The roses are starting to pop
Every morning, regular as clockwork, I come out onto my porch clutching my coffee, breathe deeply, and begin the watering. Admittedly I do not need to water every day – I have not yet finished planting my pots for the season, and the days are still cool enough to permit a little slack in the schedule. Yet the purposeful way I wield a watering wand seems to justify a few guilt-free minutes in the spring garden, when by rights I should be balancing my checkbook, grading history papers or writing this article.
The sun has only been up for an hour or so by the time my walk…er…work begins, and his rays are still too weak to be anything but pleasing. With warm weather, low humidity and new growth everywhere, the chore of watering in May is not so much a chore as a time for observation and excitement wherever my wand takes me. My Amsonia tabernaemontana is finally coming into its own, tipped with blue stars and looking as lovely as the one that inspired its purchase at Longwood Gardens years ago. Hypericum androsaemum, kept sheltered over the winter with a wire cage and autumn leaves, has stopped slouching; dreaming of its bright yellow flowers distracts me from thirsty geranium pots and petunia baskets. Every time I look at its soft ovate leaves I think of my parents’ home, for that is where the mother plant grows. What a joy to look at a plant and think of someone you love or some place you have been.
It seems that every square inch of soil is filled with new seedlings. Yes, many have not been invited to the party, and are hastily shown the door, but many more have been on the guest list since January, and others are like old friends that show up every couple years, but you never know where or when. For the very first time in almost five years of throwing them, seeds of Papaver somniferum have germinated with gusto. They are everywhere, and although I know it will probably be a mistake, I am hesitant to pull any out, lest my previous luck with this so called “easy seeder” returns and leaves me with nothing more than a wisp of ruffled foliage and fervent hopes for next year. Lunaria is still blooming, extending her season to effortlessly hand off the purple torch to sister Hesperis. Dill is everywhere and reminds me that I must start my cucumber seeds this weekend or miss out on summer pickles in a few months’ time. They have reinvented my garden, these prolific self-seeders. There is nothing like a healthy three-foot Verbascum thapsis sitting ever so inconveniently in the lavender bed to remind the gardener that the best laid plans of mice and men go oft awry. Right now I smile at the invader and his boldness, perhaps I will feel differently next month when he begins puberty.
Winding my way down to the vegetables I make a note of raspberries that need thinning and mint that needs yanking – and wonder when I’ll do the deed. Once again it won’t be this morning, for I am walking, not working (not even, truth be told, watering) and in the back of my mind is always the thought that someone else could use that mint, daisy, lambs ear, raspberry etc…etc… that I am just about to ruthlessly pull. And so I don’t, hoping that friends will make good on their promise to come get it (which they don’t always do), or that I will take it to the plant swap (which I then miss). How much simpler to heartlessly classify it as a weed, and add it to the compost pile without a moment’s thought or twinge of remorse.
Strawberries galore
I put down my wand when I get to the vegetable beds. These eco-beauties order their drinks through a gravity powered hose connected to a rain barrel under the house. There is no charge per gallon for this lovely chlorine free water, and the plants lap it up. While splashing lettuce leaves and leek stems I pull a couple rogue weeds with my free hand to stave off the full-scale assault planned for next weekend, and try to prop up the peas on their supports. After wrestling with them for a few more minutes, my smile has begun to fade, and it is time to move on to another part of the garden – this is a walk for pleasure, not pain.
A quiet moment with the bees
So it is on to the bees. I pause momentarily to watch them from the comfort of a swing we installed under the deck and then rise to fill their water trough, but they are uninterested in my presence, there are thousands of flowers to visit before the sun sets. I close the gate behind me and silently wish them well on their day’s adventures.
The walk through the beds and borders is a familiar one, but never bores me somehow. There is always something which makes me smile, something which makes me frown, and usually a dozen things that make me start talking to myself like a babbling lunatic. In a few short months, the task of watering will become onerous and each morning I will critically evaluate all of my plants as potential compost victims should they begin the inevitable plunge into scruffy decrepitude ‑ but not right now. Right now, a walk through the garden is just what the doctor ordered when life pales, bills need to be paid and dishes are waiting to be washed.
