Back in April I planted peas, massively, in one of the big plastic pots we keep right outside the house. A spot with morning sun and extended shade after noon. Things were less than promising then, when the soil was cold and wet and the nighttime temps dipped just north of freezing.
I watched the first greens jealously as they poked through a week or two later. Vulnerable and sweet, too many years these are a snack for sparrow and squirrel. This year they survived the early weeks and climbed with some force up up up. Early June and they started to flower, enjoying what felt like an endless succession of cold rainy days.
This week as we hit a series of 90-degree days I think it will be time to say goodbye to the peas, still squeaking out the small ones, but reluctantly. The big healthy plants seem to say, "it's not our fault! We can't produce in this weather." But I don't place blame anywhere when it comes to the garden.
These weeks they have been performing a miracle, converting sunlight into alternate forms of energy and birthing those new tender pea pods, night after night, silently, passively, without complaint.