This is the time of year I love and hate the most. I have always loved dirt. Even as a kid I was not the little girl playing with the dolls. I was the little girl stealing the little boys trucks so I could play in the dirt. And that is what I love about gardening, it is playing in the dirt and being rewarded for your efforts.
I can't say much for the condition of my hands, dirt is rough on them because eventually I have to take my gloves off and feel what I am working with. And it is hard on my feet, because the shoes have to come off so I can feel the grass as I walk back and forth doing my various projects.
But the rewards of blood, sweat and tears and yes there are tears, are great. From seemingly out of nowhere come hundreds of plants. Not only do I have perennial beds but I let nature have its way with my lawn. Creeping Veronica, bugle weed, sweet white violets bloom along with the dandelions. I mix flowers with vegetables and I let the pumpkin vines snake their way onto the lawn. My gardens are not planned, they do not stay the same from year to year. I view each and every plant as a piece of furniture or artwork meant to be moved in order to create a more pleasant and comfortable view. Although I can and do appreciate gardens that hours have been spent in the planning and execution of I like, no love, the randomness of my gardens. I love the small creeping Veronica wending its way from underneath a giant hosta. The bright blue of its flower contrasting with the variegated greens, bright lime green or deep blue green of the hostas. The daylilies I have gotten when they were nothing but side shoots off a mother plant thrown into a basket like unopened packages. Unlabeled, unknown, a game of patience in which the reward has been flowers of yellow, peach, red, and all colors inbetween. The blooms ranging from small and delicate to large and gaudy. Some with fragrance and some without. But all the more special because they were all unexpected.
This is the time of year where my senses overload. I want to see all the colors, look at the contrast between plants, feel the textures. Gardening in a sensory pleasure. It is not just visual. It is the fragrance of the lilacs on a warm breeze. The prick of the thorn of a rose. The textured ribbing on a hosta leaf. I want to hold it, embrace it, close my eyes and see the paths, hear the sound of the water, the chatter of the swallows as they swoop down from the sky feasting on bugs.
And soon enough the growing season will be over. And I will be happy. I will enjoy the apples, pumpkins and even turnips. Knowing that I have spent an amazing time watching blossoms and seeds and every day dirt become more than they were.
I will be tired of weeding, watering and heat. I will be ready for soups, breads and a fire burning in the furnace. But sometime between the last frost and first snow I will start dreaming about my gardens. I will spend the winter watering and caring for my 'alternative' garden, the many houseplants that sustain me during the cold winter months while I wait out another year anxious for planting time to come again.
I can't say much for the condition of my hands, dirt is rough on them because eventually I have to take my gloves off and feel what I am working with. And it is hard on my feet, because the shoes have to come off so I can feel the grass as I walk back and forth doing my various projects.
But the rewards of blood, sweat and tears and yes there are tears, are great. From seemingly out of nowhere come hundreds of plants. Not only do I have perennial beds but I let nature have its way with my lawn. Creeping Veronica, bugle weed, sweet white violets bloom along with the dandelions. I mix flowers with vegetables and I let the pumpkin vines snake their way onto the lawn. My gardens are not planned, they do not stay the same from year to year. I view each and every plant as a piece of furniture or artwork meant to be moved in order to create a more pleasant and comfortable view. Although I can and do appreciate gardens that hours have been spent in the planning and execution of I like, no love, the randomness of my gardens. I love the small creeping Veronica wending its way from underneath a giant hosta. The bright blue of its flower contrasting with the variegated greens, bright lime green or deep blue green of the hostas. The daylilies I have gotten when they were nothing but side shoots off a mother plant thrown into a basket like unopened packages. Unlabeled, unknown, a game of patience in which the reward has been flowers of yellow, peach, red, and all colors inbetween. The blooms ranging from small and delicate to large and gaudy. Some with fragrance and some without. But all the more special because they were all unexpected.
This is the time of year where my senses overload. I want to see all the colors, look at the contrast between plants, feel the textures. Gardening in a sensory pleasure. It is not just visual. It is the fragrance of the lilacs on a warm breeze. The prick of the thorn of a rose. The textured ribbing on a hosta leaf. I want to hold it, embrace it, close my eyes and see the paths, hear the sound of the water, the chatter of the swallows as they swoop down from the sky feasting on bugs.
And soon enough the growing season will be over. And I will be happy. I will enjoy the apples, pumpkins and even turnips. Knowing that I have spent an amazing time watching blossoms and seeds and every day dirt become more than they were.
I will be tired of weeding, watering and heat. I will be ready for soups, breads and a fire burning in the furnace. But sometime between the last frost and first snow I will start dreaming about my gardens. I will spend the winter watering and caring for my 'alternative' garden, the many houseplants that sustain me during the cold winter months while I wait out another year anxious for planting time to come again.
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