"The damage," said the garden center clerk, "is $158.14."
I think she expected me to flinch. Instead, I whipped out my bank card, inwardly congratulating myself that my cartful of impatiens, lobelia, vinca, ground-cover ivy, and assorted bulbs hadn't set me back another fifty bucks or so.
But then, I'm being conservative this year; construction of an expanded back porch enclosed with lattice to encourage morning glory and clematis vines, and a new front entry that will feature flower boxes on the facade and railings means I must hold my lust to wallow in the dirt in check. At some point, I will be bringing a landscaper into the project, so planting annuals is akin to whipping up the icing before you assemble the ingredients for the cake.
I have, however, permitted myself this splurge, arguing to my inner grownup that I can at least fill the flower boxes and have them ready to be mounted in their brackets. What harm will it do to have a hanging basket beside the front door until the builder actually breaks ground for the piers? (He just started at the back on Saturday.)
As I reflected earlier this spring while pruning rose bushes and tidying up last year's debris in the perennial beds, flower gardening is perhaps the most hopeful of occupations, the triumph of optimism over experience. Maybe this year the young lilac that has never produced anything but foliage will blossom. Maybe this year I'll crack the code of growing ornamental grasses. Maybe this year I'll harvest more of my John F. Kennedy roses than the Japanese beetles do. And, as my newest garden ornament depicts, maybe this year pigs will fly.
For those of us who toil in the soil, moreover, the dark clouds not only have silver linings, our plants needed a good soaking anyway. Speaking of rain, when a wild winter wind removed and absconded with the lid to the 40-gallon bin in which I store my peat moss, I discovered that the "peat tea" brewed in the open bin makes a nice tonic for newly planted containers. When I got too close to a peony with the Weed-Eater, I concluded that it really needed pruning and being reduced in area by a third would doubtless make it flower all the better next year. (Ah, the magic phrase "next year!" I wonder how many gardeners are closet Chicago Cubs fans.) My incredibly filthy hands and fingernails are an opportunity to try that lovely new lavender soap; my wicked thirst makes the sun-brewed tea positively ambrosial.
Like the sundial which records only the sunny hours, we gardeners are indefatigably cheerful and sociable creatures, never averse to leaning on our rakes to chat awhile. This conviviality begins in the nursery and garden center, where it is perfectly appropriate to survey the contents of the carts ahead and behind in the checkout line, and to inquire of the purchasers about growing conditions and what luck they've had with that species. Once home and out in the front patch, digging and delving are perfect opportunities to catch up on local affairs with the neighbors, garner the occasional compliment from passing strangers, swap pruning tips with the mail carrier and the Pennysaver deliveryman, remark on the birds, and converse with the cat, who is always keen to chase away the killer butterflies. (He is not so lethal with Japanese beetles or aphids, sadly.)
These distractions stem in part from a delightful malady known as Gardeners' Attention Deficit Disorder (GADD), which affliction manifests itself in the urgent need to fetch for a different implement because, gosh, I didn't realize that branch needed to be lopped or to unreel the hose because, golly, the plants in that container are all but gasping for a drink. Sometimes I stop dead in my tracks to ponder how well the vinca is spreading or to wonder where that purple coneflower came from. Look at the way the violets cover that patch---how did I get so lucky?
Lawn care, by the way, is not gardening because I can neither meander behind a mower nor carry on a conversation. Raking, mowing, picking up twigs---I just want to get it done so I can play in the dirt. Which is where I'm going now, probably to hunt for four-leaf clovers
I think she expected me to flinch. Instead, I whipped out my bank card, inwardly congratulating myself that my cartful of impatiens, lobelia, vinca, ground-cover ivy, and assorted bulbs hadn't set me back another fifty bucks or so.
But then, I'm being conservative this year; construction of an expanded back porch enclosed with lattice to encourage morning glory and clematis vines, and a new front entry that will feature flower boxes on the facade and railings means I must hold my lust to wallow in the dirt in check. At some point, I will be bringing a landscaper into the project, so planting annuals is akin to whipping up the icing before you assemble the ingredients for the cake.
I have, however, permitted myself this splurge, arguing to my inner grownup that I can at least fill the flower boxes and have them ready to be mounted in their brackets. What harm will it do to have a hanging basket beside the front door until the builder actually breaks ground for the piers? (He just started at the back on Saturday.)
As I reflected earlier this spring while pruning rose bushes and tidying up last year's debris in the perennial beds, flower gardening is perhaps the most hopeful of occupations, the triumph of optimism over experience. Maybe this year the young lilac that has never produced anything but foliage will blossom. Maybe this year I'll crack the code of growing ornamental grasses. Maybe this year I'll harvest more of my John F. Kennedy roses than the Japanese beetles do. And, as my newest garden ornament depicts, maybe this year pigs will fly.
For those of us who toil in the soil, moreover, the dark clouds not only have silver linings, our plants needed a good soaking anyway. Speaking of rain, when a wild winter wind removed and absconded with the lid to the 40-gallon bin in which I store my peat moss, I discovered that the "peat tea" brewed in the open bin makes a nice tonic for newly planted containers. When I got too close to a peony with the Weed-Eater, I concluded that it really needed pruning and being reduced in area by a third would doubtless make it flower all the better next year. (Ah, the magic phrase "next year!" I wonder how many gardeners are closet Chicago Cubs fans.) My incredibly filthy hands and fingernails are an opportunity to try that lovely new lavender soap; my wicked thirst makes the sun-brewed tea positively ambrosial.
Like the sundial which records only the sunny hours, we gardeners are indefatigably cheerful and sociable creatures, never averse to leaning on our rakes to chat awhile. This conviviality begins in the nursery and garden center, where it is perfectly appropriate to survey the contents of the carts ahead and behind in the checkout line, and to inquire of the purchasers about growing conditions and what luck they've had with that species. Once home and out in the front patch, digging and delving are perfect opportunities to catch up on local affairs with the neighbors, garner the occasional compliment from passing strangers, swap pruning tips with the mail carrier and the Pennysaver deliveryman, remark on the birds, and converse with the cat, who is always keen to chase away the killer butterflies. (He is not so lethal with Japanese beetles or aphids, sadly.)
These distractions stem in part from a delightful malady known as Gardeners' Attention Deficit Disorder (GADD), which affliction manifests itself in the urgent need to fetch for a different implement because, gosh, I didn't realize that branch needed to be lopped or to unreel the hose because, golly, the plants in that container are all but gasping for a drink. Sometimes I stop dead in my tracks to ponder how well the vinca is spreading or to wonder where that purple coneflower came from. Look at the way the violets cover that patch---how did I get so lucky?
Lawn care, by the way, is not gardening because I can neither meander behind a mower nor carry on a conversation. Raking, mowing, picking up twigs---I just want to get it done so I can play in the dirt. Which is where I'm going now, probably to hunt for four-leaf clovers
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