Tried to make up a lyric to the tune of "I'm a little teapot," beginning with "I'm a little worry-wart." About as cute as a rat with a fuzzy tail, right? (Wait! That's a squirrel, right? Hey now, that is cute!)
Anyway, there I am sitting at my desk in the city all week, wringing my hands, envisioning every last plant in the garden burnt to a crisp with all of the heat we've been having. I mean, I'm reading people's blogs and everyone is out all day long watering and watering and running their wells dry to keep their plants from drooping, and there I am in NYC just worrying my head off.
And when we left the city this afternoon, we're driving up the Palisades Parkway, and B says, "Wow, look how dry the grass is. When did that happen?" and all I'm seeing in my mind is Pleasant Hill become the Valley of the Shadow of Death, with acres and acres of brown foliage and trees that have stripped down to their branches because it's SO DARN HOT.
We arrive. I park the car at the top of the driveway, fling open the door, and run to my dahlias and the new columbines and the little oak-leaf hydrangea that has surely succumbed because its root system is no larger than my pinky.
All are fine. Absolutely fine. So are all of the tomatoes, squash, and string beans, and even the lettuce looks great, for crying out loud.
We've since watered the potted plants on the patio (don't worry, they were fine, too), and the soil in the whiskey barrel was still a little moist, truth to tell (we watered it anyway). And with some thunderstorms coming through overnight and into the morning, it seems the rest of the garden will get watered soon, too.
I think I will stop worrying now.