There. With the heatwave that started the first of September and shows no sign of abating, it is official. In Maine, September is the new August, with nights warm enough to eat on the patio, and no jacket required. The days are ridiculously hot for mid-September—in the 90s—and while I long to make soup, I will wait for cooler weather.

One warm evening a few nights back, as Clif and I were sitting on the patio, I glanced at my little garden and admired the bright red fruit of the fair Juliet. (What a wonderful variety of tomato!) Then I noticed something else not quite as admirable. The top of one of the plants looked as though it had been stripped of leaves.

“Now that looks suspicious,” I said to Clif.

“Maybe it’s just where you picked tomatoes.”

“Maybe,” I replied, but I was not convinced and decided to keep an eye on things.

A couple of nights later, my suspicions were confirmed—more stripped leaves. However, as it was my birthday, and Clif and I were enjoying cocktails on the patio, I was in no mood to go poking around the tomato plants and look for the culprit.

The day after that, I had dental work—at the crack of dawn by my standards—and I wasn’t in a mood to do much of anything, not even have a cocktail.

Today, I decided to take the bull by the horns, so to speak, and look for the munching miscreant. It took me a while to find him (or her) but find him I did, in all his green and striped glory. (Fortunately, he seemed to be solo.)

At first, I thought he was a tomato hornworm, but upon doing research, I discovered he is, in fact, a tobacco hornworm. They look similar, but the tomato hornworm has a black “horn” and the tobacco hornworm has a red “horn.” Also, the stripes are a little different, with the tomato hornworn having more of a V pattern.  The adult of both species is a large brown moth, again very similar in appearance. I also learned that, as a rule, tobacco hornworms are happy to eat tomatoes but don’t usually come this far north. (I’m convinced it’s that darned hot weather we’ve been having. Lord only knows what else is going to make its way north.)

Naturally, I had to take a picture, and I have to admit that a closer look led to a certain fascination—the red horn, the white and black stripes, and the small “eyes” dotting the side. And with that fascination came some sympathy. After all, the little creature is just trying to make a living, albeit on my tomato plants.

Sentiment, of course, has no place in the garden, and when I went out later to pick tomatoes, I had resigned myself to dispatching him.  But, as I picked, I couldn’t find him anywhere, and eventually I gave up looking. I had a nice basket of tomatoes for a roasted sauce. (There will be a recipe tomorrow.)

And not to put too fine a point on it, but the tomato plants are not exactly looking their best. Every year, a late blight hits my tomatoes, and that’s exactly what has happened. Fortunately, the blight always comes after most of the tomatoes have ripened, so it’s not a serious problem. I’ve picked most of the tomatoes, and I’m thinking of pulling the plants.

I know. I shouldn’t let that tobacco hornworm live to create more tobacco hornworms, and I’ll probably go out again with a jar of soapy water.

But for today, anyway, the tobacco hornworm has had a stay of execution.

Addendum: Son of a biscuit! In doing further fact-checking about tobacco hornworms, I found out that the adult moth is no other than the hummingbird moth, which I adore. There’s been one fluttering among the flowers all summer, and I’ve been trying to take a picture of her. Guess I know where the little creature in the tomatoes came from.

Now that August is ready to leave, the August weather has arrived—hot, dry sunny days and cool evenings. I’ll take it. Better late than never.

Every night that it is nice, Clif and I bring our plates to the patio so that we can eat outside. We know these days are numbered, and we try to squeeze in as many outside meals as possible.  Last night, with its deep blue sky and setting sun, was especially beautiful for this. I had made chicken in a slow-cooker, using Farmer Kev’s garlic, potatoes, and carrots. (A recipe will follow next Thursday.)

As we ate, we talked about the day’s events, and we watched the birds come to the two feeders on either edge of the patio. At one point, there was a downy woodpecker, a goldfinch, and a nuthatch all in a row at the brown feeder with its single perch in the front. A male cardinal chirped and came to the feeder. The other birds flew away.

I said to Clif, “Before the cardinals came this year, that brown feeder was what you might call the least-favored feeder. Birds fed from it, but not very often. I hardly ever had to fill that feeder.”

“True enough,” Clif replied. “The tube feeder with all the little perches was the favorite one.”

“The cardinals are new to the neighborhood, and the brown feeder is good for them. Do you suppose their presence encourages the other birds to go to that feeder?”

Clif said, “Maybe the cardinals are trend setters, and the other birds want to eat where they eat.”

Could this be even remotely true?

“Who knows?” Clif said. “It’s just a thought.”

One thing is certain. Before the cardinals nested in the woods by our backyard, few birds came to the brown feeder. Now that the cardinals are eating at this feeder, the other song birds flock to it.

Such are the things we puzzle about as we eat our supper in the late August dusk. Our very own backyard continues to be one of the most interesting places we can be.

But, then, it doesn’t take much to amuse us.

End of August pictures:

Last Friday, a hard rain came. It beat down the backyard garden, making the already ragged bed look even more ragged. The bee balm is helter-skelter, and the phlox has been bent so far down that it is touching the patio.

However, to borrow from Jason from his excellent blog Garden in a City, the weather has gone from being hot and humid to cool and humid, which is an improvement. Still. I mourn the old days in Maine when August was hot—but not too hot—and dry with cool nights. How I loved those days, which we have not had for many, many years.

I will do what I can for the gardens. I’ll prop up the phlox so that it is not touching the patio anymore. I’ll cut the flowerless stems of the daylilies, which were spectacular this year. They, it seems, love the humid heat. I’ll also sweep the patio. But I won’t do any major cutting back for another month or so. Clif and I both agree that we would rather have a ragged garden than one that looks as though it’s been given a crew cut.

After the hard rain, I went out to take some pictures, and I will admit I got some nice photos of a variety of phlox that had not been beaten down.

Somehow flowers with rain drops always look pretty.

As do the hens and chicks, veiled by a spider’s web.

As I was taking pictures in the front garden, a little frog hopped out of a low bird bath and disappeared into the tall growth. Too quick for me to get a picture. Unfortunately.

Another consolation is that even though August is humid, the crickets still sing their high, sweet song. It wouldn’t be August without them, just as it wouldn’t be spring without the peepers. When you live in the country, you look forward to the voices of the natural world that come with each season—the peepers, the loons, the wood thrush, the buzzing grasshoppers, the crickets. What a loss it would be not to have them!

At night, the windows are open in my bedroom, and I fall asleep listening to the crickets, who will sing until the cold silences them. By then my windows will be closed, and one frosty night when I return home from, say, book group at the library, I will notice that the crickets are no longer singing. Next year, next year they will sing again.

It’s my guess I’ll have another few weeks where I’ll be able to leave my windows open and be soothed by the crickets’ song as I fall asleep.

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:—
So this wing’d hour is dropt to us from above.
—Dante Gabriel Rosseti

I know. This is a damselfly rather than a dragonfly. Still, the little creature is lovely and blue, and I came upon her (or him) in my garden just after reading Rosseti’s lines. The damselfly really did feel as though she had “dropt to us from above,” and how obligingly this slip of blue posed for me.

If I find a blue dragonfly in my garden, then I will be sure to post the picture on this blog.