The Imperfect Gardener

Excerpts from MacArthur Metro garden columns

I am easily intimidated by gardening books with pictures of brilliant fragrant borders designed to attract hummingbirds, no less.  No matter what I do, I know that my garden will never be picture perfect.  By the time I remember to prune, mulch or subdivide, some other pressing need will emerge, unannounced, to interfere with my best intentioned plan.  The comfrey has obliterated the penstemon; the gopher is back, or else I see that the poor potted fuschia is dying a slow death, where it missed the nourishing rainfall by mere inches. Garden lists are created to give us a needed sense of structure and purpose.  But every garden bed is in its own time zone, and the best landscaping decisions can be upstaged by nature’s inevitable plan.   

Planting from Seed:
I am a sucker for seed packets.  How can anyone resist something that promises a profusion of flowers covering 250 square feet for only $2.49?  Instructions are so simple:  “sow seeds after all danger of frost is past.”  I gather up colorful armfuls of seed packets in the nursery, splay them open like a bouquet, and realize there is no need to choose.  I can buy them all and still get change from a ten-dollar bill.  Seed planting may attract the frugal, but it is not for the lazy or distracted. Go ahead and try your luck with a handful of packets.  It is a worthy bet, considering how great the reward:  a guest tastes a bite of your salad and you say, “Why thank you. I grew it all from seed.”

Landscaping:
Landscape ideas don’t have to live forever.  My medicinal herb garden was a hobby that provided me with years of enjoyment.  It has become an overgrown monster of comfrey, mugwart (do not ever plant either of those for any reason), and thick-limbed lavender.  It was fun for a while, but now I’m thinking woodsy. Like a pallet painted over, the joy of gardening is as much about change as it is about beauty.

Fall Gardening:
The work of fall gardens is the calm before the storm.  The thought before the action. What you plant in the fall may last for years, even decades, if done carefully and with clear intention. In these shorter days roots go deep, their work only beginning. Fall gardening is when you plant what is meant to last, and what may not be seen for some time. It is not for the frivolous.There is plenty of work to do, both cleaning and creating.  But there is also the desire to be still, smell the air, watch the colors and shapes change before your eyes.

Spring Fever:
If you are not sure what spring fever is, here are some of the common symptoms:
You walk outside in clean clothes and good shoes, notice some dead leaves in the path.  Next thing you know, you’re down on hands and knees, fingers covered with dirt, the knees of your good pants are muddied (possibly permanently), and your good shoes have just been demoted to gardening shoes.  And you don’t care.

Pruning:
Pruning is intuitive.  Pruning is quiet.  Before you snap the pruners, think about where the sun hits and when.  Notice what is growing nearby—do you want it shaded or obliterated.  Think about the birds that might want to pop in and out for a snack or a gentle hiding place.   If the plant bears fruit, prune so you will be able to reach it.  If the plant offers shade, prune so you can sit beside it.  Listen to the plant.  Don’t be in a hurry. 

Click here to read Adina's latest Gardening Column.

 

 

   
Garden Grown Poetry

ACACIA

It was no higher than my knee,
a straight wooden line
from soil to lacy head.
It didn’t look like anything.


I almost pulled it
but for the faint beginning of shape
like a feather about to open,
tickling my curiosity.


In a forest of distractions
I forgot about this thing
that stood half way between
irksome stick
and beauty.


In the meantime
and without my knowing
this stick grew skyward.
What might have been feathers
exploded into forests
for nests of skittering things,
for the sheer beauty of it.


What stands outside my window now
is connected to the clouds
by a mottled wall so thick
it can be leaned on.
I barely even reach its knotted knee.


I came so close to pulling it
I never would have known
what power passes
between chance and ignorance

 

NEGOTIATION WITH COMFREY

I concede to you Comfrey
as you spread your sticky roots
gnarled deep past the point
where shovels go,
as you droop your lazy leaves
(a coat of pins concealed in velvet places) and push through this landscape
like a railroad through a sleeping town, without even a pretense of destination.

       I tried to move you once.

       You grew back doubled
       in both places.

       You grew back hardened
       and oblivious.

       You grew back laughing.

Some day I’m going to need you
when my bones begin to break
and nothing else is growing,
having long ago been smothered
by your flightless wings.

        It is not a brave feeling
        to surrender to a flower,
        to know you can be beaten
        by a brutish bunch of leaves.

 

THIS IS WHAT I DID TODAY

moved rocks;
fluffed edges of dried leaves
to keep pots damp;
turned hoses round;
Cradled tender slips of sweet peas;
Moved the jade from a dark forgotten corner;
Waited for the beans to sprout;
Untangled the climbing vine
that will soon sprout brilliant pink,
and tacked it to perfection
on a dull and waiting wall;
Decided to transplant the lettuce;
Decided not to transplant the basil,
knowing full well they do what they do.
And after hours of this constant movement
carrying, training, trailing, deciding,
I sat satisfied and smiling,
like the ruler of a kingdom.
And even in this state of smugness,
there are the snails
to consider

 

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