Boomer Chick Musings

I was kind of dreading the end of summer.  But with the tomato plants looking so dowdy and just a few hanging on by a brown thread of a twig for that last bit of red ripe, or the deepening gold glow for the tomato version of candy, the message was clear.  It was over. I'd bought new autumn veggies for the containers, re-charging the old soil, adding new soil with some type of growie steroids.   Growies.  That's what Carl called our plants when we first got married.  I haven't thought about that word for decades.  It's a perfect word for my non-perfect garden. I think the urgency of planting and transplanting was a direct response to my dad's recent passing...life replacing death, order supplanting dis-order, awe replacing shock. I scheduled three days for all the duties associated with completely clearing his apartment. I so wanted to return home to fresh color in pots, fresh lettuce and beets standing upright, and knowing the huge root-bound fern and ever-s