Summertime . . . .

If you can't read this, it says 105F.

Well, summer has arrived in Central Texas. It's even worse in other areas, but I'm not there, I'm here. And it's hot.

Hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, if we had one. Which we don't.

Hotter 'n hell. Well, probably not.

From my husband, master of colorful metaphors and similes:  Hotter than frog legs in a frying pan.

And appropriate for our house:  so hot the chickens are laying hard-boiled eggs.

Anyway, you get the idea. If you have any fun things to add, feel free. Keep it clean, though. This is a family enterprise.

This is what my east bed and my beautiful phlox look like after the sun has its way with them - taken at about 1 p.m.

We have to shade our veggies here in Texas. We learned this trick last year, and it does prolong the life of our garden a little while.

Ode to the modern Santa.

‘Twas a few days before Christmas, and all through the house,

all the creatures were stirring (though we don’t have a mouse).

The stockings were hung on the staircase with care,

In hopes that Saint Nicholas would soon be there.

The children were rushing hither and yon,

Visiting friends, buying presents, and eating bon-bons.

And Dad in his flannel shirt, and I in my sweater,

Were working last minute to make Christmas better.

In the kitchen, I’d been baking: cookies and bread

While Dad sawed and created out in the shed.

Liebkuchen!

When out on the yard there arose such a clatter,

I threw open the door to see what was the matter.

Outside on the lawn, dusty grass and limestone

Helped to create a dry, Texas tone.

The wind tossed dried leaves up and around,

And the sun lit up grasses, green and brown.

What to my wondering eye should appear

But a large brown truck drawing quickly near.

With a shorts-clad driver sporting a tan,

I knew in a minute he was the UPS man.

This is not my UPS man, but an apt photo
from the Lodi, California website.

He was dressed all in brown from his head to his foot,

His arms were quite brawny from lifting his loot.

His smile was so friendly as he asked if my name

Was Cynthia, and I told him it was the same.

He spoke no more words, but handed it over:

A box filled with presents for all my book lovers.

Stuffing his hand-held device in his pocket,

He turned and was off at the speed of a rocket.

He sprang to his truck, turned the key and backed out,

Waved jauntily out the window as he headed south.

But I heard him exclaim ere he drove round the bend,

“Merry Christmas to you, and to all of your friends!”

Ashe juniper Christmas tree, cut from our property.

What is going on around here?

Something is going on around here. I'm not sure what it is. Something is different. Hmmm.

Flame-leaf sumac (Rhus lanceolata) is - well - flaming.

Fall-blooming Copper Canyon daisy
(Tagetes lemmonii)

Let me lay out the clues for you.

Strange colors have appeared out in the yard and woods. The normal greens have been interrupted by occasional oranges and yellows. Very odd.

The wicker rockers have disappeared from the porch. I've so enjoyed rocking in those chairs these past few months - feeling balmy breezes on my bare arms while gazing out at my colorful domain. The rockers have been replaced by a wood rack half-stocked with oak and cedar logs. This is not near as comfortable for domain gazing. Sort of knobbly. Strange.

 

My laundry has become bulkier, recently populated by sweatshirts and blue jeans, instead of t-shirts and shorts. Bizarre.

Here's the real kicker: it is cooler outside than it is inside. I know! What the h-e-double-l is transpiring here on the hill?

What? Fall? You mean, autumn? That elusive season that sometimes appears after the marathon that is summer in Texas, and before the sprint that is winter?

Oh.

Never mind.

Little bluestem (Schizachyrium scoparium)
is going to seed.

Cleaning up the world - one piece of excrement at a time.

On my walk last week, I glanced down and saw something that stopped me in my tracks. Two black  beetles were crossing the street while pushing a giant ball of – wait for it – dung.

“Darn it, where’s my camera when I need it?” I asked my faithful companion, Iris the dog. Her answer was a impenetrable glance, which I interpreted as “Well, you’re the blogger – it’s your responsibility” or maybe “Don’t look at me – I didn’t eat it.”

Being the technology maven I am, I whipped out the cell phone and snapped this picture. And being a cell phone picture, it does not tell the whole story. You will have to trust me that there were two beetles involved.

I first thought these two beetles were working cooperatively to move the ball back to their larder. Very impressive! Of course, ants work cooperatively, but I was surprised to see the beetles working in tandem.

But upon closer examination, I decided something else entirely was going on. One of the beetles was pushing the ball, while the other was clinging to it, riding round and round, scuttling like a lumberjack on a log to keep from being brushed off or crushed.

I imagined the conversation:

“Hey, this is my ball of dung! Leggo!

