Nom de Plume

Steve and the outlaws took off for Vashon Island about an hour ago. I stayed behind because Harry needs to go to the vet. I will spare you the gory details, except to say that pugs get swollen anal sacs. Yeaachh. It’s overcast and cool, with a slight hint of autumn in the air. I would ordinarily be thrilled at the onset of my favorite season–but my tomatoes have not yet ripened. These are the heirloom varieties I started from seed and managed to keep alive, so you can imagine that I want to at least taste the fruits of my labors.

Speaking of gardening matters, our neighbor has just ripped out everything in the yard except the trees. The last owner of the house was a little old lady who had lived there for 40-odd years (we never met her; she passed away right before we moved in) and it was obvious the garden was her pride and joy. Actually, it was the best thing about the house. And now it’s all gone, being replaced with fresh rolls of sod as we speak.

Come to think of it, we seem to be surrounded by garden ripper-outers. Our new neighbors two houses up just pulled out all the organic vegetable beds that came with the house. “We just don’t have time to take care of them,” she explained guiltily. Fair enough. And though the previous owner may disagree, the loss of that garden wasn’t nearly as heartrending as seeing an entire truck bed overflowing with plants collected over nearly half a century.