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Into the garden
Mar. 12th, 2006 12:33 pmIt was over 70 degrees on Friday, over 60 yesterday. It doesn't matter to me that the temperatures are dropping back to the 40s -- I want to garden. It should matter; that means more frost, which isn't exactly recommended for most plants. But I ache to get soil under my fingers and see the resultant color this summer from my hard work now. I'd be outside planting now if it hadn't been pouring rain this morning. Don't want to compact the soil.
I have, on occasion, planned gardens. Years back, I charted out an elaborate 10 x 10 herbal knot garden. It was going to take years to grow up to its full definition, and we moved before it got to that point. For all I know, it's been converted to lawn by now. But I had the plan, and I could see in my head what it would look like when it was mature. (And meanwhile, we got to enjoy its bounty in our kitchen.)
More often, though, I just go with that image in my head of what's going to happen, and I start planting. And the image is subject to change. I plant my flowers and vines and shrubs in a more free-spirited frame of mind -- throw in whatever captures my fancy, many of them, (catch phrase: "You can never have too many daffodils!"), closely packed, and see what happens. Across the brick walkway (laid by my husband) from the knot garden was a raised garden with daffodils, tulips, freesias, crocuses, irises, hyacinths, dahlias, gladiolus, cannas, chrysanthemums, and more. I tried planting Mazus reptans as a ground cover, but it didn't get enough water in the months after planting. But the bed itself flourished.
I tend to prefer bulbs that can be planted and forgotten about (cannas and glads count in California, but not in Pennsylvania, more's the pity) and perennials. I like my work to grow from year to year, rather than having to start over again as one must with annuals, unless they self-sow. And if the work not only grows but also provides framework for the garden -- bonus!
I can have a flower garden that's just a flower garden -- no shrubs, no vines, not a rose or a statue to be seen. But if you look at my yard, that flower bed wouldn't appear in a vacuum. We have maple and dogwood, apple trees and blue spruce, holly and azalea . . . oh, and a house right smack dab in the yard, which slopes from east to west and north to south, down to a gentle swale that eventually runs off to join a creek. So there's structure there, whether I want it or not. My challenge is to work both with and against what's already there to create my vision for the yard -- playing the entire time.
And I do mean playing. Yesterday, I planted 2 clematis, 5 peonies, and 30 peacock orchids. I also started seeds soaking for sweet peas, moonflowers, and morning glories. And then there's all the stuff I'm not going to get planted until the middle of the week, or maybe even next week, what with the danger of frost and all -- lily of the valley, bleeding hearts, and ferns for the shady spot between the house and the front sidewalk; lilies and glads to plant on the east side of the house; and the seeds, columbine, blanket flower (Gaillardia), baby's breath, butterfly weed (Asclepias), snapdragon, bee balm (Monarda), phlox, delphinium, and hollyhock.
It'll be a jumble, sort of like my mind. Lots of color, with some direction to it, something going on everywhere, and a big picture only emerging over time.
Anyone else seeing parallels with my writing style? Yeah. I read everything that looks interesting, pick up shiny bits here and there, and throw them into the ground to either compost or grow. Some ideas may not be productive for years. (Both clematis and peonies tend to take three years from first planting until one sees blooms.) Some grow better for pruning, and others die for no apparent reason. Ever had an idea that died because you didn't neglect it? Because you watered it and fed it and wanted it to be spectacular right then?
So right now, I work at some things for how my garden will look this year -- moonflowers and morning glories to climb up and wreath our deck in flowers -- and plan for taking over at least half the front yard from lawn over the next few years. And I work on short stories and judge whether some of my novel-length ideas may be ready to blossom and plant new trees and vines in my mind to give structure to what is to come.
I have, on occasion, planned gardens. Years back, I charted out an elaborate 10 x 10 herbal knot garden. It was going to take years to grow up to its full definition, and we moved before it got to that point. For all I know, it's been converted to lawn by now. But I had the plan, and I could see in my head what it would look like when it was mature. (And meanwhile, we got to enjoy its bounty in our kitchen.)
More often, though, I just go with that image in my head of what's going to happen, and I start planting. And the image is subject to change. I plant my flowers and vines and shrubs in a more free-spirited frame of mind -- throw in whatever captures my fancy, many of them, (catch phrase: "You can never have too many daffodils!"), closely packed, and see what happens. Across the brick walkway (laid by my husband) from the knot garden was a raised garden with daffodils, tulips, freesias, crocuses, irises, hyacinths, dahlias, gladiolus, cannas, chrysanthemums, and more. I tried planting Mazus reptans as a ground cover, but it didn't get enough water in the months after planting. But the bed itself flourished.
I tend to prefer bulbs that can be planted and forgotten about (cannas and glads count in California, but not in Pennsylvania, more's the pity) and perennials. I like my work to grow from year to year, rather than having to start over again as one must with annuals, unless they self-sow. And if the work not only grows but also provides framework for the garden -- bonus!
I can have a flower garden that's just a flower garden -- no shrubs, no vines, not a rose or a statue to be seen. But if you look at my yard, that flower bed wouldn't appear in a vacuum. We have maple and dogwood, apple trees and blue spruce, holly and azalea . . . oh, and a house right smack dab in the yard, which slopes from east to west and north to south, down to a gentle swale that eventually runs off to join a creek. So there's structure there, whether I want it or not. My challenge is to work both with and against what's already there to create my vision for the yard -- playing the entire time.
And I do mean playing. Yesterday, I planted 2 clematis, 5 peonies, and 30 peacock orchids. I also started seeds soaking for sweet peas, moonflowers, and morning glories. And then there's all the stuff I'm not going to get planted until the middle of the week, or maybe even next week, what with the danger of frost and all -- lily of the valley, bleeding hearts, and ferns for the shady spot between the house and the front sidewalk; lilies and glads to plant on the east side of the house; and the seeds, columbine, blanket flower (Gaillardia), baby's breath, butterfly weed (Asclepias), snapdragon, bee balm (Monarda), phlox, delphinium, and hollyhock.
It'll be a jumble, sort of like my mind. Lots of color, with some direction to it, something going on everywhere, and a big picture only emerging over time.
Anyone else seeing parallels with my writing style? Yeah. I read everything that looks interesting, pick up shiny bits here and there, and throw them into the ground to either compost or grow. Some ideas may not be productive for years. (Both clematis and peonies tend to take three years from first planting until one sees blooms.) Some grow better for pruning, and others die for no apparent reason. Ever had an idea that died because you didn't neglect it? Because you watered it and fed it and wanted it to be spectacular right then?
So right now, I work at some things for how my garden will look this year -- moonflowers and morning glories to climb up and wreath our deck in flowers -- and plan for taking over at least half the front yard from lawn over the next few years. And I work on short stories and judge whether some of my novel-length ideas may be ready to blossom and plant new trees and vines in my mind to give structure to what is to come.
