There's something very forgiving about a garden. It can lie alone, untended for years, and when you return to it, it doesn't have any memory of abandonment. It's a place where time suspends itself, holds its breath, and then, exhales at the first touch of of a trowel. As you can see, cupid is looking rather forlorn.
Forgiveness is the virtue of any garden, and if you tend it well, you'll soon be enjoying the fruits of your labor. Although, it hasn't exactly been untended per say. Last year Dad threw a bunch of perennials and bulbs in there and over the summer, he spent a few afternoons pulling weeds. And every year, he trims back the buddleia bushes. However, the lemon balm still manages to take over, along with the lamb's ears, and it occurred to me this year, now that I'm home, that in order to have a real flower garden, one must well, garden.
So that's why a few Sundays ago found me outside, wearing an old pair of firemen's boots (they stand-in nicely as a redneck version of hipster Kate Middelton wellingtons) and armed with a rake and a wheelbarrow. Fire 34 to the rescue.
It began with ripping up dear fencing that would only have to be put back later. Dad spent an obscene amount of time pounding in the posts in the fall, but he'd tied netting to a few of them as if the deer were a band of highway robbers and the only way to get into the garden was to yank them out of the rocky soil and roll it out of the way with the posts. The best part was pounding the posts back in with a sledge hammer.
It was fun pretending to be an Irish Celtic warrior goddess named Brynn, and despite two years of "weight lifting" my shoulders were screaming after hammering only a few of them. Only one has had the audacity to fall out of line. Naturally, by sledge hammer I mean sword. I used my sword as a hammer. Dirt also makes useful war paint when going to battle with fence posts.
Let's just say the lone post must have been loosened by a hopeful deer. They've joined ranks with the bear/raccoons (perhaps that's a new hybrid breed, raccoon bears?), who chewed through the wiring and plastic like it was a box of tic tacs. He was most likely egged on by the neighborhood foxes, who have young cubs to feed.
Now, I have about 200 plants waiting to go into the ground. This is a result of cabin fever and a constant -11 F on the thermometer up until about 4 weeks ago on our mountain. There are zinninas, marigolds, cosmoes, tomatoes, peppers, snapdragons, and watermelons. Oh, and let's not forget the basil, thyme, oregano, chamomile, cilantro, and parsely.
The best advice I can give about starting seedlings: keep them out of direct sunlight for the first week, and use a small fan to keep the air circulating so you don't get mold. If you don't have a large garden, sorry, although perhaps it's a good thing, because I went through the seed section like a kid on a sugar rampage. However, you don't need a whole meadow to experience what a little flower tending can bring you: a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss. The smallest rose can bring you the greatest joy.
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