Cow Parsnips

Our lower meadow is all cow parsnips right now, about as far as the eye can see. They look wonderful. There’s just nothing that says “summer’s coming” as clearly as cow parsnips.

Unless it’s the wild roses in the lane. Their delicate pink blossoms seem so fleeting even now before summer has officially started. Yet, I think they’ll be there for a while.

Meadow Grass in May

And all of a sudden the grass that grows beside the lane is as tall as I am… almost. Maybe by the weekend it will be. I think if I sat in among it in the evening I could actually hear it grow. That’s what they say about the corn in the Midwest. I think it goes for meadow grasses on Willapa Bay, as well.

In our garden, the foxglove is shooting up, too. No blossoms yet but there soon will be. When it gets to this stage – maybe a foot or eighteen inches tall, I begin to wonder if it will burst forth in the usual deep pink or if the blossoms will be the rarer white. Is there a way to tell from the leaves? Shouldn’t there be? I wonder if it knows or if it will be surprised, too.

Our hydrangea has more blossoms than ever – thanks so my early morning ministrations with Deer Fence all year. I’ve been going out first thing in the morning every few weeks in bathrobe and sticky-outie pillow hair so that any smelly overspray can be taken care of in washing machine and shower before my day starts.

I wouldn’t have done that a few years ago – false pride, I guess. But now I think of myself as a modern-day Irene Nelson. I remember when she used to walk up the street to her barn to milk her cows each morning wearing bathrobe and boots and, when it was raining, a sou’wester. The neighbors would shake their heads and smile. And here I am on that slippery slope, myself. An Oysterville Character in the making.

Pastel Hydrangeas

Back on the subject of hydrangeas, though – our bush has always had light blue rather watery-looking blossoms. Occasionally, I think of amending the soil to change its pH level toward more acidic. I’d like to try for a dramatic dark blue but, apparently, spraying against the deer is about all I can manage hydrangea-wise.

Yesterday, though, I noticed a distinct pink color on a blossom at the very top of the bush. “No pink!” I told it. I was immediately relieved to realize that Nyel was not yet home. Only the day before he had caught me talking to the swallows in a similar tone. Those pesky birds were sitting atop our doorframe discussing nest building. “Not there!” I told them. “Nyel will just take it down!”

The man, himself, arrived just at that very moment.  “Who are you talking to?” he asked, looking around curiously…

Yep. An Oysterville Character. And probably not just ‘in the making’ either.