Max and I found a round moon in our sky last night.
The nights are still too warm for the feather comforter until toward morning, when the temperature chills. But the window stays open day and night. Actually the window is open most all nights, year-round, unless the rain is blowing in. That way I can breathe and also hear the owls calling in the woods, like they did last night. (Mr. O doesn’t quite understand it either.)
Things are changing outside.
There is food in the trees.
Many of Mr. O’s fruit trees are young, just getting going. Still, the production is remarkable for as little trouble as they are. (They make the vegetable garden seem like gardener abuse.)
The apples come in different colors.
He has created an orchard of prunes and plums. The leaves already golden on the ground are from a poplar behind The Photographer. (Surprise, that’s me!) The lowest leaves on these fruit trees are kept mowed upward by our friends the deer, nice and level at exactly the height of deer teeth. Small young trees must be netted against becoming limbless.
This year there are a few fruits on the prune trees in this orchard. But we have a much older Italian prune tree we planted closer to the house, about twenty years ago.
It is situated along the picket fence, and it produces quite a lot of fruit. I like that the fruit is blue, in addition to being a good snack.
My grandma had a prune tree in her garden, when I was a child.
This is Grandma in about 1914. (She was a seamstress and I’m sure she made the dress.)
My most vivid memories of her are when she was old and widowed. In her garden, under the walnut tree, there was a couch swing with a canopy, and she had an enormous Cecile Brunner rose that grew over her chickenhouse. And she grew pinks in a long planter. (I’m certain she made a gardener of me–thanks Grandma!)
If we let the prunes get too ripe some kind of bug moves in, so we eat them early. (Perhaps the bug is already in there even then but we can’t see it so it’s ok.)
There’s a Bartlett pear tree in the yard too. It is about the most dependable fruit tree we have, and produces pears every year. Sometimes I preserve them in jars, but mostly we eat them as they ripen.
We planted the pear tree, and really most all of our trees, except for the ancient oaks. And now they are all so grown that we have a great deal of lovely shade. Still the grass is dying in places, because there is now Summer Heat (about 90 degrees F. off and on) and I am not watering grass, just gardens. We get our water from a well, and the quality is wonderful but there isn’t a lot to spare.
The grapes aren’t ripe but they are in the arbor, hanging among the leaves like ornaments. (Well yes, there were grapes in Grandma’s garden too.)
I heard that dogs aren’t supposed to eat grapes, but Max always gets a few when they fall. Maybe that’s why he’s the weird little dog that he is.
In other news, the basil is still producing, in the greenhouse where it lives all summer in pots.
The pesto, made with basil and garlic and olive oil, gets frozen in little jars.
Now we finally have tomatoes to eat with fresh basil too.