I’ve been gardening. Imagine quotes around it, because I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m doing something. We’ll call it “gardening.”
I’ve always wanted to be one who gardens. A gardener. I was busy growing humans and distracting myself with god-knows-what for decades, though, and have mostly just nurtured fantasies. I’ve got the space and the raw materials — a big, overgrown yard with things that the previous owners planted. We’ve been here for more than 25 years, so those things are choked and struggling. Or gone. Yes, I’ve been not gardening in this paradise for a quarter century. Sue me.
We have daffodils and tulips, roses and irises. Hostas, peonies, day lilies and snowdrops. One poppy and a handful of delicate fritillaria. These beautiful things, showy and full of cheer, arrive unassisted, surrounded by unidentified things (probably weeds), reliably surprising me every year as they flail about in their junk beds. They seem to be crying for help, and I’m sure we’ve lost more than we’ve saved. An old lilac bush, for instance, gone because of the black walnuts.
(Side note: We have, essentially, a black walnut farm. They kill everything. There’s a list, which differs depending on your source, of things that will tolerate juglone, the killer chemical in the black walnut trees. This bit comprises the sum total of my garden knowledge.)
I used to thrash around in the “gardens,” remove what I thought were weeds (hopefully). Even with a houseful of kids and lots to do, I got out there every spring with good intention and paved my little road to nowhere. I yanked the bindweed and thistles out, hopefully making space for the lovelies, and then I forgot about it for the rest of the year. I was busy!
“Next year, I’m going to garden.” I said this every year. For 25 years.
I’ve selected a plot, about 10’ X 12’, that has been sadly neglected for ages. It’s a heap of grass and weeds with great soil (which we trucked in during the last bout of “gardening,” when the black walnuts killed everything, including our will to garden).
Steven thinks my garden project is “not a priority.” I think he’s a “pain in the ass.” I ask him to Saint Patrick the area before I can begin. I think of this as taking a long stick to locate and drive out the snakes, but he just pokes his sandaled toes in the thick, unconcerned about the serpents. He likes them. I’m irrationally terrified.
He’ll pull the vines out of the trees and cut back the blackberry brambles (his priorities). Mow and wring his hands about the ungovernable jungle. I’m going to plant something pretty near the yard chairs so that I can gaze upon my good work while sitting on my ass with a book and a cold drink, when/if the summer comes.
I dug for days, which Steven said was step one (he doesn’t need quotes because he’s actually gardened before). Turn it all over, get the weeds and rocks out. It’s slow and unsatisfying. My gardening overalls are cute and my back hurts.
I have no idea what to plant. I was wedded to the idea of Snowball Hydrangeas, but Steven says the spot gets too much sun. I’ll do more research about black walnut tolerant flowers, or flowering shrubs, or ornamental fruit trees. Something pretty, that will be here when I’m old(er) if I tend it. Something for imagined grandchildren, or future occupants.
I stopped the digging to drive a few states away for a memorial/Covid jamboree. We wrestled highways and emotions, tended elders, and prepped my father for a big move. He’s coming here, to a small apartment in my tiny town, and I imagine showing him my “garden” in its glory. If all goes well, maybe I can lose the quotes.
Gardening is a fantasy, a hopeful belief in the future. An endeavor that you have little to no control over — like life, maybe. The weather, the bugs, the deer, and the fates will have their way no matter how much you work and pray.
I’d love to finish my digging and move on to the next phase, but we’re not allowed outside now. Wildfire dystopia this time, good thing we still have masks. Is crisis just the default now? I’m so close. What should I plant?
Cheers! 🌸
Lisa
Things to share:
Tell Me, What Do You Think About You? by
is a fabulous essay about mothers and daughters, and so much else. “There would be no gesture. No reaching across the table. No, That must have been really hard. Not from her. Not from me.”- with great advice.
Lana Gets Some Sleep, by Veronica Montes, is a beautiful flash about tending a loved one. Also, read her reflection on writing about caregiving. “If I’m not making sense, so be it. It was one wild ride, after all.”
The wonderful Edward Hoagland, On Aging. “Aging is slippage. Wax, then wane, toward humble pie, another day, another dollar.”
As a long-time gardener, I can’t tell you how excited I am to hear about your project! My two cents of advice: if you don’t already have some, buy two large container planters, fill one with herbs and the other with flowers. Containers are easier to manage, and on the days when the in-ground garden feels overwhelming or is full of weeds, you’ll always have two easy containers of joy (and they’re easier on the knees!).
As for the in-ground garden, I recommend Russian sage and coreopsis to everyone I know.
Happy planting!
Every year I tell myself this will be the year I will vigilantly tend the garden til the very end and NOT let it all go to hell in August (let’s be honest, mid-July). But the nice thing is, so many things persevere through my total neglect. That weird squash I just let go to town in the middle of the jungle of cherry tomatoes gave us four butternut squash, so might as well embrace chaos.
Thanks so much for the shout-out!