Got Junk?

I am a garden junk junkie. I have all sorts of wonderful things tucked into my flower beds: bird houses, found objects, interesting pieces of drift wood, and chunks of marbles. One of my favorite pieces of “junk” is a scrap metal dinosaur—or maybe it’s a dragon, I can’t really tell---that my oldest son welded together when he was nine years old and went on a “take your son to work day” with dad. The dragon-saurus is wonderful and deserves a name, but somehow has never acquired one. Nevertheless, it faithfully stands guard in my garden, and gives maundering elk the evil eye.

There are all manner of stepping-stones that my kids have made over the years. My favorites are the ones they made in Mr. Westerberg’s 3-4 grade class that include the hand print of the “artist” pressed into the back. It’s hard to believe my towering six-foot sons ever had hands that small, but I have the proof, imprinted in cement.

My gardens also seem to be a repository for forgotten toys. Every so often, when transplanting a seedling, I’ll unearth a long-lost Hot Wheel car or a Match Box bulldozer that was abandoned when the Worst Mother in the World made the construction crew come in and take a bath. And then there are the plastic animal figurines that wander around the edges of my garden. And, unlike the real life elk, they never nibble. I have a T-Rex that menaces a hapless giraffe, a great white shark that I am convinced functions as a scare slug—that’s like a scarecrow, but for (obvi) slugs. At times, the T-Rex and the Shark have ganged up on poor Mister Giraffe but they usually hang out in different flowerbeds. And it’s for the best, really. Someone has to keep an eye on all my “junk.”

July Weather Rules

It is true what they say about the weather. Don’t like it? It’ll change. First it was too dry—in March!--, then it was too rainy. Then it was July and the Weather Rules were *supposed* to kick into action.

Everyone knows that in the Pacific Northwest—specifically eastern Lewis County—summer does not reliably arrive until after the first week in July. Odds are, July 4^th will be a bit rainy, but as soon as we get it behinds us—full bloom summer. Unless July 5^th falls on a weekend. If it does, the weather could remain rainy, but NO MATTER WHAT-- the sun is guaranteed to come out on the first Monday after the 4^th of July holiday. IT’S A RULE. NO RAIN AFTER JULY 5. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT.

Statistically speaking, this is a FACT. A warm, dry, beautiful, sunny fact...

Pre-rain petunias

It is after July 5. I woke up to rain this morning. I am not amused. My petunias are not amused. I’m ready to write a strongly worded letter to the weather gods and tell them just what I think about this unconscionable turn of events. I recall what Mark Twain said about statistics: There are lies, damn lies and then there are statistics. I do not find this at all comforting. The wording in my letter becomes a bit more pointed and saltier. I realize I have no idea what sort of postage is required to send a letter to the weather gods. There is a great deal of heavy sighing and consulting of the weather app on my smart phone. Looks like rain will remain for the next couple of days, possibly some partial sun on Friday. **sigh**

Well, at least rain is prime Slug Hunting Weather. Put on your gloves, grab your jug of salty water, and go out and collect the slimy lil’ buggers. Nothing like a little vengeance as a pick-me-up.

Beach Time

Sunrise on Lummi Island...shot thru the window, then back to bed.
Because sunrise comes pretty early in the morning.

Now that my fence is in and the ravenous elk are safely thwarted, slugs have stepped—slimed? —up to be the new bane of my existence. The dahlia bulbs I was so proud of myself for—both remembering to dig them up in the fall AND remembering to plant them again this spring—have thrice been eaten all the way down to stubs. My “organic, safe for children and pets” slug killer –and I use that word ironically as I don’t think the “killer” gives them so much as a stomachache—has proven to be less than affective.

For all I know, “Organic Slug Killer” is the slugs’ new favorite seasoning, goes great with delicious dahlias, and pairs delightfully with the shallow pan of IPA I placed out to drown them in. (What? Doesn’t everybody drown their garden pests in small batch, artisanal brewed beer? What are we, heathens?)

Hoping that the fourth time would be the charmed number for dahlias regeneration, and that the fence would hold, I packed my bags, engaged a cat sitter, and a plant water-er, and headed off to the San Juan’s with a friend and her family for some much-needed Beach Time.

Mt Baker as seen from Lummi Island

Beach Time is some how better than regular time; time seems to slow down and kick off its shoes. The day unfolds at an unhurried pace—walks become more meandering. Pebbles and shells and bits of beach glass are examined and collected. Meals are lingered over, sunsets are observed, and conversations are unhurried. And even though July 4^th was a week ago, we can still see “the rockets red glare” across the water to the mainland, as some firework “enthusiast” continues his celebration on the shoreline. From an island, this behavior seems amusing rather than annoying. 

What was it that wise Beach Philosopher Jimmy Buffet once said? “Changes in Latitude, Changes in Attitude”? I think he got it right. 

Beach Time is transformative.

Kayak photo bomb by Danielle

Moondance Sea Kayaks even makes you lunch on the beach.

Our Guide Laura points out the sights

https://moondancekayak.com/

The Best Defense

Fence ownership is amazing—I go away for the weekend and when I return my flowers are still booming, my new trees are still treeing and haven’t been reduced to shrubs—or worse—stubs; even my lawn doesn’t look all raggedy and elk-eaten.

I came around the corner the other morning to find a little forked horn—a deer, not an elk-- still in velvet, gazing forlornly into an Eden he could never enter. I laughed and let him be.

While I have no proof that elk have encountered the fence—which is good in, the sense that they haven’t gotten tangled up in it—I have, however, discovered evidence that they have been in the area.

And by “discovered evidence” I mean they’ve eaten and shredded every plant not inside the fence and stomped with their big demon feet all over my unfenced front flower bed. They’ve even eaten plants that in previous years they had walked right by. Back then, I suppose, their thoughts were something like “why stop at McDonald’s when you’re on your way to some Michelin star-worthy gourmet dining?” Now they are either motivated by revenge— “Stomp that lily, pull up that moss rose—HOW DARE SHE TWART US?!!” or are driven mad by the smell of all the delicious petunias they can never have and are forced to chew on some second-rate evening primroses; a forlorn group of Moses, fated to forever gaze into the Promised Land but never enter it.

I will admit that when I discovered the elk damage to the unfenced portions of my yard, I did not react with the casual “oh well” acceptance I had assumed I would muster. After all, I had made a Faustian bargain of sorts with the Universe---“Just let me have these plants here in the backyard and the elk can have the rest of my property to plunder.” I was a little peeved, but soon recovered my equanimity. 

Mostly.