Quick urban sketch yesterday in the cool confines of a coffee shop with plate-glass windows and far less crowding than those in trendy neighborhoods
A retired Pennsylvanian visited a neighbor in recent weeks, swimming laps in the kidney pool where we live. On Day Two, he began wearing a baseball cap to prevent sunburn. He moved his swims earlier and finished before 10 a.m.
But the thrush-thrush of his laps were a daily occurrence in the shimmering green and humid warmth of this condo community. By the time he flew home last week, he said he had built up fitness he lost during a family member’s long illness.
The pool’s fenced area is surrounded by Jurassic Park-size elephant ears, ginger plants, and mid-size trees, all thriving in this climate. He said he enjoyed the chance to use a pool regularly and figured the Pennsylvania summer would seem cooler after this. Apparently, he lived here for a year in 1980 and has enjoyed seeing much-changed haunts. (This condo complex and all those nearby were built between 1978 and 1981, so his previous trip took place at an oil/gas boom time when Houston was sometimes mentioned or played a role in major movies, such as Ordinary People, Terms of Endearment, and Urban Cowboy.)
When I lived in the Pacific Northwest and people from elsewhere commented that they’d never spent time in such a green place, I thought: I have. It’s the Gulf Coast. Within 50-60 miles of the coast in multiple states lies thick greenery as well as spaces such as Louisiana’s bayou country and the bayous here in the Greater Houston Area. Alligators live in wetlands just outside this city.
Granted, many areas of this city are paved, contributing to its famous flooding. That said, local cities and organizations are busily demonstrating the values of deep-rooted native prairie grasses and wetlands for absorbing water, as I wrote here.
After summers in the semi-arid West’s pelting sun, I expected potted plants here would be overpowered by daily, all-day-and-evening heat. But they grow well in the partial shade common to this region. Most things have the benefit of dappled light here in the condo community, where my patio faces trees and other patios. My Malabar spinach, likely native to India, Sri Lanka, or Indonesia, was somewhat battered after I brought it home in the car from the nursery, but now looks perky and happily sweaty.
Crape myrtle (non-native, controversial) fending off sun. Native plants would be better, but it’s still exciting to see how green things are here.
Another neighbor arrived from Vermont to spend time with family, later saying she looks forward to gardening in expanded seasons here. Granted, she has since returned north through August; I’d do that too if given the chance. But she observed that in Vermont she’s usually depressed by the summer solstice, knowing it signals a shift to shorter light, fall cold snaps, and dormant vegetation.
In theory I enjoy four-season living, but I agree that in far north areas the winter lasts long and has less light. “The pleasant summer is a trade-off for Vitamin D deprivation and not much in the way of outdoor plants in the cold months,” the neighbor said.
Perhaps I can learn from these visitors and plants like Malabar spinach.
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