Out of fifteen lavender bushes planted on my terrace, all but one dried up this season. Drought. Fortunately, I harvested them before they succumbed more than a month ago. But the last lavender bush is doing surprisingly well. The only possible reason for its success in view of the drawn-out drought is that it is a different kind of lavender. If only I knew which, though. The bush is still in flower this late in the season, and this may help me find sturdy replacements. I am harvesting it bit by bit, which explains the smell of my hands the last few days. The fragrant pods end up in a large ceramic dish on my dining table. The aroma wafts my way every now and then. Delicious. But the unpleasant job of uprooting the dead bushes is still ahead of me. I removed a few so far, but most are still there, awaiting their end. To my sorrow, even their gnarled branches are fragrant.