Hommel Mangas
I’ve done everything I could think of: washed my car, watered my garden, blow-dried and curled my hair for the first time in 2021 and 2022, and walked outside without an umbrella.
This 95-degree weather is wreaking havoc on the ol’ garden — and my perfectly-blue hydrangea flowers are hanging their heads low in deep sorrow.
I always tell my new garden plants that they must be tough to live in my yard, as I don’t believe in babying them — but this is an unusual summer. Of course, this is the spring we chose to plant many new conifers and perennials. Who would have thought we’d be nearing a drought before the calendar turned to July?
So, while waiting on the rain, I read up on weather and rain lore. I stopped depending on the weather app on my phone after it bolstered my high hopes on Wednesday that there was a 100% chance of rain. In mere minutes, those hopes had been flattened like a pancake when the prediction was wiped to 0% chance.
Some say if horses are restless and shake their heads a lot, it means rain is on the way. Others say other rain predictors can include when owls hoot more at night, cobwebs are found in the grass, or pink clouds are spotted in the west at evening time. I’ve got nada.
I did, however, run out to our beehives when I read that another rain predictor is if bees fly home and do not return — it’s a sign of rain. In case you’re curious, our honeybees in this 90-degree weather are currently flying in and out of the hive continuing to make honey.
But a few hundred are hot as heck, bundled up on the outside of the hive with little, tiny hand fans trying desperately to cool themselves down. I’m pretty sure I heard a buzz of mob-mumbling about the horrid work conditions and something about “that queen can take care of her own hive.”
An old axiom offers that prediction that I’m praying for: “Rain from the east, two days wet at least.”
