someone promised me a rose garden

I had been meaning to blog more often this week, but it's turning out to be a much busier and difficult week than I anticipated. It's almost over, I know, and it's a long weekend to boot — but we've got so much to get done around the house that it doesn't feel like a holiday. We are getting all sorts of things installed next week, and my grandmother is coming in exactly 8 days, so it's rush-rush-rush now.

When we bought the house (in the middle of winter), we were told that there was a rose garden under the snow. It didn't appear last year — there was one lone bush of wild roses, with a few blooms — but I didn't think too much of it. But this year:









The scabrosas (the last two) are a particular surprise. I had assumed that they had been regular thorny hedges.

cut peonies are better than no peonies at all

We were up at the farm this weekend (for a reason I'll blog about later), and the best thing about being at the farm in June, specifically — aside from the company which, happily, isn't confined to a single month — is that the peonies are in bloom, and my father-in-law always lets me cut some for my table.


One of these is from the parent stock of the root I planted last fall. We're not really sure which one — even my father-in-law isn't — and I've given up on finding out this year. That little plant looks like it's still alive, at least, but it's little — I'd say maybe a foot tall, which is kind of dispiriting for a peony. I'm not sure if it's because this is its first year — supposedly, they don't bloom in their first year — or if it really is struggling. Apparently peonies don't like to compete with things, and my garden is a plant-eat-plant kind of place.

Similarly, I am kind of demoralised right now. I spent an awfully long time weeding and taking care of the garden a mere two weeks ago, and now it is overgrown and scraggly again. I know, intellectually, that that's what happens, but instinctively I felt very defensive every time Pd pointed out a weed or an overgrown bush — I did work in the garden; I have kept my resolution (so far) — this isn't like last year at all! And yet.

flowers, and a cat

I usually take a quick glance at the garden when I leave for work in the morning, and yesterday I received a nice surprise:


I had given up on its blooming. It seemed healthy enough, but it's been growing much more slowly than its cousin, which has been blooming for about two weeks. It's not in an ideal spot — less sunny as it is closer to the porch, slightly shaded by a forsythia, and much wetter — I found out recently that part of our downspout drains into that bed — so I had reconciled myself to only one blooming calla lily this year.

When I bought the bulbs (they came in one package), I had thought that they were going to be full-size callas, but it looks like they're miniatures. Which I prefer, in any case.


The basil is also blooming. I know I should be plucking its flowers to encourage growth, but as it's an annual and will die off anyway (and I've got more than enough leaves to use this summer), I can't be bothered.


Besides which, I am hoping that maybe it will seed itself into the plot and grow back after all — although I doubt that, in this climate. But perhaps I will be able to salvage enough to pot up to last me through the winter.

...
Also, and I should have mentioned this yesterday, Tuesday turned nine years old.


We didn't do anything special to celebrate (uhm, she's a cat), but I thought I would note it for posterity. Happy Birthday, Cat. You are just as adorable and annoying as you were eight years and ten months ago, but I love you anyway. And I can't believe I've spent the last almost-nine years dealing with your fur on my clothes.

identified at last

Last night, I was in the den — which faces the street — with the windows wide open when a neighbourhood nature tour-type group came by. (I don't actually know who they were — I looked out the window and there were a group of adults, 10 to 15 of them, with notepads, and a person, obviously a guide of some sort, talking.) They had stopped in front of our house. I didn't want them to see me, so I stood next to the window, out of sight, but when she said, "This small tree is one of my favourite kinds of trees. Can anyone tell me what it is?" I pricked up my ears.

And so, a wee bit of eavesdropping and a confirmatory trip to Google later, I can now tell you that the tree in front of our house is a Saskatoon berry.


This is an old photo from April, 2010, i.e., before the yard started blooming. It doesn't look like this right now.
This apparently explains why this one particular robin keeps trying to attack the tree (or perching on it — and then falling off because the tree branches are wee and can't take its weight. It's actually very funny). Supposedly the berries are edible, but difficult to get because they are popular with birds; as soon as they're ripe (in early summer), the birds swoop in and get them all.

I feel very proud of myself and my detective skills. It still counts, doesn't it, even if it required a large dose of serendipity?

colour therapy

I have been really into bright colours lately — odd because I'm very much a neutrals kind of girl. (Remember, my house = moody blues and greys, exclusively. Well, almost.) My wardrobe is still neutral — I am not giving up my love of grey-blue — but the house might be undergoing a slight metamorphosis. Here's a sneak peek:


It's just one room — one wall of one room — I'm not really that adventurous. I will admit that I had instant regrets after painting it. Pd convinced me to see it through, and it is almost exactly what I envisioned — but I'm not sure if it was the heat or the hormones that made me envision something quite so outside my comfort zone.

(And I know: outside my comfort zone is allegedly good for me, but I'm not sure I want to grow as a person any more. I'm perfectly satisfied with my character, built as-is.)

Happy solstice, everyone!