Wisteria

I think it is permissible for even a modest gardener to boast when her wisteria blooms, after eight long years of vines vines vines. I'm not really taking credit for it, though I did prune this year. I made several people walk up the path to the outdoor shower and look back so that they could see the wisteria at its best. My neighbors and I are hoping that its perfume will be enough to overcome some less pleasant odors that are a feature of bungalow living.



It was Mother's Day, traditionally the day I turn the water on in Rockaway. I have it down to a science now. First, I lay out the tools. Then I go to the deli for beer. I clean up the area where you have to crawl under the house to screw the plugs into the pipes, and remove the cap from the pipe that gives access to the water line, and then—voilà!—my wonderful neighbor T. comes over and does all the work, assisted by me and a bottle or two of Budweiser. We were in luck: no leaks. I cleaned, put a fresh battery in the tide clock, which was still accurate for high tide during the full moon, and stayed to see the full moon rise over the ocean, yellow-orange, between clouds.

Next: the rosebush.