Begin Began Begun

There was an old man named Michael Finnegan,
He had whiskers on his chinnegan,
Along came the wind and blew them in again,
Poor old Michael Finnegan. Begin again!

There was an old man named Michael Finnegan,
He kicked up an awful dinnegan,
Because they said he must not sing again,
Poor old Michael Finnegan. Begin again!

There was an old man named Michael Finnegan,
He went fishing with a pinnegan,
Caught a fish and dropped it in again,
Poor old Michael Finnegan. Begin again!


This children's song has a lot to teach about blogging and gardening both.  


Circumstances change, a practice that was once easy is made more difficult, the gap between what should be and what is becomes stretched.  Nothing new under the sun there.  


Or here.


As is usual this time of year, I've kept an eye out on the hummingbird feeders.


Not to watch the birds when they feed, but to watch and see if there are indeed any birds actively feeding.

The two Special Ops Hummingbird Strike Force, the irritable guys who show up annually to resume staking out both a front and back feeder as their exclusive territory, seem to have moved on.  

No migrating stragglers have been spotted for at least 10 days in our little corner of the world.  


In fact, I've seen more butterflies this past week than I have hummingbirds.  Which is saying something.* So I took down our hummingbird feeders and put them in the dishwasher to get them clean for storage until they are needed again.  

[*This year, considering reports that GMO soybean planting has nearly eliminated milkweed thereby threatening the survival of Monarch Butterflies, along with the more obvious hardships caused by our drought and heat, we've seen very few butterflies.  Maybe one or two a day are working the Fall Gratitude Blooms along with a smattering of bees, but nothing like what we usually experience. ]

Move over feeder, it is the bird house gourd's turn.

So ends another S/Hummer season.  Pool floats are out of the water, a shovel leans against the house close to a garden bed that is past due for a thorough turning over.  The need for work continues even if the nature of the work has shifted gears.  


And, oh, yes, there is this one other shift of note.  I am back at the blog again.  Yup.  I suppose you can just call me Ms. Finnegan.

At long last

I have been variously amused and frustrated lately reading about local gardener's efforts to coax their tomato plants into extending their productive efforts.  (check the comments section for the 8/8/10 post here)

Some are trimming back plants and hoping for a second crop.  Others have actually put new plants into the ground counting upon our extended warm weather to give them time for tomatoes before frost is even a prospect.

On the other hand, around the Gardenista we have been babying along what are surely the slowest growing, most extended adolescent type tomato plants I've ever personally witnessed.  I don't know what the problem has been.  The plants were all started indoors from seed way back in February.  They were not transplanted out into unprotected beds until well after the evening lows had hiked up into the 50's.  The baby plants went into beds prepped with compost and manure and the plants were mulched to help protect against moisture loss.

Providing supplemental water from the rain barrels gave us plenty of chances to keep an eye on their progress (or lack of it).  Nothing much happened.  Weeks turned into months. I racked what passes for my brain.  Why so little growth for so long and no tomatoes from these guys?  (Whyyyyyyyyyy!!!???)

Two little too late?

I had no clue and once my ankle injury sidelined my active participation I decided I no longer really cared enough to even ask the Hub how the plants were doing.  It was just too discouraging.

Cue upwelling of inspirational music.

Then it happened.  Two days ago, lo and behold, at least on the Roma plants, I spotted actual fruit.  The other varieties are blooming fairly regularly at long last and I have my trowels crossed that if we baby them through this final burst of high temperatures, we might just get an actual tomato or two.

Even one hand full of tomatoes (should they make it to harvest) would be just enough to entice me into trying to grow tomatoes all over again next year. [Disclaimer: With the obligatory annual alterations designed to overcome various mistakes and obstacles of course.]

I suppose that is always the way with an amateur like moi self.  I accidentally get it right juuust enough of the time to keep me from getting totally fed up.

As an optimist over all, in my outdoor attempts especially I minimize or outright ignore my (many) failures and maximize my successes.  I focus on what works and blithely jettison what either never worked at all or mysteriously has stopped working. Sun/shade conditions changed? I didn't hold my lips right when planting this year?  Wrong phase of the moon?  Soil pH?  Star alignment?  I rarely ever really know.

Samuel Johnson purportedly labeled remarriage as "the triumph of hope over experience".  I think he may as well have been talking about gardeners.   Gardeners and one stubborn blue bonnet plant perhaps.

The plant pictured below self seeded and decided to grow off-off season.  It is blooming in August because I guess it wants to?  Given the circumstances of my somewhat dismal fruit and vegetable crop results, I could not be happier.  I will take a tick mark for the "Win" column in any form.  In or out of season.

I would love...

I would love to be able to tell you that I have neglected posting here because I was busily improving the garden beds on our property.

I'd love even more to say I'd been swamped canning a surplus of tomatoes, or redesigning the blog.

But those are fantasies at best and more plainly put, outright falsehood.

What has kept me away has been a stupid accidental injury, reducing my extremity count to only one fully functional foot with the resulting lack of bipedal ability.

I am currently hobbling, when I am mobile at all, with a set of Trip Sticks crutches.  As I gain confidence mastering the many challenges of our multi-level home, I look wistfully forward to the day I'll be brave enough to take my act out of doors again.

Until that time comes I stare out our windows with glasses off, determined to blur the view of green so I will see it all as green I wanted, green I planned for, purposefully planted, rather than the jungle of weeds intermingled with overgrown desireables.

I am currently working not to fret about ant hills or other insect infestations I can no longer witness firsthand, or the lack of tomatoes on plants I cannot clearly discern from indoors.

What I am working to do is take full advantage of various personal insights revealed during this enforced slowdown.  Some of these insights naturally contain lessons.  Many of them I do not welcome, with bottom lines that are anything but uniformly attractive or affirming.  Such as they are, let it never be said I willingly shirked when there was work to do.

So here I sit, with my Catastrophic Cankle elevated, working.  Working on seeing.  Working on healing.

Healing my ankle, healing my frayed temperament, seeing a kind of health and wholeness that has less and less to do with my original singular focus on being able to get up and walk around under my own steam.

From time to time I am writing more about it all here.  If you are willing, feel free to drop in and visit with a non-gardening version of me.   I won't blame you if you aren't, believe me when I say nobody will be merrier than me when this blog requalifies for Garden status.  But until then, and for as long as it takes, you are most welcome to share some growth of a slightly different sort with me at Austin Agrodolce.