The seasons turn. I’ve dressed and re-seeded the lawn. I need to finish my autumn veg plantings. The pelargoniums continue to fire off fireworks, likely defying all weathers with their boisterous explosions until the first frost. The Greek basil flowered like a lightbulb coming on, attracting bees of I don’t know what breeds, but will soon be gone too.
Work has been quiet, but now it looks set to pick up again. I was getting nervous for a while, but soon I will miss the time to relax, to deadhead flowers, to drink tea and look at the garden with a critical eye. K. has become a published author this summer, all interviews and laying-out; if all goes well, I might self-publish a book myself, soon.
My old soldier eventually had to go into a care home. When they got him out of his flat, he was so confused he didn’t resist; and so dirty they asked the nurses if they could clean him up. Today Mum texted: “Laughing his head off very happy watched tv last night and camping women he knows.” One of the nurses is a friend of my extended family; one of the patients, a relative of his ex-neighbour: we’ll see how it goes.
There are more blackberries on the trees than I have ever, ever seen. But this year we’re too busy to make jam from them. At some point, I will put our jars outside the front of the house, with a note saying “FREE: PLEASE TAKE.” Others will put them to good use, and that won’t feel as good as eating home-made jam but it will feel all right.
The box will gradually empty, down to the weird coffee jars nobody will want. The weather will dampen and fill it back up with rain water, and I’ll eventually crack, and bring it back indoors. And the seasons will turn.