There’s a tinge of sadness when I see the hydrangeas sending up new blooms at this time of the year. It’s a crap shoot for whether they will all make it before the first hard frost hits. Most of these should flower before we get there, but there are those that don’t. In the past I’d try to bring them inside, to save a few like we did with green tomatoes, but not anymore. There is a time and place for everything to slumber, and that cycle, forged and refined and perfected by Nature herself, will not be hijacked by my endeavors. Still, there is sadness when buds are on the brink of being felled, and I may cut them if words of a frost carry on the wings of night.
The garden often gets a little second wind at this point when summer’s heretofore relentless heat and haze gives way to a crisp, cool alacrity that seems to snap order back into the proceedings. It’s as if suddenly everything is aware that the season is coming to its close, and goes about putting on one last show. The colors are more vibrant, and though the blooms are usually smaller and secondary, they carry stronger hues and deeper shades. The lower light works in tandem to show them off at their most expressive. It’s something that can’t be produced in the high-sun days of July or early August.
That almost makes the end of summer worth it.
Almost.
