"When autumn comes is a fool's guess"

"To what can our life on earth be likened?
To a flock of geese,
alighting on the snow.
Sometimes leaving a trace of their passage."
-  Su Shi

It naturally thrives in dry woodlands, fields, 

woodland edges, and rocky, limestone, or clay soils—

all of which are common in Middle Tennessee's landscape.

Above - Maybe Ocola Skipper Butterfly (long-winged skipper)

Below - Leaf Cutter Bee

The Pure Golden Green Sweat Bee, Augochlora pura 

displays metallic tones that are usually bright green,

 but sometimes coppery or golden, 

and even a deep dark green that looks almost blue.

It is an extremely beautiful bee that poses no threat to gardeners.

Augochlora makes her nests under the loose bark of old fallen trees. 

She builds cells made of mud and debris 

found under the bark that she glues together. 

She works throughout the days gathering pollen from her favorite flowers, 

carrying it back to her log home on her hind legs. 

In her nest, she mixes the pollen with some nectar and her own saliva. 

Scientists think that her saliva has antiseptic qualities 

that help keep this food fresh and add extra protection to the eggs. 

Once she has gathered enough food for one larva she lays an egg 

inside the cell and seals it. Her nests are lined 

with an impermeable thin membrane 

that she produces from glands on her body. 

The nests need all this protection because there are marauding ants 

and many other little predators that would promptly devour her babies.

Seeds

Bright yellow flowers in center are unpollinated.

The brown ones are pollinated and have no more nectar or pollen

Two outside petals have curled up and died, turning a dark purple.

When all petals have curled up the seeds begin to mature.

Striped Hoverfly (Syrphidae)

 Pearl Crescent Butterfly (Phyciodes tharos)

Common Eastern Bumblebee

This one was about twice as large

as the ones I usually see.

Common checkered-skipper Butterfly, Pyrgus communis

Larvae feed on the leaves of plants in the mallow family.

The hairs are brown or black with some white on the female,

and bluish-gray with some white on the male.

Maybe Ochlodes sylvanoides, the woodland skipper

Not the best of photos, but it shows the white patch on the 

male Carpenter Bee's face which is quite large on this one bee.

A number of Carpenter Bees were on the Pink Turtlehead plants, 

robbing (as many call it) the last of the nectar 

by slitting a hole at the base of the flowers 

and eating the nectar for long periods of time. 

Swamp Sunflower buds just beginning to open.

Beautyberry 

October 8, 2026

Dear Friends,

Splendid day today! 

Slept for four hours, took a potty break, then stared at the ceiling listening to gentle music that would lull me back to sleep.

As you may guess, I stared at that ceiling for two hours but was gifted with a visit from Charlotte asking for a massage.  Cats can often be so demanding, but she was full of sweet nothings, so I accommodated her wishes.

If you are not a person who has been chosen by a cat seeking free lodging, you may fail to understand the dramatics of a cat who will fight almost to the death to be nowhere near the cat carrier, let alone in it. 

One must do that deep breathing, in through the nose and out through the mouth, relax, baby, relax.  Pretend it is just another day in the neighborhood, and it is breakfast as usual.  If those words cat carrier pops into your head, your cat will know before you do what the intended fate is.  You’re so cooked if you’ve reached this point.

Nothing humbles a person more that crawling on all fours, sweeping a broom under the couch to chase your little baby into the hallway where all doors will be closed except the room you intend to trap him in, although Vic forgot to open one of the doors, so each time Austin ran down the hallway, it was back out in a flash and under the couch again.

I suggested to Vic that a deep breath to regain his senses, and perhaps taking a moment to open my writing room door might be more rewarding.  Easy peasy…well, I lied a bit there, but Austin finally surrendered, seeing it was a futile cause trying to stay free.  Poor baby.

When the doctor handles him, he becomes jelly and flattens out like a big pancake on the table, does his stress purring, and is blessed with so many words telling him he is the perfect cat, and we don’t know what’s wrong with Mommy and Daddy.  Surely, they exaggerate a bit.

Anyway…It’s not always easy talking about the garden these days. Vic’s losing control of it, but nothing’s new there.  September was just as hot as August, so no time out on the deck, and the water bill quadrupled. October has given us mornings with crisp fresh air caressing one’s face.  Feels so good, but afternoons still reach the nineties.  Without the shade the Ash Tree once produced, the back yard looks ragged and worn out in this unrelenting heat.

I’m not sure if the dogwood died, or if it just went dormant early. Next spring will tell the complete story. It breaks my heart when I walk in the garden, so I do it less than more.  I really don’t feel like the title gardener fits me anymore.  Today’s my sister’s birthday, and it makes me miss her even more.  I seem to have no one to confide in…bummer! What an utterly lonely feeling.  I must fight to not let it depress me.

It’s afternoon already, and breakfast is just a dream that will not come to pass.  I picked some butter lettuce for lunch to make a salad with hard cooked eggs and avocado.  The seed catalog said this butter lettuce would survive hot weather, and they are correct.  It doesn’t get shaded, and will become limp in the afternoons, but in the evening or early mornings it is quite nice.  I just let it go to seed and let the seeds plant themselves.  It has been surviving this way for three years, giving me two seasons of lettuce a year. Vegetables can have as pretty of flowers as anything else in the garden.

I am doing a little better, knock on wood, and my family doctor has been working with me to get the doses right of the three medications that cause extreme drowsiness for me.  I melt into a very deep sleep that would take a fire alarm at my ear to wake me up, so I have been a bit worried.

To you, my precious readers, who have stuck with me through thick and thin: thank you for letting me into your lives. You are a real blessing to me, and you give my life so much purpose. I could hug you to pieces! 

