Fireworks, and a Happy 4th!

Lately I’ve been preoccupied with naughty girls—Rose Mallow and her Japanese beetle thug paramours, Rose Campion and Anise Hyssop. Today marks the anniversary of another naughty girl and her very rebellious act that so ceremoniously dumped the vengeful and neglectful parent.

However, today is but a filler in a sense, an explanation of a decision. If Richard Henry Lee brought before the Continental Congress of the United Colonies a resolution declaring independence from Great Britain and nearly a month of debate ensued, then the formal vote for the absolution of political ties to the Crown occurred on 2 July 1776. The Declaration “merely,” formally stated the reasons for doing so.

Certain of the gravitas of the vote, John Adams write to his wife Abigail that the 2^nd of July would “be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America.” My, how history eludes even those most involved in its making.

 
And so, in a bit of metaphoric parallelism, I began mulching the front and back gardens on 2 July as a declaration of independence from our excessive heat and drought, a preparation for even more extreme temperatures to come this week. Mulching—as with the Congressional vote for independence, the debate that led up to it, and the opposition of Pennsylvania and South Carolina even down to the wire—was the hard work, the foundation that had to be set for the observances that would follow.

But the real display, the real celebration, comes on the 4^th. Today, as is customary in the United States, fireworks regale me, and the bells toll—but these aren’t the usual trappings of an American Fourth. (Really: can there be anything but an American Fourth?!) Tall Purpletop Verbena gesticulates towards the heavens, while Carpathian Harebells (Campanula carpatica Blue Clips) ring the certainty of life against the starburst of Rudbeckia. Not to be outdone in the shade garden, Obsidian heuchera sends upwards delicate plumes of diminutive flowers and the hostas, not grown for their flowers, offer their own floral display of appreciation.
 

Happy Fourth!

Baked

18 June 2010, Wilmington, Delaware. Mini-drought.

The ground is thirsty. The clay is baked, cracked.

Verbena bonariensis and the Euphorbias, singing their "duop-duops" in the silver corner after an opening act of Provence lavender blues, don't seem to mind; in fact, I think they rather enjoy being hot and bothered, swaying in the southern breezes. "Bring me my G&T," I hear myself saying aloud to no one in particular. This show is proving to be good. Only Miss Gray Kitty responds with her meow. And I continue standing there, empty handed, Bombay Sapphire awaiting me in the freezer. Go figure.

Others, however...well, they dislike this early onset of summer aridity. Rudbeckia, now in full bloom, droops, while the Blood Red dahlia bows her pretty little head in somber remembrance of moisture past. Thankfully, I had the wherewithal to plant her next to Verbena, whose leggy height and clustering of elongated leaves near the base provide her some relief. One of her sisters, however, fares not thee well. I planted her tuber in an open span at the mouth of the Lysimachia river, whose course has since been diverted since I last wrote about my riveting trip down her chartreuse colored waves. If her shielded sister has mounded, dense and tight, and has sported two appreciable flowers, the other's new shoots were repeatedly assaulted by ravenous slugs whose nectar is the young dahlia. She remains under assault, but this time by harsh early season sun and dry conditions.

In the back garden, Climbing Hydrangea, a striking Medusa incarnate, splays her tendrils. Though she produced an appreciable display of flowers in mid spring, she really needs more sun to work her magic. The lack of moisture (save for the water I occasionally provide) does not seem to bother her; perhaps it only stunts her growth, for which the neighboring plants thank me profusely by awarding me with full displays. Should she prove a more vigorous grower, however, she might not turn my plants into stone but rather into withered, wilted remains which I think worse given my fetish for rock.

And so we wait for rain. Nay, we beg for rain. And water those who yearn for April showers, now a distant memory.