The Last Of The Garden

With temperatures down to 30 degrees at night, I think I will have to officially call the time of death on the garden: September 17. The squash are hanging on, but barely producing.

One of Mr. H's canteloupe. Something keeps eating them outside, so we
haven't gotten a chance to try one. I'm going to see if this green one will ripen in the house

 A white (yellow) watermelon. It tasted great, but I'm not sure it was supposed to be this small: although if you've seen the size of the dogs in the house....it was bound to spread to the garden. Mixed genetics, I suppose.

Mr. H wishes he could grow Coca Cola in the garden.