In the spring when the raised flower beds were flowering in lovely abundance, I planted cosmos seeds here and there so that they would be blooming just when the petunias and pansies and zinnias would be dead with the heat. I imagined their delicate lacy foliage with purple and orange blooms, not needing much attention, but keeping the flower beds in focus. I began to notice the cosmos growing up through the red sage and the Mexican Petunias.
As the heat and wet of summer went on (and on), the cosmos grew taller and taller but there was not a suggestion of anything blooming on them. Occasionally some of the heavy stalks would keel over with their own weight, but not daunted they would spring up again. In August the cosmos plants were at least six feet tall. By early September they were approaching ten feet. I was intrigued enough to let them stay until I could see what would happen. No blooms. The stems of these plants by now had the diameters of small redwood trees and it would require a chain saw to remove them. We were beginning to think that these were not cosmos at all, but some horrible mutant invasive species that should be chopped down and burned asap.
Yesterday they began to bloom. They are actually the most unpleasant plant I have ever let live. At about twelve feet tall, dwarfing everything else in the yard, they have very small unattractive orange blossoms waving crazily about at the tops. I purchased the seeds at Walmart.
As the giant mutant cosmos bloomed the green frogs appeared. I hear Andy whimpering from the bathroom where he is preparing to shower. We all have our roles and mine is to catch the wildlife inside the house. The shower is full of frogs. I am pretty good at catching them and putting them outside. I let the gecko stay because I have always liked knowing that my home is guarded by these funny creatures. I go back to the kitchen where I am sweeping the palmetto bugs out the door. This is like some really strange sport (water bug polo?)
Later, as the day heats up, I realize that we are in love bug season again. Love bug season is kind of like the fall NPR fundraisers; you hate that period but you know you can last it out if you keep your legs crossed and think of the Queen. No one I have ever known of has ever discovered anything good about love bugs or what their niche is in the ecology of Florida.
But this night there is a full moon and the sky is clear. As is our habit, we walk the fields with our dog and rejoice that we have a place in the natural world, however strange.
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