Garden News

My lone tomato plant is growing well.  It's a Health Kick Roma-style tomato (with extra lycopene) and it's shot up at least four inches since I planted it two weeks ago.  It's happy in its bale and I'm happy too.  One of the four basil plants didn't survive but all the rest of the plants are thriving.  Still waiting for the potatoes to poke up.








Another iris bloomed today, bloomed and then the flower stalk flopped right over.  I ran the hose up and watered the plants on top of the retaining wall but that didn't encourage the flower to stand back up, so I cut it and it's enjoying the air conditioning looking much happier and lots less droopy.





I have a poppy!  The first one bloomed and it's beautiful.  I love the frilly orange-red petals contrasted with the deep purple center, don't you?


 


I finished Stuck-at-Home Warshrag #4 this afternoon.  I purely love the colors of this yarn but I don't plan to knit a third dishcloth with it, not right away anyhow.  I cast on a different dishcloth pattern with pastel yarn this afternoon when this one was done.  I'll show off that one tomorrow.


We broke a high temperature record today.  It was 92 degrees at 5 o'clock with 76% humidity so the "feels like" temperature was a nice round 100 degrees.  (Yesterday it was cool and damp, so cool that I had on a fleece sweater for part of the day.)  I, of course, got it into my head that I absolutely had to go to the grocery to get granola and a few other items so I went out in the afternoon heat and humidity like a loon.  It wasn't so bad but it sure felt good to get home into the air conditioning.  Getting into the car a/c felt pretty good too.  I hope our summer isn't like today.

02 June--Barbara Malcolm, Tropical Obsession. 

          The stars hang closer in the tropics. Santiago steered the Santa Rosalia out of the little bay on the north coast of Venezuela he called home. The stink of the aging diesel was pulled out of the cabin when he reached the open ocean and pushed the throttles to their stops. He took one last glance over his shoulder to bid farewell to the orange spot that was the fire his wife Rosalia always lit on the beach when he left, but he had waited too long to turn, he could not see it. A bolt of panic shot through his guts, the superstition of bad luck at the change in routine churned his stomach and made his knees feel loose. "Stupid peasant," he said, running his fingers over the religious medal he wore around his neck and making a little bow to the statue of the Virgin duct taped to the console. He pictured the warm orange light of Rosalia's fire as he looked out at the waves painted pale blue and white by the cold light of the stars. Manning would be waiting and he, Santiago, would soon be rich enough to buy a new engine for his boat, with a bit left over for a few sparkly things for his Rosalia.

          The local fishermen went out just after sunset five nights a week. They putted out of the anchorages to their favorite fishing grounds navigating by the stars. No fancy GPS to keep dry or out of the bilge water in the bottom of the shallow boats. All they needed was a view of the stars to lead them out and home. Not that they needed to go all that far offshore, the waters around the island had been declared a marine preserve over thirty years before so there were plenty of fish to catch. The rules said they could only fish with hand lines, not nets, but Santiago figured what the fish police did not know would not hurt him. He always trailed a net behind the Santa Rosalia on his way from his little bay on the coast of Venezuela to the Town Pier. He made sure to haul the net in, put the fish in the well, and stow the net before getting too far into Bonairean waters. If anyone asked, he had plenty of fishing line scars to brandish to prove how he caught the fish. The nets were good for covering the other cargo Santiago carried, the things the gringo Manning waited on the beach for every Tuesday night.

          Santiago moved with speed and grace from his boat, the Santa Rosalia, moored as close to shore as was safe. He slid over the gunwale into the water, his feet in their gray canvas shoes barely making a splash. He eased away from the boat sliding his feet along so he wouldn't churn up the water and leave a telltale line of white behind him. He carried an old burlap sack that had begun its life full of coffee beans destined for the lucrative American market and had been reduced to carrying ganja for a while along the Jamaican coast. Now it held a few ballast stones and a clump of what might be Spanish silver pieces-of-eight welded together by a couple centuries immersion in the sea. He tucked the bag into a corner of the fourth slave hut from the south end of the row. It would look enough like run-of-the-mill trash that the casual observer wouldn't notice it and it should be safe until Manning retrieved it to prove to Mr. Moneybags, Jack Spencer, that he, Santiago, really had found something valuable. The sun was just tinting the eastern horizon with the thinnest pale gold line as Santiago re-boarded the Santa Rosalia and resumed his journey to the Town Pier with his official cargo of pineapples and potted palm plants for the weekly market.

We're supposed to have thunderstorms tonight.  It's spitting rain and the wind is up.  I saw some lightning off in the distance when I sat down but don't hear any thunder.  It'll probably wait until I'm fast asleep before letting loose with a giant boom to rattle me out of bed.  I kind of wish it'd storm while I'm awake so I get to enjoy it.
--Barbara