😊

Yvonne

💖

Surely the birds would know if fairies were hiding among them.

 

Potions, spells, and fairies hiding in the garden shadows—she brushed the thoughts away, watching them take flight on the faintest passing breeze. It was the softest childhood hope, one she had believed in deeply but ultimately outgrew with a heavy, quiet disappointment. Sitting in silence on a patio chair stacked three cushions high, she listened to the merriment of goldfinches and Carolina wrens busy among the Blackhaw viburnums. The shrubs were heavy with berries and little else. Surely, she thought, the birds would know if fairies were hiding among them.

Her mind wandered as softly as the clouds gathering overhead. The only impression reaching her heart was that all things are revealed in their own time; she would allow herself to feel, yet remain patient for a magic that would most likely never come to pass. If ever there was a time she needed an all-knowing voice to whisper into her ear, “I’ve got this handled,” it was now. But no one had her back. Only sweet nothings had ever been whispered into her ears.

She sighed. It was a warm day, and the teasing breeze seemed to bind her to the chair, keeping her from escaping back into the cool sanctuary of her home. Before her lay empty plates with traces of fresh peaches and croissant crumbs—the remains of a cozy breakfast for one. She ignored them, slipping instead into daydreams of nothingness.

Suddenly, two mockingbirds swooped in from the driveway in a dizzying, tumbling flight dance over the top of the old viburnum. Turning toward her in a synchronized plunge, they zoomed through the air, barely clearing the top of her patio umbrella. Back and forth they swirled around each other, their wings fluttering in a breathless rhythm. Their colors—slate, soft grey, buff, and white—blurred into something almost angelical. They soared over and around the viburnum, then landed unexpectedly on the corner railing of the deck. Through the tall Liatris stems standing in the corner flowerpot, they stared mockingly at her.

Within seconds, they rose again in a flurry of wings, chasing each other in a wide arc. At the peak of their flight, they dove into the chaotic tangle of the berry-laden viburnum, settling into a sudden, breathless stillness for a bit of berry picking.

The sweet hush that followed felt as though nature had playfully, irreverently answered her unspoken question: Do fairies actually exist?

She leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and exhaled a long, slow sigh. Just as a wave of foolishness washed over her, a frog hiding in the garden shadows bellowed out a trio of chirps right on cue, as if thoroughly delighted by the joke.

Metallic Green Sweat Bee

on

Aster Paten (Clasping Aster)

“A poor old Widow in her weeds
Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds;
Not too shallow, and not too deep,
And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip.
Up shone May, like gold, and soon
Green as an arbour grew leafy June.
And now all summer she sits and sews
Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows,
Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet,
Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit;
Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells;
Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells;
Like Oberon's meadows her garden is
Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees.
Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs,
And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes;
And all she has is all she needs --
A poor Old Widow in her weeds.”

― Walter de la Mare, Peacock Pie 

Pink Turtlehead

with

Common Eastern Bumblebee

Rollicking Terrier barking at the wind while cloud chasing.

Poor moralists! 

To miss so much of the joy of life; 

to deny oneself the pleasure 

(to mention only one among many) 

of reclining lazily on one's back 

in a snap-dragon, 

watching the little white clouds 

sail past 

upon a sea of blue... 

~A. A. Milne, "The Case for the Artist"

 Tamely to state that the sun was shining hotly upon us does not even begin to express an idea of the blazing, panting, almost shriveling radiance which poured over us in central Tennessee that unwinking August noon.

~Marion Hill, McAllister's Grove, 1917 [altered]

The Song of Wandering Aengus

      ~ William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,  

Because a fire was in my head,  
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,  
And hooked a berry to a thread;  
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,  
I dropped the berry in a stream  
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor  

I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,  
And someone called me by my name:  
It had become a glimmering girl  
With apple blossom in her hair  
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands,

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

I woke today with the deep, resonant aches of a lifetime long lived. Yet, sliding open the glass patio door, the heavy feeling vanished into the refreshing, sixty-five-degree early morning tranquility.

Breakfast, as always, brought its familiar comfort: crisp, seed-filled crackers topped with rich almond butter and sweet blueberry preserves, all accompanied by a steaming cup of English Breakfast tea. On other days, the ritual shifts to avocado toast and fresh fruit—but today, this warm, simple routine is exactly the gentle grounding I need to ease into the rest of my day.

My arthritic hands still ache from moving heavy objects two days ago. No matter how seductive the garden appears, I am choosing to remain indoors and give them a few more days to rest. It seems to be a recurring theme for me lately: just when things finally start looking up, they take a turn for the worse.

Managing chronic pain while on a blood thinner like Eliquis has been very difficult, especially when the safer alternative, Tylenol, does not work for me.  It is frustrating to feel stuck without the relief Ibuprofen gave me.

My lush firm bed has been trying to kill me for months, as it is not lush enough, and as for my neck pain, I am still looking for that elusive cervical pillow that will provide the perfect relief for my all too short neck.  I’m on a mission this next month to find solutions to my problems.  Wish me well.

My beloved outdoor dining table claimed only two days of my life during this intensely hot month, yet within that brief window, a new story emerged. It began while I was reading last year's autumn issue of Bella Grace; an article titled “Beyond Spells & Potions” immediately caught my attention. Then, in the middle of August—an exceptionally late time for mockingbirds to mate—I found myself in the perfect place at the exact right moment to witness their breathless ritual unfold. To complete the narrative, the timely croaking of my favorite frog arrived just a bit earlier in the day, providing the perfect ending.

My garden will thrive in the quiet rain of this afternoon’s unexpected thunderstorm as I close the book on this day’s writings. Peaceful moments like this give us all a quiet space to rest and dream.

May you be cozy and safe, like a warm hug,

Yvonne

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Saturday's Critters