Home & Garden

The beads of sweat that gathered like marching armies across my forehead were the first sign. The swarms of mosquitoes that chased me from parking lot to storefront was the second.

But staring up at ever-darkening, ever-disappointing skies with the same hopeful excitement as a kid sitting on the lap of a mall Santa was how I was certain that summer had officially arrived.

Joy to the world, scorched earth and all.

Being a gardener in the South offers little actual reward. Rather, we lead lives of quiet desperation that would've made even Papa Whitman break dance with wild abandon.

Because for all the toil and trouble that comes as sweaty penance for attempting to bring a bit of perennial beauty into this world of plastic office plants and Wal-Mart bouquets, there's really only about six weeks worth of weather suitable for anything other than lizards and cactus.

And even the lizards are looking for shade.

If I sound a tad bitter, it's because I am. Those promised thunderstorms — the ones that were to be so fierce that the severe weather warning alarms were going off, not that I could understand what it said thanks to my neighbor power washing his driveway. Well, they rumbled right on into Anniston and left me feeling like I'd been stood up for the prom.

I needed that rain, for by the time you read this, I will be a stranger in a strange land.

A buddy and I are going to New York City where we will stand amongst a sweaty sea of head-bangin' fools to see the greatest heavy metal band Mother England has ever produced (save for Judas Priest, of course) — Iron Maiden.

For the uninitiated, Maiden are the lovely long-haired lads who gave us such power-chord anthems as "Run to the Hills," "The Number of the Beast," "2 Minutes to Midnight" and "Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter."

Poets they be.

But as much as I'm looking forward to the show and the experience of mingling with those Big Apple Yankees, I'm a bit worried … not for myself (though My Wife is afraid of me "wandering off" and has threatened to tether me to my metal-loving buddy. She'll be at home, tethered to her sisters.

No, I'm worried about my yard.

There's this small voice in back of my mind. It's the one that whines when the digital bank thermometers start to read higher than my SAT scores. It's the one that's always whispering, "Don't you think you should turn the sprinklers on?" Or, "Have you checked the hydrangeas today? They're looking a little droopy."

For three days, there will be no one to answer those calls. It'll be like the 9-1-1 operator's decided to take a weekend smoke break. Sure, I'll call and nag my lovely wife to water whatever wilts, but she won't.

She pays the water bill. For her, it'll be like a tax-free weekend.

All I can do is pray for rain and hope the gardening gods are metal fans, else I won't really start to bang head 'til I get home.