Yes, it’s coming up again. The snow is melting, exposing all of the dead stuff that I left from the fall. Little green shoots are beginning to, well, shoot up. Even the evergreens that were planted in an attempt to look like an Asian, Zen garden are starting to look a bit less tormented.
It’s time to start thinking about the last frost and first bursts of garden color. To be honest, most of the spring color in my gardens come from that which have been reliably in place for years – forsythia, azaleas and rhododendron, then the peonies come out, at some point the lilac in the back yard will bloom, and the crabapple tree by the deck. That crabapple has a funny history. We call it Alfred II. Alfred I was purchased in memory of my late father-in-law. One year, as the landscapers were “trimming”, they cut it down by mistake. Like the destruction of Pompeii and the attack on Pearl Harbor, the memory painfully remains just over the horizon. Alfred II, placed differently and now in his teen years, has come into his own and is becoming a worthy successor.
My greatest gardening triumphs have come with what I call “durable”, or in some cases “persistently durable”, plantings. Those are plants that, unless you pour gasoline on them and light a match, will more than likely survive. There was a large, older holly bush here when we moved in, and that was my tip-off that they’d grow well. I’ve put in more over the years, and they’ve continued to produce well and “berry-up” nicely. The first rhododendron that I bought at the grocery store just after we moved, some twenty years ago now, has grown and flourished, so I’ve put in several more. Oh, I’ve experimented over the years with different things that caught my interest at the nursery. Sometimes they do well, but as often as not, in a year or two, they’re gone.
As I’ve written before, my grandfather had a philosophy about cars. He always said that if you filled a car with gas, changed the oil, and put air in the tires, it should run forever. That’s all a car should need. I feel something like that about plants. If I water them and give them fertilizer every so often along with a passing compliment and the sun comes out from time to time, they in turn should reward me with a seductive shape and copious blossoms. Many do, but some just shrivel up and die, like the poppies I’ve tried two or three times now. At first, I thought they were every other year, but after six years now, nothing. How can they do that to me? I take it as a personal affront.
Shortly, the spring clean-up will begin. I’ll clean up and remove the dead remains from last fall. Some garden specialists say to clean up in the fall, so the spring gardens look fresh and ready to explode with success. Others say to leave the dead stuff as animals will eat it or it’s storing energy for next year’s burst of excitement. I subscribe to the latter, usually. Because I’m too lazy to do much in the fall. Over the winter, the planning part is a wonderful diversion from the ice and snow. I look at catalogues, envision some of the finer garden layouts in magazines, and make plans to add, fill in, magnify, and create. Yes, in my mind, these will be equal to the Royal Botanical Gardens. I watch television shows where garden competitors head to the nursery and pick out truckloads of beautiful plants, thinking I’ll do the same once the threat of frost has passed. For me, though, buying four or five plants at a time is a splurge. Her Ladyship will glance out a window or take slight peripheral looks on the way to the car and tell me, “oh, that’s pretty”, while our daughter reminds me that more of her inheritance is being, in her words, squandered. On a humorous side note, one year we had a couple of woodchucks, that’s groundhogs to non-New Englanders, in residence eating up my gardens at a voracious rate. Not wanting to spray chemicals all over the place, I bought some “coyote urine”, a natural deterrent. The Princess was appalled and disgusted, first because I was laying out cash for something with “urine” in the name, and second because I was spending her more of her rightful inheritance on something with “urine” in the name. I believe conversation went something like, “Wait – you’re spending our money on urine”? (Despite her being in college, all household income was “our money”.)
My brother posted on Facebook the other day a picture of funny garden tags. Several caught my eye, but then I couldn’t find it again. I made up my own here, and will try not to pilfer someone else’s imaginative work.
Crabgrass is my Cash Crop – this could go most anywhere in our back yard. Not generating a lot of money, it does make a statement about what masquerades as green velvet.
This Mulch is a Shroud – protecting that which, underneath, never more shall be.
At Least the Weeds are Pretty – which is true of most any garden. Conscience tells us to pull, but there’s just something attractive about some of them. Sadly, from time to time, they’re the only things producing flowers.
Chipmunk Heaven – yes, I’ve written before about Hector and his family. These little furry creatures have a great time eating bulbs, digging up my containers, and scurrying about as if they’re investors in the property. Such fun!
Only the Rocks are Green – There is that garden “down time”, typically in mid to late summer, when everything turn brownish and “wilty”. (That’s a new word I’m coining for larger usage, in case you didn’t read my “Inventing Language” blog of several weeks ago.) At least the moss in the rock gardens preserve their greenery.
My Futility Garden – Every gardener comes across a spot that just won’t support life. You compost, fertilize, bring in bags of loam, and still – nothing but weeds and dead stems. Time for the Shroud of Mulch.
Future Compost – Enough said.
The gardening adventures will move forward this year, what with cleaning out and planting new, with watering, clipping and deadheading, trips to the nursery that will require sneaking new items in under cover of darkness, planning new projects, and the inevitable grumbling from my daughter. I read in gardening magazines about the couple that has, over the last few years converted their idle five acres into the Gardens of Versailles. I have feelings of intense dislike mingling with respect for them. Particularly when they say, “We had no formal training. We just dug in and started.” There’s a couple that recreated her grandmother’s English Cottage Garden on several acres in Pennsylvania. What is that all about? You just know her grandmother had a garden in the village that was just a bit bigger than a standard Amazon box. Oh, well. I’m working on my New England Mixed Whatever Grows Reasonably Well Cottage Garden, so I have to start planning my ordering, laying out the design, and spending what’s left of our daughter’s legacy.
Happy Gardening 2021, Everyone.
I'm Thinking...No! 