I decided to take up gardening this Spring. What this means in my vernacular is that I’ve moved some of my prized houseplants to designated spots on my backyard patio. Since the closest I’ve ever come to real gardening is puttering around with potted plants ranging from African Violets to Boston Ferns, I figured this was a good first step. I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty self-satisfied, if I do say so myself.
For years my mother and friends have been telling me how cathartic gardening is. I’ve watched in awe as they turn rugged terrain into a flowering tapestry. I’ve listened with mouth agape as they walk through the wilderness pointing out Sweet Alyssum here and Plummer’s Mariposa Lily there. I’d previously been so proud to simply chant “left foot, right foot” while walking along a path without losing my way!
Sure, I’d been in Girl Scouts and earned my badges, but when it came to the outdoors, well, I was always trying to figure out how to bring it inside to avoid the myriad of creatures that call it home. I found myself marveling that anyone could learn all of the names associated with these wild things, much less enjoy actually getting dirt under their fingernails to do so.
There was a time when people seemed to leave well enough alone. Then, when I was recuperating from my second go-round with breast cancer, my husband suddenly became an avid gardener. I’m sure some of this was to relieve the stress of having a loved one in such dire straits, but according to him, it was because he thought it was something I would enjoy as well.
His first mistake was buying me a hammock. This is sort of how the scenario would unfold. Bob would go to a local gardening supply shop and come back with bags of soil, baskets of pretty, colorful flowers, and all sorts of other odds and ends designed to help said flowers leap from their containers into the ground. I would be very excited and promise to help.
As he began the task of loosening soil, or preparing beds, I would stand nearby providing all of the support I could muster. Apparently, it takes quite a bit of time to really attack this sort of project properly, so about ten minutes into any given gardening task, I would excuse myself to get a drink of water. While I was in the house rehydrating, I might just sneak a peek at what was on TV, or decide to clean out the linen closet – or even defrost the refrigerator. At some point this behavior would elicit a fairly loud bellow from the yard, at which point I would meekly venture outside and apologetically mumble some sort of excuse.
When it comes to gardening, I have the attention span of a gnat. I’m sorry, but maybe it’s just some genetic flaw. On one occasion I did manage to dig a hole and deposit a pansy plant (one of my favorite flowers, by the way). I carefully packed the dirt back around it and then immediately went inside to wash my hands. On my way back outside I stopped to check my email, floss my teeth, clean the birdcage – oops – there’s that bellowing again.
Two hours or so into this episode, I’m on the hammock and Bob is sweating (or was that swearing?) profusely. The flowerbeds are a brilliant tumble of color, and I even manage to recognize a few varieties without having to pull out a field guide. I feel somewhat guilty that I haven’t done much more than look on, but he seemed to be enjoying it so much, I didn’t want to get in the way. long time if I’m ever going to get that pet monkey!
I think about how my mother always tells me that nothing feels as good as getting your hands dirty. I want to remind her that it wasn’t all that long ago that she would have a conniption fit when I wandered into the house to offer her one of my famous mud pies. How quickly they forget! Now she tells me a big part of her gardening enjoyment is digging in the earth. She loves the smell and the feel. I think Bob shares this sentiment. Are they out of their minds? I’m afraid this is another area where I expect instant gratification. I don’t want to smell or feel the dirt – I want some pretty posies wafting their fragrance in my direction – and I want them now!
This year, however, I resolved to change my tune. I’ve managed to keep several houseplants healthy and happy for several years. It’s time for me to expand my horticultural horizons. I thought a cautious first step would be to purchase some lady bugs to get rid of the white fly and aphids that seemed to be tormenting my transported (but not yet transplanted) house plants. I’d read somewhere that lady bugs are a natural way to deal with this problem – and I’m all for natural.
So I bring home a cute little package of ladybugs. I’m on my lunch break, so I don’t have time to read the directions. How hard can this be? You just cut the bag open and deposit the ladybugs on the afflicted plants. Right? Right!
But wait, I’ve cut the bag open and the ladybugs are crawling all over my arm. The ladybugs are flying away. The ladybugs are hiding in cracks. The ladybugs are doing everything but landing (or staying) on the plants that need their attention. Within only a few minutes all 1,500 ladybugs (that’s what the guarantee said was in the container) are either still clinging desperately to my body – or have flown the coop. Rather than be late back from lunch, I manage to take off my shirt and leave it next to the plants (maybe they will get the hint!)
When I get home from work that evening there isn’t a ladybug within 20 miles. I think even ladybugs that lived in the neighborhood have headed for new parts. Rather than take this as an omen, I decide to see it as just another challenge. I’m still going to plant something this Spring – my backside in the hammock!