I’m burrowed away in the basement in one of those funky rooms that’s undefinable. I’m sitting at a 2’ x 4’ portable table against a light yellow wall that’s been scratched by items coming and going. When we moved into the house, all of our boxes of unnecessary stuff filled this room for nearly a year. Now half a wall is populated by boxes and drawers of questionable memorabilia: newspaper clippings, papers from conferences, photographs, architectural projects from the kids’ elementary days—in general, riffraff that has not steeped long enough to merit being pitched. It reminds me of the vegetable drawer. Things that are aged—but not green, mushy, or growing sprouts—get a fair chance. Or those funny weeds that pose as flowers throughout the growing season, only to be identified in late August as impostors. They soar to the sky with confidence mimicking a perennial, only to peter out with no blooms like a dud firecracker.
This is the staging room for tubs of seasonal decorations coming into the house from the barn loft. During the months of September through January, I call this the “room where all the magic happens.” Then, it’s a disaster zone with tub lids laying around and wrinkled paper in heaps from unwrapped glass ornaments. However, it’s a snug place and would be a safe refuge in which to avoid tornadoes. A rarity here in Massachusetts but for the possible spin cranked up by a passing hurricane or tropical storm.
The hard black shiny ceramic tiled floor is cold to my bare feet. I have a throw rug laying under the table. Insulating my feet, the flimsy rug swims on top of the slick tile, and my toes cannot resist the urge to move it around feeling grooves of the joining grout underneath. I could see an 8’ x 10’ area rug working nicely here. Big enough to carve out an office footprint, yet small enough so as not to infringe on the storage space and not needing to go under heavy storage shelves a foot away from my table.
The hydrangeas are hanging on porcelain door knobs from my great aunt’s house. Harikleia Kuliopolos painted the Greek scenes on the shelf; she paints light spectacularly.
Given the close proximity of a predicted, glancing hurricane, I hacked some hydrangeas off the bush and made bouquets that will dry. I’m trying two methods: One group of stems is in water and will dry when the water evaporates. The other is a big branch hanging upside down to dry more quickly. A simple science experiment to see which ones look the best in September.
During this dry, humid summer, I water the flower gardens nearly every morning, but I have not weeded or taken out stray saplings. I like to say I have a lot of “undergrowth” this season; that sounds better than “weeds.” In early summer, I downloaded a plant identifying app on my phone. I can take a shot of any plant, and whether it’s flowering or not, the app identifies the plant in seconds. Three saplings out front have unique yet familiar leaves and are growing taller than usual since I haven’t ventured out with my pruning shears. A couple weeks ago, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, where it was happily broadcasting Christmas music to my neck speaker, and in the app, I snapped photos of these three saplings.
A black walnut. A shag bark hickory. An American elm. All grow in black Iowa dirt. That’s the closest I’ve been to Iowa trees since November 2019.
Yet, onward.