Dahlias and mulch

Before

Like spring in the Northwest, the autumn season here is long and temperate. The weather gradually gets cooler, darker and wetter, but there isn't a dramatic change that shouts winter. We usually don't have a freeze until December, and sometimes not at all. So plants like dahlias hang on for months after they stop blooming. Each October it's a dilemma-- should I cut them down while they're still (sort of) pretty, or wait until they collapse in a soggy mess?

Most of the time I do it sooner rather than later. There's something to be said for leaving the party before people get tired of you. Still, I felt bad whacking down these big healthy plants yesterday, although I cut off the flowers for the house. They were the best dahlias I ever grew and I don't even know why. Maybe it was the rain this summer. What I wouldn't give for a vase of white garden flowers at Christmas. But the dahlia party is over until next year and the beauties have all left.

After

I went across the street as usual with my cart to collect fallen leaves from the huge maple tree. People driving by think I'm a good citizen for keeping the storm drains clean, but each fall I count on that tree for free mulch. After I brought a few loads over to my garden, I noticed our new neighbor came outside and got to work. Since I was raking the sidewalk in front of her house, she probably thought I was making a point about their yard-keeping.

I should have gone over and explained, but I was feeling unsociable because their big new house now blocks our little view of the Olympic Mountains. Well, that's life in the city and I'll get over it. Unless I'm becoming the grouchy old lady on the block who does weird things? Well, every neighborhood needs one :-)

There's a pretty poem called Frost Tonight about picking the last dahlias of the season. The garden is a metaphor for feelings in old age-- sadness, beauty and anticipation. Here's the last stanza:

In my garden of Life, with its all-late flowers
I heed a Voice in the shrinking hours:
'Frost tonight-- so clear and dead still...'
Half sad, half proud, my arms I fill.

Edith Mathilda Thomas