I am a gardener by whim and by chance. Preferring my gardens to ramble, to be unruly and by the end of summer to have filled me with delight. It is by all these reckonings that the day before a big winter storm I am attending to taking care of my pruning shears.
The unfortunate part of my garden methodology is I tend to wander. I may start out with all good intents to prune this or weed that but on a glorious summer's day I am often called away from the task at hand by a butterfly or an especially pretty flower. This is why in January I am attending to my pruning shears.Taking them apart and scrubbing the rust that has gathered on the blades. Having left them more than once out in the rain during the heyday of gardening season. I pull my whetstone from the drawer, along with pliers and a screwdriver and attend to the disassembling of the poor things. Believe it or not, for my many faults when it comes to gardening (or most things), losing my tools is not one of them. I misplace them, they temporarily disappear from sight but they are never lost. A good cleaning, my whetstone to sharpen their edges and a coat of oil will see them through yet another season.
It is especially nice on a cold winter's eve to be doing such a chore. As I take my steel wool to the blades of the disassembled pruners I gaze at my own reflection in the kitchen window. But I am not seeing my face. I am seeing the few blossoms that graced my wild apple tree just behind the house. It has never borne fruit and last year was the first time it bloomed. It's shape pleases me and the fact that it planted itself there, just in front of the wild blueberries and beyond a strip of moss covered lawn, well, it just seems right.
That is how my gardens are. They just seem right. I get plants because people give them to me, because the name makes me laugh or because I just like it. I have purple bee balm that struggled to survive in one spot. A little too damp and shady for it's liking. I move it to a much drier, sunnier area and it has woven it roots in and out with the golden glows, lupines and many other flowers that make up my gardens. Every time I see it and on those summer days when my garden glows with purple and the bees and butterflies are drunk upon the very nectar of those flowers I see my oldest son who gave me the first plant.
My gardens are filled with stories like that. And on a cold winter's night, I can almost feel and see the beauty of my gardens. Holding those old, rusty pruning shears which will be sharp, clean and well oiled when the sun comes round again and their services are called upon brings me such joy. Who would have thought that such a chore could be so memorable.
The unfortunate part of my garden methodology is I tend to wander. I may start out with all good intents to prune this or weed that but on a glorious summer's day I am often called away from the task at hand by a butterfly or an especially pretty flower. This is why in January I am attending to my pruning shears.Taking them apart and scrubbing the rust that has gathered on the blades. Having left them more than once out in the rain during the heyday of gardening season. I pull my whetstone from the drawer, along with pliers and a screwdriver and attend to the disassembling of the poor things. Believe it or not, for my many faults when it comes to gardening (or most things), losing my tools is not one of them. I misplace them, they temporarily disappear from sight but they are never lost. A good cleaning, my whetstone to sharpen their edges and a coat of oil will see them through yet another season.
It is especially nice on a cold winter's eve to be doing such a chore. As I take my steel wool to the blades of the disassembled pruners I gaze at my own reflection in the kitchen window. But I am not seeing my face. I am seeing the few blossoms that graced my wild apple tree just behind the house. It has never borne fruit and last year was the first time it bloomed. It's shape pleases me and the fact that it planted itself there, just in front of the wild blueberries and beyond a strip of moss covered lawn, well, it just seems right.
That is how my gardens are. They just seem right. I get plants because people give them to me, because the name makes me laugh or because I just like it. I have purple bee balm that struggled to survive in one spot. A little too damp and shady for it's liking. I move it to a much drier, sunnier area and it has woven it roots in and out with the golden glows, lupines and many other flowers that make up my gardens. Every time I see it and on those summer days when my garden glows with purple and the bees and butterflies are drunk upon the very nectar of those flowers I see my oldest son who gave me the first plant.
My gardens are filled with stories like that. And on a cold winter's night, I can almost feel and see the beauty of my gardens. Holding those old, rusty pruning shears which will be sharp, clean and well oiled when the sun comes round again and their services are called upon brings me such joy. Who would have thought that such a chore could be so memorable.
I love this writing!
ReplyDeleteEvery year I plan to have a garden on my 2 acres, here in VT. But it is hard for me to start since I really have no idea what I am doing. Most of my children are grown, so I only have a few helpers left - and they are willing, but I just don't know how to blindly lead.
I suppose if I finally do start gardening this spring, that will be quite a memory in itself. I want flowers all over the place and vegetables and fruit. Even if it doesn't work out well, the experience will help me gain knowledge.
- from Mrs. White at The Legacy of Home