My daughter’s birthday is Sept. 21. We kiddingly used to call her the “last rose of summer.” “Autumnal equinox” just doesn’t have the same ring.

My garden’s last summer roses, along with the zinnias, and verbenas, are trying to hang on. But the pumpkin I bought for the front steps means the seasons have officially changed. I never used to agree with the calendar, always wanting to eke out a few more weeks of summer, a few more celebrations of lunch or supper on the deck. I would fertilize for the last time in late August, and continue watering and deadheading, hopeful for more days, more beauty, for as long as possible.

This week, everything is changing in my overstuffed garden. I’ve begun pulling apart some of the scraggliest containers, which has led to a mean decision: I am withholding water. Although I’ve become friends with all these plants, we are nearing that time when Jack Frost will creep into the gardens at night and do his thing. I heard through the grapevine that he and the Grinch are related – they just spread misery in different seasons.

In recent years, I have been caught unprepared when old Frostie arrived. I’ve been stuck by an unreasonable combination of circumstances: early freezing and a total inability to move my butt outside and get the season-ending chores done. That’s a bad combo. This year, I want the yard to be put to bed before autumn completely takes over.

I have also noticed that each garden chore takes so much longer to accomplish than back in my good old days. This year, I’ve decided to reward myself with a “job well done!” rather than hang on to the last gasps of dying petunias and impatiens. All lazy lackluster plants will be kaput by the end of this week.

The stars of the garden, the big performers that have made my heart smile every day, will continue to get my attention, my TLC. They will be my last holdouts – hopefully through to Indian Summer.

Each year as I try to cut back on the plantings, I am replacing annuals with perennials. But now, as I am removing flowers, their empty garden spots don’t look that bare after all. Maybe next year I’ll try harder to plant less and mulch more. Yeah, right. That’s never gonna happen.

Unfortunately for my pocketbook, I believe that “Too much of a good thing is almost enough.” With that credo spilling over into my garden purchases – particularly the posies – I’m going to try to control myself. I’m trying not to dream ahead to the mail after Christmas … when the first garden catalogs arrive.

But there is one other important reason I need to scale back the garden: the stamina I have available. After watering, I have only about 18 minutes a day left to excel as a bent-over gardener. All weeding, deadheading, and cleanup falls into those paltry few minutes I can manage. Something’s gotta give.

Dear Richard is a good waterer when I have a time conflict. Bless him. But he doesn’t know a coleus from a mandevilla, so he is exempt from other garden chores. Except the lawn. Richard is our certified lawnmeister. Grass is not in my job description.

My old friend Tom helps every year with spring cleanup and set-up. He assists throughout the season with the chores I cannot physically handle, and he has been sensitive to my declining strength. Tom has been a godsend for a long time. But there is a hitch. We are the same age. We just keep laughing about it as we chug along together. It’s all we can do.

After the last garden pots, statues, and birdbaths make it into the shed, it will be time to roll in the deck furniture to the porch and cover it for the winter. That day, not the calendar’s, will be the official end of the season. Our last deck supper will be history. The umbrella will be zipped closed. The candles will be stowed with the coasters and cocktail napkins. And the summer tablecloths will be folded away.

I’m hoping Tom doesn’t make a mistake and stow me in the shed with the concrete angels and frogs. It would take me more than 18 minutes to climb out from under the rakes and hoes.

Meanwhile, it’s only three months until those tempting spring catalogs arrive.

I request your prayers.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren.