This is not India, but the crape myrtles are blooming away anyway and everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The crape myrtle originated in India; but, of the fifty United States, the crape myrtle prefers Texas. It’s the summer climate: often dry and always hot. That suits the myrtle.

The crape grows as a plant, a bush, a tree or anyway and everywhere you want it to grow, and it blooms and blooms through the heat where all else would droop and wilt. Stand under a crape myrtle. Go ahead. Stand there. What do you feel? Water. Tiny drops of cool water.

Crape myrtles transpire H2O. Transpiration is the process of water moving up from the roots and evaporating from the leaves. It’s a cooling process, like a swamp cooler. A swamp cooler is an air conditioner that blows air through a fall of water to cool the air. Crape myrtles are built like swamp coolers. Water moves up from the roots and drops from the leaves; the natural breezes blow through the falling water; the temperature drops and the crape myrtle sighs a happy air-conditioned camper sigh of relief. Summertime is good in Texas for the crape, and its crinkly paper-like blooms lighten and enliven the long hot days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summertime and the livin’ is easy

Crapes are bloomin’ and reachin’ for the sky

Your skins fine tannin’ and you’re too good-lookin’

So hush little baby. Don’t you cry.

 

I did, once, sorta’ — cry.

I remembered while I was following the fallen crape blooms floating on the water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was in the basement and I was singing: “Bread Upon The Waters! Bread Upon the Waters!” Over and over again. At the top of my lungs. I was shouting the words.

I didn’t know I was screaming a part of the first verse of Chapter 11 of the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes. I was a kid. I had been banished to the basement to clean the basement. I didn’t like it. So, I behaved badly. While taking the broom from the hand pointed to the basement door, I heard the frustrated voice above say seriously — to me: “Bread upon the waters.”

I wasn’t wise. I wanted my freedoms. I wanted to play. I didn’t know what bread upon the waters meant, but I was sure going to let the powers upstairs know that it was a two-way stream. Give it to me and I’ll give it right back.

Which, in a way, is — I guess — what it sorta’ means: You get what you give.

What you send out has its ways of floating back on home.

Send out good and good seems to show up.

Don’t — you clean the basement.

That took awhile to figure.

And, I’m still workin’.

 

I sure hope those squirrels get their bread upon the waters.

This was the last tomato, the last green Samurai.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Behind the nylon mesh and metal stakes, it had survived weeks of constant attack. All the others of its kind had fallen and been dragged through holes in the fortifications. This was the lone survivor of the brave band.

I woke to see the fattest of the squirrels, last tomato in mouth, clamber up the fence and disappear from sight.

 

SQUIRRELS WON!

Homeowners none . . .

 

It is at times like these that I want to shout at the top of my lungs: “Bread Upon The Waters!!!!!!”

Alas, I will stand under the crape myrtle, enjoy the comforts of its cooling waters and the beauty of its pretty blooms, and — between the tears — remember the song.

 

Summertime and the livin’ is easy

So hush little baby. Don’t you cry.

 

Grandpa Jim