Let Us Bow Our Heads

I’m looking out the kitchen window at my vegetable and flower garden. It’s not a pretty site.

Morning glories have taken over, twisting up sunflower stems, smothering clusters of Lazy Susans that long ago cancelled their show on account of no rain.  Parsley is leggy, pumpkins never set, and one tomato is hiding in foliage, looking lonely and embarrassed. Only the basil, a glutton for summer punishment, is thriving.

I’d could say our hellish summer is to blame: How many 95-degree days can a garden take?

But truth be told, my garden looks like this every August.

Greg and I bought our half-acre of heaven 14 years ago, a rare empty lot on the last dirt road before D.C. The previous owner had gradually subdivided the whole block, but held back this one parcel to grow prize-winning dahlias.

An old picture shows thousands of dahlias arm-in-arm, drinking the sun. The best section was reserved for church on Sunday, but the rest of the field offered free pickins.

By the time we bought the lot, the dahlias were long gone and part of Chesterbrook Woods lore. Still, my neighbor wept when our bulldozer took the first bite out of the land to build our new house; she mourned the time when somebody devoted McLean land to a field of loopy flowers.

We finished the house and planted hydrangeas, azaleas, and rhododendrons around its foundation.

Greg was content to stop there. But after 15 years of condo living, I went garden crazy.

I planted a cutting garden so I could arrange fresh roses and peonies in crystal vases.

I planted an herb garden with rosemary, which is supposed to winter-over but never did; and chives that surprised me with lavender flowers in late spring.

I dug in a cash crop, pricey arugula and mesclun. And, of course, I grew tomatoes because who doesn’t like a fresh tomato in summer?

Each spring, I suffer gardener’s delirium, raking and hoeing and planting until I drop drunk from the smell and feel of soil.

Through June, I dote on the plants, digging in homegrown compost, watering by hand, plucking weeds as soon as they sprout. Consequently, my spring crop is magnificent, blooming  and preening with the self-satisfied look of something well cared for.

Then, Virginia summer rolls in, and my energy bugs out.

My friend, Leslie, is immune to heat and humidity, crisp and energized even after a two-mile walk. I, on the other hand, can’t breathe air I can slice with a knife. If the “feel like” temperature is 95, for me it’s 110. My face swells and reddens, my arms hang listless, my feet shuffle so slowly I almost walk backwards.

So during the second half of summer, I pull the drapes and preserve myself in an air conditioned house. I walk the dogs no later than 7 in the morning, and I run errands in the evening.

I survive the summer. But I can’t say as much for my poor gardens, wilted from neglect and smothered by weeds. They beg me: "Feed me! Water me! Love me again!"

I pass their beds and avert my eyes.

I could say more; but it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.

Lisa Kaplan Gordon writes about her real life every Wednesday.