This enormous stand of fountain grass has been the semi-bane of our backyard existence for a few years now. It’s grown beyond the point of easy control, and my body, in particular my back, no longer possesses the ability to properly tackle it. That would require some incredibly deep digging and physical exertion – and as I recently explained in a text defining a sweet invitation to a ‘Bingo Loco’ rave, “Gurl, I’m fifty.”
The days of whacking and hacking away at an enormous entanglement of roots are in the past – I can manage some surface digging and superficial pruning above ground, and that’s about it. That said, I’ll endeavor to get in slightly better shape before spring arrives and we start the growing season again. Is it sad to already be talking and daydreaming about the when we haven’t even started winter yet? Not a good sign, perhaps, but there’s hope in it – faraway and distant hope – the sort that will have to see us through the winter when it arrives next month.
The brilliance of this outside scene will swiftly diminish, as harder frosts will snatch the color from the leaves, and the leaves from the trees. Our focus will shift to the interior – where the attic exudes a rustic, tranquil white and gray scene, lit by candlelight and cushioned by piles of heavy blankets. The cozy season, blazingly at hand.
