Finally spent some sweat outdoors this morning. Filled seven planters with geranium-yums, dianthus, allysum, and the silly petunias. Now to the garden, to pull out the two-year old carefully tended baby peach trees that have turned out to be chokecherries, I think. The tiller is broken so hand-hoeing must be done, turn the soil and hide herb seeds and yellow squash and tomatoes and anything else that I want. Maybe okra; there’s nothing like freshly picked young okra sauted in a bit of butter.
And the trimming. The no-man’s land between what is garden and officially lawn. Spouse says it’s my territory, though I point out his lawn growing into my sweet williams. Ah well, I have the patience and virtue of a saint, and he, well, does not. Or so I say.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Ah, the veritable concreteness of gardening. Where mistakes can usually be grown back. Where whims are encouraged. Where you get something even if you don’t give. My garden (non veggie, too shady and small) obsessed me for 12 years before I finally got lazy, and THEN I started to enjoy it. Of course, those 12 years obsessing produced a wild, whimsical, rich, mature haven, a wild idyll. Like me! ;-}