Irene. Ma. Summa. Red. She is one of the most precious flowers in our garden. She’s been a bit droopy lately, but seems to be coming back. We are hoping a little more TLC (and a lot of elbow grease) will get her over this latest slump.

Wild roses. Red clover. Orange hawk weed. Vetch. Goats beard. Wild carrot. Phlox. Columbine. Daisies. No cascades of azaleas as in Berkeley. No riot of hibiscus as in São Paulo. But the aroma of ripening black raspberries is headier than single malt whiskey.

The winter squash are up and getting in gear. Tomatoes, eggplant and peppers look lively. All but one of the potatoes spronged. The first radish is always the sweetest. Popcorn and onions haze green. That is rhubarb being boisterous in the front row.

Michael completed the fence for a new duck pasture today.

The chicks grow by leaps and bounds.

And the Grand Boy has a smile as bright as the roses. Michael and I have been exhausted. But a cup of tea on the deck, watching deer and turkeys and herons and swallows, reminds us why this work is worthwhile.