I was gardening at twilight again today. It's a half-good/half-bad time to be out there. It's cooler, and my time is limited to as long as the light holds out, so I don't wear myself out too much. But it's when the mosquitoes come out, and my time is limited to as long as the light holds out, so I don't get as much done. Since I was avoiding the heat of the day, and then sleeping off a looming migraine, I had little choice but to try to get a few things done in the fading light. I inherited a couple Indian hawthorn bushes that my mah jongg master dug up in favor of shrubs she wanted more. I managed to get one in the ground, plus the agapanthus that has been steadily outgrowing its pot, before the darkness suspended my operations for the night. I hope the smaller hawthorn survives until morning. I could have held out in the dark a little longer to plant it, but I ran into a roadblock. Every time I think I can declare one of last year's plants dead, and dig it up to put in something new, it surprises me with a tiny sign of life. First the plumbago erupted in petite green shoots, then the lantana had sprouts the size of a dried lentil. So I waited. Now, when I'm ready to remove the oleander that struggled last year, it threw out a couple tiny oblong leaves, begging me not to give up on it. Tomorrow I need to take stock yet again, and look for a different spot for the remaining hawthorn where cats do not go.
When I first brought the hawthorns home, I watered them well in their temporary pots, as well as everything else on the garage side of the house. In the process, I caught sight of something bright green, flipping around under the unlucky rhododendron, and it took me getting right up on top of it to identify what I was seeing. It was two anole lizards, locked in an epic battle. They were each trying to bite the other's head off, both clamped on to the other's jaw. Neither seemed to be winning, and this standoff formed an elegant green S curve, vivid against the faded cedar mulch and unraked leaves. I don't know whether it was my interference with the camera that eventually drove them apart, or one flinching, but eventually they parted, with one running to hide in a stack of bricks, and the other staying behind to pose and brag about how tough he was.
Last night, one of the ladies who was here for the Derby saw my house for the first time. She made a point to describe it as "homey." I explained that when you move as often as we do, you get very good at quickly decorating and arranging familiar pieces of furniture and art, in order to create the illusion that you've lived in a place a very long time. Every few years we completely tear down our lives and rebuild somewhere else. We leave behind thousands of pounds of things that can't fit in a moving truck, things that we can replace from any big box store, and we give away remnants of our lifestyle that we have outgrown, which are still useful for someone else. But some pieces make an appearance in every house, familiar items that came from our families, souvenirs from homes we've loved, art made by us or those close to us. I have even carried around plants for all these years, always hoping that they will survive the journey in the back of a truck, and that they will thrive in their new locations. The ficus tree I keep on the front porch has been with us over twenty years, a wedding gift from the man's college classmate. And I have a plant upstairs that was the first one he and I ever bought together, when we were still dating. I don't remember its species name, but we've always called it "Janet" from the variety named on the nursery tag.
Somewhere in the next two weeks, we have to decide whether we are going to perform the dance of Shiva again. We have been notified of the end of his current project, and have been presented with a choice of what to do next. None of the options is perfect. In fact, some of the details are downright off-putting. And I'm having a hard time seeing anything that sounds as good as staying in the Park that I love. I have built a life I love in this small spot, and the idea of tearing it down and hoping that the next one will be as good isn't as appealing as it has been in the past. Every other time I have known when it was time to leave, and I couldn't wait to see each town in my rear view mirror. But now, finally, I think I'm tired of dancing.
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