Taking Inventory

Howling wind and driving rain woke me this morning at 6am. I had no intention of getting up that early, but remembering the porch windows were open got me out of bed. The power was out, so I lit the gas stove and made my husband his morning coffee, because I'm awesome like that. Luckily the tree limb that came down wasn't all the way across the driveway, so he didn't have to get completely soaked to start his day. I went back to bed for a fitful little sleep, interrupted by things beeping because the power was still out, and a nervous and not so bright poodle-doodle who barks insanely at the slightest noise. It's a toss up as to what is costing me the most sleep: hot flashing heart palpatating hell, snoring bedmate or stupid dog. Last night was a trifecta.

Once I surrendered and got up, knowing the mom taxi had to run regardless of the weather or the electricity, it took both cups of coffee and a lot of mental coaxing to get my brain to wake up too. Days like this, at 52, I can't fathom what 62 or 72 might feel like, providing I ever make it that far. I wake up I take inventory: Neck sore? Check. Joints aching? Check? Knees working? Check? Brain still knows the basics? Check. Ambulatory? Check. So far so good. It's not ideal, but it beats the alternative.

After my car pooling duties were done, I grabbed the camera and did a walk about to see the state of the yard. It's been a hell of a year for us, so hot, so dry, so relentless. We've had rain three times this summer, and each time accompanied by a brutal wind storm, and after the mayhem, less than an inch in the rain gauge. I try not to think about the lush years of the past, or the plants and trees I've lost, and  just focus on what's still here. I figure that my short time on this piece of earth, 15 years, is nothing in the grand scheme. I probably don't have a clue what this land has endured, what it's capable of enduring, what resilience it holds. I think about Darwinism quite a bit, though when I look around this place. Survival of the fittest, indeed.

The lovely oak tree that took a direct lightning hit two years ago struggles mightily. I got a quote to cut it down, but the half of it that is still alive is making acorns like I've never seen. I don't have it in me to kill it. Not yet, not while it's fighting so hard to do what a tree is supposed to do.

My barren strawberries and my beautiful Chicago sunrise daylilies are crispy, lifeless and dessicated and if they survive, I'll do a happy dance right in front of them next Spring, I swear. I have three patches of these lovely lilies, and only one has managed to bloom this year, barely. I took a moment in the heat to snap a few photos, and to thank them for giving their all this year, and to apologize for not watering. I didn't have it in me this summer, nor did the well.

2012:

2011:

I know. I know. I could have watered. I did triage this summer, saving 6 vegetables in the garden and 10 potted plants, and that was all I could manage.  We've never had sustained heat and drought like this before, and I just kept hoping it would rain. It didn't, not enough. Tomorrow is supposed to be 101. I can hardly wait.

 These baby squash are among my biggest accomplishments this summer. They should be dead, but I did manage to drag some water their way almost every day for the last six weeks. They are my favorite vegetable, and I've struggled to raise a decent crop, as previous years have been so wet they got rot. Go figure.  I've harvested one small orange pepper and three plum tomatoes and I'm not expecting much else, besides my kale and collards. There's always next year, right?

The coneflowers and black eyed susans are stunted and several patches are just gone, but I tried not to be sad, to focus on the ones that are still here. They're fighting a good fight this year. Me too.

They're little but they're still lovely.

We didn't lose trees like our neighbors did in the last two storms, just a big branch here and there from the hickory and cherry and oak trees. All in all, things could be a lot worse, for me and mine and my garden. So I'm going to count my blessings and hope for better next year.

This lovely sunflower grew under the birdfeeder and was a happy surprise.

 These days, a happy surprise is more than I try to hope for, so I'm extra grateful.

Hope you get some happy surprises in your yard, your summer, your life, too.