what's buggin' us

The Better Half was pulling weeds from the flower beds this morning. She discovered what we think is a black swallowtail caterpillar (Third Instar Stage). Of course, when we returned later with a camera, said caterpiggly was nowhere to be found. No so the katydid we discovered ourselves the other day on the inside of the screened patio. If our increasingly temperamental memory doesn't deceive us, that's the first time we've ever seen a katydid in the flesh.

screened-in katydid

Photo by J. Harrington

Today's weather again has us looking forward to Autumn's cooler temperatures and breezes. We once again pulled a few small buckthorn shrubs and a couple of handfuls (handsfull?) of nettles that were encroaching on what passes for a front yard. We're working toward a new philosophy wherein doing outside chores replaces time spent sitting on our duffs or doing the equivalent of PT exercises, that keeps our joints from rusting in place and our muscles from fading entirely away.

blue giant hyssop

Photo by J. Harrington

We've again discovered that, even when we think we're paying attention, too often we're not paying enough attention. The latest instance involved our efforts to (re)identify blue giant hyssop. We were, for a time, convinced that the plants along our drive had multiple flower heads spreading off of one stem. The field guide pictures didn't show that arrangement. Finally, we broke down and went back to look at the real thing. One flower head per stem is what's there, it looks different if one isn't paying careful attention. Sometimes we rue not having learned thee lessons when we were much younger, but in those days we were sure we knew everything we needed to know and had little if any need to pay attention to anyone or anything but ourselves. Yet another example of the benefits of lifelong learning.

DON'T FORGET TO VOTE TUESDAY.

Planting the Meadow

By Mary Makofske

I leave the formal garden of schedules  

where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs  

of thought, and day after day, a boxwood  

topiary hunt chases a green fox  

never caught. No voice calls me to order  

as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel  

to earth and, moving east to west, second  

the motion only of the sun. I plant  

frail seedlings in the unplowed field, trusting  

the wildness hidden in their hearts. Spring light  

sprawls across false indigo and hyssop,  

daisies, flax. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold  

or promise rain. In time, outside of time,  

the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers.

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