April 1. -- This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four. -- Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar (from Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, 1894)
A hailstorm last week in the middle of the night caused not a little concern for some gardeners in northwest Florida. Some fool planted peas to grow up on the hedge. She was too lazy to rig up a proper support system for them. The broken stems and tendrils do not bode well for a harvest anytime soon.
Peter Piper might be able to pick a peck of peppers here and elsewhere in the garden--if he can sneak in ahead of the fool who planted them. The leaves were shredded a bit by the hail, but the fruit wasn't damaged. Daughter picked the largest one today to add to her specialty, chicken enchiladas. I can smell them baking in the oven right now. Mmmm.
Live oak trees are clothed with a fresh growth of leaves. You never see them absolutely bare. Last year's leaves fall off at the same time this year's growth takes over. They are pushed out of the nest, so to speak, by the next generation. Most fools tend to go out on a limb, and I'm no exception. TC, the Write Gardener, has encouraged (challenged?) his friends and fellow-bloggers to try their hands at poetry. Here goes:
April shakes her soggy head,
Storms and hail recede;
(Kisses of sun-warmth)
Gardener decides to cast her bread
On waters--not soil--no seed.
Drink it in, this day. Be fed.
Son's efforts at gardening may just surpass those of his parents one of these days. I hope so. He might even learn from a fool's mistakes if he pays close attention. Okay, I'm not really a fool--at least not most of the time. I'm (re)learning what's good and what's not, and I'm not afraid to share it.