It’s early… cool… humid.

The gardens’ heady scents, joined by saltwater, are invisible joys cast from, it seems, all directions.

I am not fooled.

What is comfortable now will be hot… hot… once the sun takes up position directly above (right now it’s about a half inch – according to my index finger and thumb, positioned in a pinch-y position – above the ‘tree horizon’).

I’ve have my first cup of coffee, feed the dogs.

The Hound eats way too quickly, even through she is fed in one of those slow feeding maze-type bowls. The Princess doesn’t have to get up to eat if she doesn’t feel like it, and today she doesn’t. She’s almost thirteen and a half  (I find myself back to noting fractions of years, and in that mode of being grateful for each additional day) and I hand feed her as I coo gentle reminders of her goodness, and that she is the best girl (and a very accomplished finisher of today’s breakfast).

About half way through this new-ish ritual, The Hound shows up behind me.

Once unable to control herself around food, she makes small mewing sounds at my back rather than bursting into the middle of this quiet time between me and our old dog. This wouldn’t have been possible years back, The Hound having experienced near starvation in her former life.

For a long time, she could not control her need to get to any and all food stuff, fiercely defending whatever she could get to as she gulped it down. Patience – and probably some weird human-doggie mind meld jujitsu – got us to where we are now. As I encourage The Princess, The Hound is satisfied with my occasional tossing of bits of kibble behind me. ‘Find and Chew’ has become a fun game.

I am proud of both of them and, once The Princess takes the last bit from my hand, I head to their cookie jar.

The Hound swallows her treat without chewing and, while The Princess settles in for a well-earned nap, she follows me to the front of the house, giving me the side-eye when I tell her to stay as I push open the wooden screen door. I closed it tightly – I’m no dummy – and tell her I’ll be back.

She will keep me in her view – ‘following’ me from window to window, door to door – as long as I’m outside.

The hose sits in a well-patina’d metal holder, its lid crooked on top. It has never fit perfectly, sort of wobbles a bit. I almost always smile when I put it on, or take it off. Funny how ‘things’ are capable of charm.

The Front Hose is long, probably five or so fifty-foot lengths of some sort of heavy duty fabric sections connected together to make a hose that carries water as far as I need it to (and, with these front gardens, that’s far). We are crazy fortunate that The Inn sits on nearly two acres (1.97 to be exact). The yard and gardens are bisected by our little, dead end street – no wider than a driveway. Long ago, a former owner had the foresight to purchase the two, small lots on the water side. They were overgrown grass and scrub when we bought the place, but have become ‘The Waterside Garden’.

The view, from the house toward the water, is now layered… a mixed border of spiraea, Russian sage, coreopsis, dwarf hydrangea, fairy rose, black-eyed Susan, and much more lines the road. Massive rows of beach roses (rosa virginiana) are farther in, and just beyond is a Juneberry tree (amelanchier ‘Autumn Brilliance’) planted in honor of Granny (June), and a dwarf variety of river birch sit among the waterside ledges. There are smaller plants – thymes, sedums, more catmints – down by the water. But I cannot see them from here.

I like hand watering.

It has fostered a close relationship with the gardens, especially in summer when their very survival can depend on me.

This is, of course, as opposed to any house plant that crosses my threshold. For some reason, I can practically intuit a lone garden plant, in and amongst hundreds of others, that might need me. But not so with a single houseplant, existing directly in my eye line. I cannot explain this, and no longer try. It’s a mystery on par with – as Nora Ephron contemplated – why the cold water in the bathroom is always colder than the cold water in the kitchen.

In the gardens, I know which plant needs what. I know who can handle a shower from above, and who might consider such a thing as a sign of disrespect (retaliating by inviting unwanted hooligans over to party, leaving a big mess all over their foliage (powdery mildew, perhaps, or worse)).

I know my divas…

Yes, Mr. Kousa dogwood, I’m looking at you. And, yes, I know you are an understory tree planted right out in the open – thanks for telling me, yet AGAIN. And I know you are making your point that the sun is hot with your wilty, curled leaves by noontime. Take a deep breath, realize you are planted in MAINE, and stop whining. Honestly, you have to set a better example. The geraniums really look up to you.

I know my overly generous people pleasers…

Oh, dear lavender, you are so pretty by the stone steps. Your scent is so lovely to me, but not so much to the neighborhood deer. Thank you for guarding my beloved Casablanca lilies while they come into being. And letting me know that you will be just fine if the other plants need today’s water more than you do. For that, you get an extra splash… just in case.

And I know my hellions.

The toadflax is out of control again, but adds so much fun to the place that I can’t chastise him (all the ‘hims’ – they pop up all over). A fat bumble bee has just landed on the toadflax beside me. The wispy plant is arching this way and that, between slight breeze and the weight of the big bee. And I can’t hide my smile, dammit. He is a toddler, loving that he can make me laugh at his naughtiness. 

I am finished, and back to the metal hose container in a little over an hour. Just a quarter turn to the left, and the water spigot is ‘off’. I drain the what remains in the hose into the small, stone birdbath used by everyone – ducks, chipmunks, squirrels, the neighborhood fox – especially on hot days.

It takes a few minutes to put the long, long hose away.

Many pulls and many half turns of my wrist create a series of imperfect circles, stacked one on top of the other within the container. When I’m done, I take the imperfect lid and set it, as best I can, in place. It makes a soft clink one way, and I try again, making a few more sounds before giving up and deciding it’s in the best position it can be for now. It practically winks at me.

And now here I sit, on the screen porch again.

A red squirrel is nibbling on seed he just fished out of the grass (I’d scattered some earlier). Now he is arguing with a nearby chipmunk, that his territory is way bigger than three feet and don’t make him come over there.

A downy woodpecker is at the feeder, looking this way and that (and this way and that and this way and that…) before plucking a bit of seed and heading back to the branches of the horse chestnut tree, just above, to enjoy it.

The Hound is alert, sitting tall in the wicker chair beside me policing all that is happening outside as The Princess snoozes inside.

The fan spins slowly overhead.

Birdsong is the soundtrack.

Peace has been slowly filling me, all morning long.

And now gratitude tops me off.

Thanks for readin’.

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