It happened about two weeks ago. My husband and I, our two grown sons, and their young families were standing around the kitchen, preparing a weekend meal, when out the kitchen window, I saw a sign from above: the chaff from pine cones and needles now spent with the summer’s heat and rain, slowly drifting down to the lawn and forest floor behind our 1800’s farmhouse.

Everyone agreed, if you could do nothing else but look out the window, you would know: no longer high summer, not autumn yet, but late summer. Perhaps a time to regret opportunities missed before school begins and chilling weather becomes the norm, but for others, time to get out and garden!

In the garden, cooler days mean you don’t feel dehydrated and burned to a crisp by end of day; fewer insects mean less aggravation; you can count on more regular rains. Fewer weeds need pulling—a few hours’ work and a perennial bed returned to a weed-free condition does the gardener’s soul good. Newly planted perennials have time to develop good root systems to make it through the winter. A few more weeks and bulbs will become another item on the list of things to plant, but not yet. Late summer.

The nights have become cooler, dipping into the 50s after weeks of temperatures in the 80s and 90s, a delicious change. Time to dispense with fans and air conditioners, light blankets, and thin cotton pajamas. Time to throw open the windows, pull up an extra blanket, and don the predecessors to the flannels of winter, not quite so thick and warm, but longer and useful when you, the first one up, need warmth to keep you from running back to bed.

The days warm quickly and often require removing a layer of clothing to keep up with the summery temperatures of the afternoon, but at night the layer goes back on to protect against the cool evening air.

Listen! The nocturnal creatures also make different sounds in late summer: the crickets croon instead of chirp; the saw-whet owl’s raspy metallic call has become more intense somehow.  In some areas, the whippoorwill startles you out of sleep, now that fans and such no longer hum a soothing lullaby.

The ferns start to turn; their fronds change from green to gold and bronze. Mosses green and lush have taken over vast areas of our yard, something I never mind. The thick, velvety surfaces make walking barefoot a sensory treat. Mushrooms have begun to multiply. The other day, my four grandchildren and I had a great time throwing puffballs at our big gray barn. Splat! A chorus of giggles followed by more splats. Then the big rush to find more before their siblings do!

Farmstands begin to pile up ripe tomatoes and sell them by the bushel, early apples appear, and “Silver Queen” corn, long awaited, lavished with butter, turns up on dinner plates. Pumpkins and winter squashes wait in fields to ripen and harden off.

The song sparrow who sang so forcefully all summer long has disappeared into the field somewhere, and instead we hear the constant thrum of the Chipping Sparrows; the Goldfinches with their chink-y flight sounds, and the Eastern Bluebirds churring contentedly before they leave for the winter. The crows and turkeys search for grasshoppers and crickets. Late summer.

Time to look back, to plan for next spring and summer, to look for gaps in the gardens. I need more grasses to fill out the perennial beds: more varieties of miscanthus especially. I just can’t get enough of them. I love their height, their late summer colors, the way they add winter interest, and after a snowstorm turn into a display of delicate, spidery crystals.

I need more daylilies to fill in gaps between other perennial blooms. I need more irises—German, Siberian, Japanese, and Dutch. Their varying blooming times spread colorful flowers out over a longer period of time. My peonies will need transplanting. Poor perennial sites remind me of the business slogan: location, location, location, a saying equally important for plants. While dormant, peonies transplant just fine and should begin to grow as soil warms in spring, hopefully more bountifully than before.

The gardener in me realizes that the seasons come and go because they must. I never feel ready for the changes that natural forces mandate, but this time of year makes me especially aware of the continual march of time and how little control I have of it. I enjoy the brief time allotted to me and make ready for transition in late summer.

By Helen Downing, UNH Cooperative Extension Master Gardener

09/01/2006

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