There's something so calming about standing out in my garden at 8:00am on a Sunday morning, with a cool breeze blowing and a mourning dove cooing nearby. The street is silent except for one car--a 1940s antique car--that drives past. Obviously, someone else out early on a pleasurable trip.
I smell tomatoes as I bend to tie them up onto their stakes, and my arms are soon wet with dew. The mosquitoes haven't found me yet. In fact, the only insects I see are honeybees and bumblebees, going about their pollinating duties in my squash.
(I've often wondered whose honeybees they are. Do their owners taste my garden in their honey? And my mint?)
The garden is so quiet and peaceful that I don't really want to go inside, but I have to bake something for the church potluck still this morning, and I know it won't be silent forever.
The church bells toll just as I finish up the last tomato plant. 8:30. Time to go inside.
I smell tomatoes as I bend to tie them up onto their stakes, and my arms are soon wet with dew. The mosquitoes haven't found me yet. In fact, the only insects I see are honeybees and bumblebees, going about their pollinating duties in my squash.
(I've often wondered whose honeybees they are. Do their owners taste my garden in their honey? And my mint?)
The garden is so quiet and peaceful that I don't really want to go inside, but I have to bake something for the church potluck still this morning, and I know it won't be silent forever.
The church bells toll just as I finish up the last tomato plant. 8:30. Time to go inside.
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