So we were watching a movie last night when Mr. Sorry asked, “Why do you keep licking your lip like that?”

“I need to pluck a hair,” I said absently while staring at George Clooney.

“You mean a whisker?”

“No. It’s not a whisker. It’s a hair.”

“Is it prickly?”

“Yes. But it’s not a whisker.”

“Does it grow back when you pluck it?”

“Yes. But it’s not a whisker.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. It’s not a whisker. It’s a hair.”

Here’s your first clue: I’m only showing the cut off tops because my Atomic Purple carrots look a lot bigger that way.

Here’s your second clue: This post in no way mentions the Atomic Red carrots I sowed at the same time.

And why do they hybridize veggies into weird-ass colors on the outside when they’re always the normal color on the inside?

Shakespeare must’ve been a gardener …

To bulb or not to bulb? That is the question as my cursor hovers over the SUBMIT ORDER button and I ponder whether ’tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of clicking now or to take arms against a sea of autumn troubles and just buy some pony packs in the spring.

Why this sudden change in my hue of resolution? I’ve known which bulbs I want since the Tulip Festival back in April. And this year, I shall not suffer the heartache and thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to by ordering too many and spending too much. No more. Neither shall I order any bulbs smaller than my fist, except one bag of crocus for Ma Bell.

So why then do I lose the name of action? Why am I sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, unable to click the SUBMIT ORDER button?

Perhaps it is the calamity of so long life. All my sins remembered: the bulbs still in bags in February or the ones planted in the family room carpet in December.

Or perhaps the commitment gives me pause. For if I click, then come October I shall bear the whips and scorns of time—unless I unexpectedly shuffle off this mortal coil before the UPS man arrives. And, if that, who then would fardels bear?

O, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished—not to bulb. To rest, perchance to dream. Ay, but there’s the rub. For if I fail to grunt and sweat under a weary life this autumn—if I myself my quietus make with empty beds—then what dreams may come in spring?

And that dread makes me rather bare those ills I have, as conscience does make cowards of us all.

Click! ORDER SUBMITTED

I must be the only gardener in the world with garlic smaller than the cloves I planted last fall. Here’s how to grow some of this fine delicacy yourself.

1. Plant your garlic a little later than you should, say maybe around December.
2. For lack of a better spot, plant it in that empty bed under the pine tree.
3. In March, regret planting your garlic under a pine tree and—although the garden literature is split 50/50 on whether it’s wise to move it—decide that you’re willing to risk it since yours is planted under a pine tree.
4. Dig up ALL of your garlic instead of leaving half of it to hedge your bets.
5. Carefully place your garlic in a plastic nursery pot and cover the delicate roots with a scoop of dirt so they don’t dry out while you get distracted by some other project for the entire month of April.
6. Transplant your garlic to your new raised beds, and cut off the healthy green foliage so it doesn’t flop over and make your rows untidy.
7. Be sure to companion plant your garlic beside your gargantuan broccoli to properly shade it from the sun.
8. Wait all summer for your garlic to grow.
9. Conclude at the end of August that you truly are a sorry gardener.
10. Dig up your garlic and start over, skipping all of the steps above.

Although it doesn’t say so on the calendar, today had that nagging feeling of being the last day of summer in the Pacific Northwest. Tomorrow the temps drop into the 60s and it begins raining—and this time of year in these parts, the gloom may just settle in for winter.

So Mr. Sorry and I lived the day. I wore my favorite shorts and sleeveless shirt, probably for the last time this year, and we relaxed in the chaise lounges soaking up the last of the sun, reading, and napping.

As the afternoon swooned into a warm summer evening—my favorite time of a summer day—we opened a chilled bottle of white wine that had somehow survived the summer in the fridge unnoticed, then grilled some steaks and wallowed in scoops of chocolate and raspberry sorbet.

It was a great last day of summer—mostly because we grabbed onto it and lived it, as if it might be the last. I wonder why we don’t do that every day?

Finally! I picked my first batch of bush beans, which I sowed on Mother’s Day. Yep, 100 long days ago for 52-day beans. That’s the type of impressive veggie gardening we pull off here in the cool and gloomy Pacific Northwest, folks—in case you’re reading this for gardening advice, which I hope you’re not.

