The First Native Iris

It rains. It's windy. You can't grow big tomatoes. The fog. Whiny whaa whaa.

Then, it stops raining and the first Native Iris opens up next to the cobblestone path, and one yellow daffodil is standing proudly right behind it. The day lilies are ready to burst and there's already arugula and Tuscan kale in the vegetable patch.

A destroyed tear-down 90 year old house goes on the market for three quarters of a million dollars. Neighbors file through, clucking their tongues, shaking their heads, as the Real Estate Zombie remains aloof, dreaming of the condo payment in Maui that will come from unloading this dog. "It makes no sense," we are all dutybound to say, filing down the rickety stairs.

Yes it does. It's gorgeous here. The air is sweet. You can walk over green hills to buy organic produce. The corner convenience stores carry grand Sonoma cabernets. Our afternoon light gives us Van Gogh, our evening fog brings Goya. Our sourdoughs put Tuscany to shame. We're all ridiculously lucky to live here.

Bearded iris follow the Natives. Snow peas twine up the poles. Baby artichokes are already setting and asparagus ferns lace through the agapanthus. Sure it makes sense.