In Louisiana summers, our lives are governed by sun: Danny Heitman

To eat breakfast in the backyard before the heat gets too fierce, my wife and I try to rise early in summer, savoring a quiet hour with eggs and coffee while the sun is still low. I start each morning by opening the patio umbrella, our way of raising the sail to glide through the day. My wife reminds me to lower it again as we clear the dishes. She wants every bit of light to nourish her garden as the day brightens, an important thing in a yard thickly shadowed by trees.

Because direct sunlight tends to be scarce where we live, I urge moderation when we browse the local plant nursery. But my wife is a social Darwinist, crowding our pots and beds like a lifeboat, confident that the fittest will survive.

I managed a brittle smile when she brought home two cherry tomato plants, though I wondered where we’d put them. They have a home now in some big pots on the patio, happy castaways on its small island of sun.

For many years, the only strong sun was in our front yard, but that changed as our sycamores slowly spread their wings across our nest. Then a storm took out our back patio elm, and its shade departed.

To claim our new windfall of sun, my wife assigned me to move a huge concrete planter of herbs from front to back. I thought of the ancient laborers who perished while putting the pyramids into place, but my pharaoh must also be obeyed, so I got to work. By incrementally rolling the thing a few turns at a time, I inched our herb garden to its new home.

The plants have responded well to the change. Our rosemary shrub, once shaped like a miniature Christmas tree, is now wide and vibrant, a thriving little continent of green. Nearby, chives stretch their long fingers, and the dill weed, lacy with holes, does its best to rebound from pillaging caterpillars. The caterpillars, bright yellow and black, will become swallowtail butterflies, a nice dividend after their raid of the garden.

Even before they sprout wings and become their textbook ideal of beauty, the caterpillars are something to behold. They dangle like earrings from the dill weed each morning, a nice bit of theater while we munch on toast and watch their trapeze show.

To see such things each season is to be reminded that summer in Louisiana has a tireless energy — sometimes too wild for our comfort, but always worthy of attention. My wife keeps her pruning shears near the back door these days, a bit like the pioneers who perched their rifles at the ready, poised for foxes and bears.

She’s on the alert for the stray vine or errant limb, the serpent in her small patch of Eden. It’s a consuming vigilance, and victory is seldom clear, but we’re never bored.

Email Danny Heitman at danny@dannyheitman.com.