September 09, 2003

To Everything There is a Season

Just as the hottest days occur sometime after the longest ones as heat continues to build in the soil and rock of the summertime earth, so too the humidity, a month after the end of the rainiest season in memory, seems to continue to permeate everything indoors and out, and adorn our interior with a fine blue blush of the powdery fuzz of mildew. Closet doors stick, the kitchen cabinets meet each other before closing fully. In the angular sun of the late afternoon, the hardwood floor in the big room shows cupping where it has taken on water with no room to expand sideways... the edges turn up. The whole world would seem in need of a diuretic to restore the system to a non-bloated state. At least soon we'll be firing up the dry heat of the woodstove, and that should help with some this indoor sauna of summer, the wettest I've ever known.

The boys in the Feed & Seed say it'll be a bad winter for squirrels because what few acorns set in the branches have rotted on the ground. Those who cut hay for winter feed will be hard pressed for even a second cutting-- much less a third. Our garden just stopped growing, arrested at about the mid-June level of growth except for the Purselane and Gallinsoga which leapt ahead like it had been soaking in Miracle Grow. Yesterday, when I was sure no neighbors would see me do it, I took the lawnmower to the garden, to everything except for the spindly corn and blackening vines that will still hold green tomatoes at first frost as soon as next week. I mowed my garden... a failed effort to grow vegetables hydroponicly.

Next year, if I knew ahead of time it was going to be this wet again, I'd consider looking in the Burpees catalog at their rice and sugar cane varieties. Go with the flow. And we've had plenty of that this year. Still, given a choice, I would rather have our recent excess of water than drought. This time last year, the creeks went dry and we were wondering if it would ever rain again. Now the aquifers are full of the rains of May and June, stored in the dark cold for dry months that will come again.

Posted by fred1st at September 9, 2003 06:26 AM | TrackBack
Comments

I seem to remember a musty smell. In my little shack everything has had to go into rubbermaid bins. If I leave a pair of shoes on the floor for say a week they look like they have been sitting there for eons and the local universities call to ask if they can study them. The back of the futon decided to become a living organism all on its own. I look foward to the dry heat of my little radiator to cure this fungus outbreak. The farmers almanac is calling for a big snowstorm before Christmas so I expect my little radiator heater will have plenty of time to pump out the heat. I am a little jealous thinking about the woodstoves. Sometimes I go to my grandma's house (she heats with wood stoves still and she's 86) just to get snowed in there. I am wondering why the older I get the more I like winter?

Posted by: Seth at September 9, 2003 08:25 AM

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