“No, finders keepers, it’s mine. Get off, it’s mine!”

“It’s mine! Stop pushing! I won’t let go!”

“GET OFF OF MY POOP!”

Or maybe this is the explanation (from Wikipedia):


The dung beetles roll and bury the ball for food or for a "brood ball." If for the latter, a male and female beetle will roll the ball. Usually the male rolls the ball and the female hitches a ride or follows along, but sometimes they will roll together. When they find a place with soft enough soil, they bury the ball, mate underground and prepare the ball; then the female lays eggs inside it. The ball provides food for the offspring. Some kinds of beetles will stick around to safeguard their young.

Oh. Apparently it was foreplay.

"Rainbow scarab," a dung beetle,  
Phanaeus vindex MacLachlan 
(Coleoptera: Scarabeidae), male (horned) and 
female. Photo by Drees. From 
http://insects.tamu.edu/fieldguide/bimg146.html

According to Texas A &M, there are a number of “tumblebugs” in the subfamily Scarabaeinae. Not all of them roll dung, some just burrow down in the dirt under poop piles.

Did you know that dung beetles dispose of 80 percent of the cattle droppings in some parts of Texas? These are beneficial bugs: since they reduce the amount of animal feces, they also reduce habitat needed by “filth-breeding flies.” I think we can all support that.

So if you see a beetle rolling a ball of poop along in your path, please don’t disturb him. He’s cleaning up the world, one piece of excrement at a time.

Favorite spot in the garden:

The day flowers  (Commelina erecta) seem to be at their peak right now. This patch is along (and in) a walkway near my porch – perfectly sited for viewing and appreciating! Day flowers bloom in the morning then close up, blooming for just one day (hence their name). They can be invasive, but aren’t at my house; perhaps because, according to the Wildflower Center, they prefer sandy soil, which I do not have.

Farewell, trusty helpers.

I am mourning today the loss of . . . my favorite gardening gloves.

You have served me well, you lovely, spring green gloves emblazoned with the word “GARDENER” across the knuckles. You fit so well, and remained at the ready for any task, large or small, over the last few years. How will I go on? Something vital will be missing from my garden endeavors. I fear I will be less productive, and I hope that my garden will not suffer as a result of this tragic loss.

Yes, I have a picture of my garden gloves - what of it?

How could such a thing happen, you ask? Every gardener knows she must guard and protect her precious helpers.  Alas, I was careless.

After working on the gardens at our neighborhood club on Monday, I removed my trusty gloves and placed them on the hood of the Beast (my SUV). I know, I know, I hear your indrawn breaths of horror. I think I retrieved them from this dangerous spot, but . . .

When I arrived home I realized I could not find my friends. I searched in the car and in the house, to no avail. My daughter and I revisited at the club, and then scoured the roadside to see if I had indeed left them in that terrible place and they had blown off – again, to no avail.

Maybe they have run away and are hiding, in retaliation for my carelessness in placing them – even for a few moments – in such a dangerous situation. If that’s so, and they somehow hear about this post, I say to them, “I’M SO SORRY, SO SO SORRY! PLEASE COME HOME! I NEED YOU!”

Perhaps you think I am being melodramatic. I assure you, this is not the case. I don’t know about other gardeners, but my garden gloves usually do not last long:  the fingertips wear out or they split between the thumb and first finger.  They are too large or too small; too heavy or too thin.

These are the perfect gloves. I bought them at that behemoth W**M*** - not normally where one finds fine gardening tools. I bought a first pair, and they lasted for much longer than other gloves. Several years later, I found another pair there – only one – and brought them home. We have been very happy together, these past two years. They were aging, like me, but still (like me!) had some good years left.

Now they are gone, GONE, I TELL YOU.

I’ve not been able to find the next generation at the behemoth, nor on the Internet. If I could find them, I would buy a dozen and hand them out at Christmas to those who would appreciate such paragons. (If you are rolling your eyes at my histrionics, and muttering “Good grief,” you are not on that Christmas list.)

I hope you don’t think I am being heartless in my speedy quest to replace my old and trusty friends.  It is the sincerest form of appreciation, knowing that my life will not be the same without these companions.

And after all, they are just gloves.

Favorite spot in the garden:

It’s raining as I type, a slow gentle rain tapping on the tin roof. I have finished planting (except for two silver dianthus). All of the new (and established) plants are bedded down out there, soaking up the good rain and enjoying a respite from the beaming rays of the sun. My favorite spot today is all of my garden and property, happily sucking up the good rain. I can almost hear it happening over the  drumming on the roof!

You see here my highly sophisticated rainwater collection system.