Our Botanical Archive No.002

June 21, 2026

Just Another Manic Monday - The Bangles

Well, as much as I would like to report everything has gone exceptionally well these past couple of weeks—especially with the beautiful weather and bounty of sun we've so gratefully received—such is life.

It has been a thorough journey of highs and lows.

I've recently rejoined the workforce after a stint of tough luck and no callbacks. It pains me to say the garden was the first victim of this transition. I'd been tending and watering my garden as if it were another child this season. I don't know if I could say it's kept me sane, but it certainly helps with my perceived sanity levels, especially with the financial alarms blaring in the background.

We've been fortunate to have family and friends help keep us moving forward, our son always at the forefront of our minds.

I find solace knowing we've all had moments where we go from putting out one fire, only to turn around and face another.

This time, though, it wasn't a fire to extinguish.

It was something slower.

I turned the corner after parking the truck from work and there it was.

The first signs of the coming summer heat.

And my need to step up my watering discipline.

Sunny.

My Star Sunflower.

She stood tall as ever. I'd unknowingly purchased a giant variety when I bought the seeds. Reports say they regularly exceed nine feet by the end of the season. The ones in the flower bed are already reaching above our living room windows.

Not Sunny.

She stood with her leaves hanging by her sides.

Cooked.

From the bottom up, nearly two-thirds of the stalk had turned yellow.

I began my mornings checking on her.

I ended my evenings doing the same.

She quickly became a favorite companion in the garden.

At first I thought I'd overwatered her.

But before I even checked the soil, I noticed the real problem.

The container was hot.

Not warm.

Hot enough that I pulled my hand away.

I'd read that smaller containers—especially plastic ones—can reach incredible temperatures in direct sunlight.

I knew this.

But I hadn't anticipated being a ball of nerves during my first few shifts at the new job.

I had anticipated moving the smaller containers into the shed area for the day.

I did not anticipate forgetting.

I had knowingly walked by.

Apparently too busy to spend another minute making sure my beauties wouldn't boil in the sun.

I believe Sunny's roots simply cooked.

And with them went the sugar peas that had been valiantly climbing beside her.

A true tragedy for my season.

But a vital lesson.

One I will hold close to chest.

Still—

while mourning Sunny, I noticed something surprising.

Rocky.

A giant sunflower in the back corner of the flower bed, supported by a bamboo stake fastened to an actual rock.

I had worried endlessly about Rocky.

I thought I'd transplanted them too shallow.

I've since learned sunflowers really prefer to be direct sown once the soil has warmed. Their taproots are delicate, and transplanting can be a gamble.

I am still learning to harden off seedlings properly.

This is the gradual process of introducing indoor plants to outdoor conditions—beginning with an hour or two outside, slowly increasing exposure over time.

Apparently gardeners need hardening off too.

But through it all—

Rocky has become the tallest sunflower in the bed.

And now appears to be forming multiple flower heads.

I lost one favorite.

And another reminded me to keep looking forward.

...

And through all of this, the original plan somehow remains.

An herb garden.

That was all Amy and I had really intended this season.

A few herbs.

A few sunflowers.

Of course, gardens have a way of negotiating with our plans.

The herbs actually began indoors.

And with them came an invasion of fungus gnats.

A strong solution if one can plan ahead:

Utilize beneficial nematodes. Microscopic organisms that live in the soil and prey upon pest larvae.

Tiny underground guardians.

Unfortunately, our budget called for sticky traps.

The gnats were unimpressed.

So the herbs were banished outdoors.

Emergency transplant.

No hardening off.

No perfect plan.

The basil adapted beautifully.

The parsley has been through bunnies & heat.

The thyme, ran out.

The cilantro is my current experiment.

I've heard it bolts quickly in heat, but the flowers are beautiful and beloved by pollinators.

If the bees enjoy it before we do, I still consider that a success.

...

And then, as if to remind me the garden is never really mine alone—

my neighbor, who works at the Farmers Market, gifted me a tomato.

A Caiman variety.

A plant that wasn't part of the plan.

Earlier in spring I'd thinned a few overcrowded sunflowers.

At the time it felt like a loss.

Now it feels like making room.

The tomato slipped perfectly into that space.

Unplanned.

Unexpected.

And perhaps exactly what the garden needed.

I know homegrown tomatoes are special.

This year I hope to grow some myself.

...

Of course, the season wasn't finished humbling me.

Lupe the Lupine was stripped nearly bare.

Rosey wilted dramatically in the heat.

The Clematis worried me with signs of overwatering.

And for a brief moment, I felt pulled in every direction.

But an evening watering revived the rose.

The Clematis still reaches.

The herbs are growing.

The tomato is setting fruit.

And Rocky continues reaching skyward.

...

My takeaway from all of this is probably a blazingly obvious one to our more seasoned subscribers:

Nothing is promised.

That is not to say I expected everything to go perfectly—

but boy,

how well it all felt like it was going for so long.

This adversity was needed.

It would of course come at a moment where I perceived myself as too busy to take an extra moment—in what has felt like the manic Monday to the rest of my life.

It can be difficult to remember that we are all in a constant state of change.

Nothing will truly ever remain the same.

And that's alright.

Because this has felt like a coming home moment for me.

A tradition I have quietly carried with me since I was young is beginning to grow into something I don't just want to enjoy—

I want to actively build my life around.

Taking the extra moment.

Observing the work to be done.

Tending to what is truly needed.

These lessons can follow us out of the garden just as much as they guide us within it.

I hope seeing another's triumphs in the struggle can bring some peace with whatever may be proving difficult lately.

We're all tending something.

And perhaps we're all learning, season by season, to care for it a little better.

—

The Record Continues.