Year 3, Column 17: GARDEN OF GRACE

Though the calendar still reads Summer, the light is changing from bright to golden even as the thermometer spikes from mild to sweltering.

The other day, I trekked over to Groundhog Hill in the wee hours of the early morning.

Dawn had struck, but the Sun had not yet risen. I, however, was on my second cup of Folgers and was ready to go cut some Zinnias.

As soon as I passed the eastern city limits, I met some of the densest fog I’ve seen this summer. The thick clouds of billowing grey felt otherworldly as I navigated Dad’s truck, now with the lights turned on, and made my way to the garden.

The sunflowers are finally blooming, and the Peruvian Purple Corn is just about ready to harvest, I am pleased to report.

The rows and rows of Zinnias are still pretty, but you can see they’ve lost their luster amidst the growing grasses and Morning Glory which seem determined to choke them.

Autumnal colors have appeared all of a sudden: Yellows, Oranges, Burnt Reds. The Marigolds are now taking Center Stage as they are awash in deep deep orange blooms.

The Pumpkins are not far behind but still have a ways to go.

Soccer ball-sized gourds are plentiful, but they are not yet bright orange in color. They are a dark, dark green and seem hopeful to remain unnoticed for at least one more month.

Even the trees seem to sense that a Change of Season is nearly upon us: Walnut, Sassafras, and Ash have begun to drop their leaves in recognition that Fall is just around the proverbial corner.

The squirrels are having a field day (pun intended) collecting the walnuts that have plopped to the ground.

Summer is nearly over and draws to a close. Time is marching on, and we must pick up the pace or else be left behind.

As I packed up my daily collection, the Eastern Sun arose over the treetops, and the garden and I were bathed in golden sunshine. What. A. Moment.

Morning had broken, and in that moment of the new day, the feelings of trauma I had been carrying around like burdensome luggage finally dissipated to an acceptable level of nothingness.

I felt a deep sense of Gratitude for these last four months as Time well-spent in Hodgenville, in La Rue County, in this garden.

This year at times, Groundhog Hill has been a garden of Renewal, of Wonders, of Wild Delights, of Little Winters, of Ugly Babies, of Corrections, of Companions, of Predicaments, of Song, of Gifts, of Tears, of Grief, and now as Summer retreats, a garden of Grace.

Thank You for sharing it with Me.

So long for Now….

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About GroundHog Hill

Splitting my time between my home in Santa Monica, California, and my hometown of Hodgenville, Kentucky. Spending the summer with my 93-year-young father and writing about our adventures in Summer Gardening for the local newspaper, The La Rue County Herald News. This weekly column is Notes From Groundhog Hill. Groundhog Hill is the name and location of my half-acre flower and vegetable garden which is part of my family farm, Gypsy Acres. My paternal grandfather, Paul E. Enlow, named the hill as such because it was "groundhog heaven." Shawnee Indians used to camp there centuries ago and many arrowheads have been found there while wading in the nearby Main Fork of Nolynn Creek.
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2 Responses to Year 3, Column 17: GARDEN OF GRACE

  1. Lisa Third says:

    Safe travels to SM Steve La Rue. xo Lisa Third.

  2. Likewise Steve, thanks for sharing and so long for now.

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