beautiful hosta variety, but you just gotta love the Tennessee Williams moment you get when you hear yourself say, "Why, Big Daddy, there you are!" right out loud in the garden.
And today, on Tales From The Bedroom Window Sill...those big sunflower seed lings -not quite a month old-are now taller than the lowest row of window panes (about seven or eight inches, I guess).
Man, they are the very definition of heliotropism, too: I must turn them two or three times a day to keep them more or less straight and tall (imagine encouraging that). I hope to get the largest of them planted outside within the week.
Huddled close at the same window, the first of the recently-planted morning glory seeds have sprouted.
At work, this purple-leaved oxalis is merrily blooming in the greenhouse dining room.
The day darkened as it continued, and the wind continued to kick up. By afternoon, the first of the rain found us and fell pretty steadily throughout the day.
There was a break in the showers long enough for Em and I to have our nightly stroll (yank and drag, more like, my sweet beast) around the block. There's lots of pretty things happening in other yards in our neighborhood, which I'll try to show you some of soon.
The blackbirds were chattering up a storm in the windy and wet treetops, as we made our way around, the sort of talk we just don't hear from them on more pleasant evenings. None of the usual "I feel pretty" calls, but lots of staccato sounds, short and crisp...or tight strands of warbling that sound like words.
As much as I am grateful for the rain, I felt a little wistful watching the garden through the rainy window this evening, wanting to go out and stand there as I do as often as possible...marking the growth, spotting the new appearances(and trying to identify them), imagining where I'll plant other seeds later on...and what they might look like later in the season.
We may see some thunderstorms passing through in the overnight. I always welcome a good storm. The tingle in the air, the rush of the wind, the call and response of the deaf lightning and the blind thunder, older generations of my family now passed, bowling in heaven. And also, my theory about lightning and plant growth(#57 on the Hot One Hundred).
Ah, but I love these April showers.
