Gardening in the autumn months -

We started this garden almost 25 years ago in the aftermath of Hurricane Fran. It looked like a war zone then! With $2.4 billion in damage and 13 deaths, North Carolina was hit hard, not just the coastal region but inland also. Our damage was substantial during that horrible, frightening night. My car was crushed by an oak falling on it in the driveway, and many large oak trees fell around the house necessitating a new roof, but thankfully we were not injured. What was formerly just a natural heavily treed area in back became a new project. After assistance with clearing and preparing the lot, Bob and I have done much of the work ourselves over the years. It's amazing how quickly trees, shrubs, and plants grow, even with limited sunlight. We still have a thick overhead canopy of trees despite the ones that fell and the removal later of several tall but dangerous pines on our property. Surrounding us are many trees in neighbors' yards impacting our space. This year we removed a few more large trees to get more sunshine into the back garden to help the small grassy area. Now, slightly overgrown, the privets are more the size of small trees than shrubs and are blending into the azaleas. Heavy pruning is on that lengthy garden 'to do' list come the correct time to go at the shrubs with tools and vigor!  

It's harder now and that so true quotation comes to mind  

often . . . . . "a garden is a thing of beauty and a job forever."

Changes through these long months of 2021 . . . . . . . 

~ Early morning autumn light ~

Preparing soon for the cold days ahead. Last year's wood pile is depleted,

more to be delivered soon.

The trees have yet to change color, the leaves yet to fall on the autumn 

breezes. The season of rust, red and gold comes later here because

 the temperatures remain high into October.

Patience.  A quick meditation break with deep breathing seems to work

in mid-afternoon. Clear the mind. Reboot and refresh. Sharpen and

refocus thoughts. Make plans. Keep forging ahead.

Enjoy your Sunday.

~ Hugs ~

I'll spin you a tale . . . . . . . . . .

Waiting tables and the Quiet American. . . . . . . . . . 

She was busy taking orders, placing them with the kitchen, carrying trays piled with plates, and her feet hurt. Working two jobs was hard going but when you're eighteen you should be able to do it. Youth, good health, boundless energy, and of course your dreams, are all on your side. She had worked on Saturdays in a dairy shop on the main street while in secretarial college. She loved that job as many tourists popped in to order the real Devon Clotted Cream to mail back home to family and friends. She enjoyed hearing where they were from and why they had picked the west country for their holiday. She longed to see the world for herself. For a short time she served in a small tea room on Sunday afternoons. There she had to dress like a real waitress in a black dress, stockings with the required 'sensible shoes', and a white frilly apron, the clientele were often uppity and the tips not great.  She even served 'American' hot dogs from a tiny 'hole in the wall' on the harbor for a few weekends, and hated riding home on the bus her clothes and hair smelling of grease. She needed the money to follow her dream.

Anstey's Cove, Torquay, Devon - Painted for me many years ago from a post card by a friend in Maine.

Her last job waiting tables was in a small restaurant near the top of the main street. Away from the busy seafront and beaches, but popular with holidaymakers staying in nearby large hotels. She recalls him well. Tall, slim, with an American accent. He ordered the big plate of spaghetti with meatballs. She told him waitressing was not her real job, she worked as a shorthand-typist in the office of an insurance company down by the harbor. She was making plans to go to Washington, D.C. to work for a year then come back with money and marry her boyfriend. He smiled, wished her luck, told her she'd enjoy working in America. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .and tucked a ten pound note into her hand as he left the restaurant. It was the biggest tip she ever received.

The beginning of a short story?  

Perhaps an entire book?  

Or one of many memoirs for family in the years ahead when

 she is no longer here to share oral history. . . . . . 

Now and then I hope to bring you more memoirs of growing up
in Devon, England during the 1940's, '50's and early 60's before I emigrated 
to the USA