They’re all blooming now, many colors, many sizes.
No lizards in sight.
Week Number Four? Five? Five, I think, but it might be four. Didn’t we have this discussion last night? Or was it the night before?
Time is not what it was. I’m thinking of Tom Hanks’ character on that island with the volleyball after being so clock driven and time obsessed while working for FedEx. This might not be quite that extreme. But there are days…
And yet, the flowers don’t care. All they know is the days are longer, warmer, there’s water, there are bees. It’s time.
In that fuzzy not-quite-awake, can-I-still-get-back-to-sleep stage this morning I had the most wonderful few seconds of thinking that it was Sunday and stepping through what I was hoping to waste time on and not get done. Then, of course, I realized it was in fact Monday.
The resulting shot of adrenaline, sorrow, and existential angst should last through the whole week.
So have another one of the roses from next to the driveway. The lady from down the hill a ways was walking her boxer this evening and she also stopped to take pictures of them, then acted embarrassed when she saw me watching her from the front porch.
No worries! I just wished that social distancing didn’t prevent me from saying hello to her puppy!
Yet another kingdom heard from!
The birds don’t give two thoughts to COVID-19.
The bees don’t give two thoughts to COVID-19.
The bunnies don’t give two thoughts to COVID-19
The lizards don’t give two thoughts to COVID-19.
I’m pretty sure the roses don’t give two thoughts to COVID-19.
We’re on our own here, folks. The planet will be just fine without us.
Perhaps we should clean up our act and prove that we’re smart enough to stick around. (I have suggestions.)
Stay home. Wash your hands.
Out on the back porch are some succulents planted in huge clay pots that I somehow haven’t managed to kill. (I’m famous for this.)
The most vibrant and healthy of these is a pencil tree that started out the size of my hand and is now the size of a suitcase. This weekend it decided to bloom, which I hadn’t seen before.
These things are somewhat popular in gardens and drought resistant gardens – they also can grow huge, up to tree sized, with a trunk that’s three feet around and growing up to thirty feet tall.
They also can be a bit nasty. If you break one open (or try to cut down one of those tree-sized ones) be aware that the sap is toxic and can cause serious skin irritation and blindness if it gets into your eyes.
I would probably be getting rid of this one if we had pets or small children, but we don’t, so I won’t.
I just thought it was neat to see the small flowers, and how the ones that had bloomed first looked like they had literally burnt out.
It’s been a very long, weird weekend. Dealing with empty shelves, way too much work on way too many fronts with way too much exhaustion, and then watching the “Extreme Makeover” episode from when the two Palmdale homes were built last August while I was still with Homes For Families. It was a bit surreal.
Even through my PTSD and stress, I noticed that the fruit trees in the back yard aren’t caring a whit about COVID-19, or the old job, or the new job, or anything else. There might be a lesson there.
Toward the end of May there was an explosion of color in the rose bushes that line our driveway. (Here, here, here, here, here, and you can take it from here, right?) And that was pretty much it I assumed, since we didn’t see much rose activity last year when we moved in at about that same time of year.
But way, way down by the street (okay, it’s a matter of perspective – it’s not like this guy’s a mile away down at the end of the driveway from the Beverly Hillbillies) this week I saw this one, lone, bright yellow rose:
See him way, way down there? “Wait, wait! Why aren’t the rest of you blooming along with me? I wasn’t ready! I WASN’T DONE YET!!”
So, brave little soldier that he was, despite being abandoned and left behind by the rest of the roses, he just…BURST!
(Is this picture sideways? The metadata says no, but my eyeballs say yes. Needs a 90° flip clockwise? Worth fiddling around with WordPress to try to figure out how to add a poll? Ermm…….no.)
So I won’t presume to state for the record that THIS was the last rose of the season. They’re doing just out of spite now. But I would note that the neighbor’s snapdragons are coming in nicely. Time to move along and share the stage, roses!
Thanks for all of the glorious colors!
Not Boston ferns, actually from about 150 miles northwest of there.
Free-range ferns. Not contained to any pot hanging in a T.G.I.Friday’s!
Update – feeling fine, just still can’t speak. It’s incredibly frustrating, like fighting with both hands tied behind my back.
Some progress on that front tonight when I found that if I basically try to shout as loud as I can, actual vocal sounds come out. Good to know, I was starting to wonder. I can only do it for a few words at a time and folks start to wonder why you’re shouting at them like some Monty Python character in what should be a normal conversation. In addition, I suspect it’s damaging and slows down the actual healing.
But any little bit of progress is welcome.
At our office they’ve planted a big section of “drought resistant” plants (we’re seeing a lot of that in the area as we’ve had multiple drought years and water prices shooting through the roof) and while many of them are fairly common, there are a couple that I’m seeing for the first time.
Like this fuzzy, velvet red colored thing.
The bulbs on the end are trying to burst open with little flowers and pistles and stamens and possibly some tiny Alien xenomorph type things in there. (Look at how that thing on the left is peeling back and opening up. Did we not see this happening when Ash leaned over that pod?)
So even if it’s not full of xenomorph seeds, can this at least be a baby Triffid?
Something to drive away today’s gremlins would be appreciated. I’m not picky at this point. Apocalyptic horrors don’t seem that much worse than what we’re already chin-deep in every day.
Meh. They’re probably just odd little tough bright red desert flowers that went from having a range of a few miles out in Death Valley to being in every nursery in SoCal because of the luck of the draw.