A curb planting on Union Street at 3rd Avenue was still attracting bees yesterday evening as we passed it on our way to Al di la for supper.
Our walk kept being interrupted by plants and plant people. Behind us, back west, a yellow and pink front garden on Union below Smith Street delayed me. Then, crossing the ghastly canal, chalky and turgid (I love the Gowanus, but it was especially bad last night) we ran into Kirsten and her boyfriend John weeding and watering the garden I have photographed in so many seasons. They say they have been away and that it has been neglected for many weekends. Weeds and dead stuff lay in piles. The sunflowers were beginning to flower. Weird weather.
And then there was this. A long block higher. I think I left burned rubber on the cement sidewalk as I screeched to a halt.
A man was tending to it as I gawped. He smiled. I smiled. We both knew. So. Wrong.
Many people stop and look at it, he said, But they don't get it. They just see pretty flowers.
Yeah. Pretty flowers and fruit at the same time. In July.
My bees are liking it, he said, and pointed to a honey bee. His honey bee. The hives are up above, on his roof. He's about to harvest. I'll get about 50lbs this time, he reckoned.
And on we walked. Up the block to that picture at the start, and the now-identified honey bees bouncing into the hyssop flowers.