New England perfection

By the second week in May, my perennial borders look neater.  The lawn is clear of limbs blown down in winter storms.  The weather is New England perfection.  Dogwoods bloom. Apple trees are bedecked in pink and white.

Maple trees scatter fringes of red along their branches.  Weeding the lily bed, I find a white plastic stake standing as a gravestone to some frost-killed plant.

Two crows vie for the same top branch of the white pine. One lands, the other flies off. Caws accompany the game as one, then the other, dives and rises.  The sturdy-legged, stout-beaked, ebony-feathered birds are relatives to the blue jay.  Crows and jays are equally noisy, but crows are much smarter.  In fact, crows have the largest brain capacity of any bird -- the smartest winged species on the planet.  I wonder if this is a mating pair reaffirming a life-long bond?  Or it is a couple of last year’s brood hanging around to help out with the younger siblings this season?  Are they taking a break from guard duty to have a little fun?

Planting drives the month of May.  But cold, wet weather thwarts outdoor work.  I visit my wholesaler to pick up flats of snapdragons.  There I meet a landscaper stunned to think that she has lost yet another day of work.  The month of May is never long enough.  

As well as weeding my own beds, I help other open their borders.  My work with flowers entwines me in many lives.

Liesbeth and I arrive in the the Borough to weed two long perennial borders overlooking the harbor.  Stonington Borough is a unique part of the Town of Stonington.  A mile-long peninsula filled with well-kept period homes juts into Fisher’s Island Sound.  From the gazebo at DuBois Beach, people watch the sun rise or set over three states -- New York, Connecticut and Rhode Island. 

The McC’s, an elegant, older couple, own a home on Water Street.  Both are physically impaired but remain independent, even obstinate.  We arrive to find them mounting an assault on worms in their apple tree.  Mrs. McC is on a tall stepladder waving a broomstick at a triangular white nest just out of reach.  I scold them both for risking injury.

“I’m being your daughter now,”  I say. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s OK. Stew holds my feet when I’m up the ladder.  He puts his head against my butt so I’m stable.”

The scene is indeed as she describes it.  I shake my head.  The nest continues to resist attack, and Mrs. McC soon dismounts.  They reluctantly agree to let me find a younger person to do the job.  As I go back to weeding, Mrs. McC follows me out to the border.

“You’re right, you know,” she says.  “My daughter would have told me the same thing.”