I’ve struggled all summer with how to refer to these beans because they’re not really “green” beans, and “purple beans” just doesn’t sound right. And their proper name, Royal Burgundy Bush Beans, is a little stuffy for my tastes, like a dog registered with the AKC as Sir Belvedere Leopold Studmuffin, but you just call him Ed—in case you’re reading this for dog-naming advice, which I hope you’re not.

To further confuse the issue, the green ones are technically Blue Lake beans, even though they don’t look the slightest bit blue to me. Next year I’m keeping it simple and holding out for a package labeled Just Plain Old Green green beans. Because when you cook the purple ones, they turn green anyway, which was a mighty big surprise—in case you’re reading this for cooking advice, which I hope you’re not.

Hellooooo? Anybody still out there?

Despite the lackluster Pacific Northwest weather, I’ve had a lovely summer.

I’d intended to renovate the Sorry Garden, but instead I spent the summer out on the back porch cultivating my self. I didn’t work in the garden at all, except to grow some veggies. And I didn’t take garden photos. And I divorced the computer, although I retained visitation rights to my favorite blogs. It was very liberating.

Mostly, I contemplated. I contemplated who I am. I contemplated my strengths and weaknesses. I contemplated my motivations. I contemplated what makes me happy. I contemplated what it means to be who I am. And I contemplated how I want to live my remaining years.

Occasionally I daydreamed about being 5’7, size 2, and independently wealthy, with Mr. Sorry feeding me grapes and painting my toenails according to my whim. But mostly I contemplated.

Along the way, I picked up a book and rediscovered the utter pleasure of reading. I read one book after another after another, kind of the way Forrest Gump ran and ran and ran. I haven’t read that many books in the last 20 years.

And I stayed clean all summer. Usually I’m covered with sweat and dirt and bug spray and have dog shit on my garden shoes. But this summer I stayed gloriously clean.

When I ventured out to the local tour of gardens, I wasn’t even envious as I gawked at the perfect plantings. I just thought, “Boy, keeping a garden like that sure takes a lot of work.” And then I came home to the back porch and took a nap.

Now here I sit, clinging to the coattails of one of the most gratifying summers of my life. And, even though I’ll probably always be a sorry gardener, I understand myself much better now. And that’s mostly what this blog is about, after all.

P.S. Thanks to those of you who continued to check for new posts, or tracked me down through email, or kindly prodded, or outright scowled at me over lunch for depriving you of your blog fix while I was away.

Kaempferi iris

What a weird spring. Every day is like perennial twilight here in the Pacific Northwest. I took these photos at high noon. And this is pretty much as light as it gets most days.

Orange daylilies

And there doesn’t seem to be much going on in my garden this year. Of course, the orange daylilies are blooming. But they just opened today.

Jolly Bee cranesbill

And the cranesbill is happily doing its thing because that’s just what cranesbill does.

The six-year rose

And this rose that I planted six years ago as a stubby little twig has sprawled into a 6-foot behemoth and is finally covered with a profusion of blooms. That was a nice surprise.

Diablo ninebark

But it’s the 10-foot diablo ninebark that seems most out of place in this perennial twilight, like the gangly star center of the girl’s basketball team standing in the rain in her poofy pink prom dress.

Okay, I’m a second-place-honorable-mention weiner for my photo of the little girl with Band-Aids on her arm that I submitted for Carol Allen Anfinsen’s “With These Hands” painting series—and I think Carol threw me a bone—but I appreciate it anyway.

So what’s going on in my garden? Mostly rain for days and days and days on end. I’ve been building some raised beds for my veggies, but I’m beginning to wonder if I should use the lumber for an ark instead. I guess there are some advantages to having most of your garden in nursery pots. It makes for easy ark loading.

And, as you can see, I’ve spent hours and hours painstakingly weeding my ajuga.

The world is getting awfully green out there. With the spring temps and rains, the garden is really going to town. And so is the gardener. In the past week, I’ve installed two stepping stone paths and doubled the size of the formerly-too-narrow front bed that’s been unfinished for five years.

One of the stepping stone paths created an intimate little garden space near the garage, which was a nice surprise because I couldn’t see it until I started digging. And the front bed feels new and different instead of just unfinished, so maybe I can get over the hump now. Dig, dig, dig.

For more Green World photos, check out Gardening Gone Wild.