I turn my back for one minute and all the garden goes to hell.
All right. It was for more than one minute. It was for a couple of days. I wasn't feeling well over the past weekend and didn't do the usual maintenance. Then I was still not feeling well for the first few days of the week, and when I finally staggered out to blink at the sun about Wednesday midday, I was aghast at what I saw.
The sunflowers had shriveled to limp, bedraggled stalks. A creature had plowed holes in the mulch, as if looking for buried treasure. Anything growing in a flowerpot was hanging forlornly over the edge with wan, curled leaves and withered blooms. And the squash plants have utterly taken over the vegetable plot.
It's hard to imagine that just a few days' neglect could bring about such imminent ruin. Especially given the forgiving nature of plant life. Many times I've brought plants that look almost dead back from the brink of afterlife-on-the-compost-heap to lush, blooming plants again. But I was afraid that, after the few days of warm weather, I was too late.
Luckily, the sunflowers have forgiven me. I turned on the sprinkler and gave them a gentle shower, and within a few hours they were erect and smiling again. The potted plants, not so much. These are the spring annuals that could be perennials if planted in the earth: lobelia, snapdragons, nemisia and pansies. They look bedraggled, even if slightly revived by a cool shower. Blossoms are falling off and it's about that time anyway: time to repot for maximum visual effect. That's on the chore list for the upcoming weekend. We'll just have to see what's in stock at the local nurseries (I'm thinking it'll be petunias, marigolds, cosmos and Iceland poppies, but I could be wrong.)
As for the burrowing creature, not sure who or what that is. I think it's the raccoons. I have a whole spiel about them but suffice it to say that I don't appreciate the helpful random digging. There is nothing under the mulch. Just plastic and then toxic soil. As my father would say, "Don't help."
And then we come to the behemoths in full torpor under the spiked leaves of the squash. Growing with an uncomfortable curvature of the spine, these creatures seem to double in length and girth every two days. I asked the Man to take the axe outside to kill one or two fur supper, but he was late coming home from work, so they're still out there. We're gonna need a chainsaw in a few days.
Forget the caterers. When it's time for the wedding feast, we're just gonna eat zucchini: steamed, sauteed, baked, sliced, stuffed, au gratin, whatever we can do. Forget living in the dorms. When our next eldest gets ready to move to college, we're gonna send her in a hollowed-out squash (shades of Peter-Peter-Pumpkin Eater). And the next eldest is chafing for a car of her own. How about we put some wheels on one of these puppies and see how fast it can drive? Everyone knows that Alameda Point is the place to learn how to drive. Just watch out for my baby's zucchini car. Those things don't grow on trees, you know. Oh, wait. Never mind.
Is there a lesson in all of this? Yes and no. Nothing new to be learned, because we know it as a truism already. If Mom doesn't do it, it probably won't get done. That's the brutal reality. And though the family is a helpful crew when asked, or pressed into service, they just don't have the gardener's passion, they just don't get the thrill of seeing the first tomato blossom, of watching something take root and blossom the way I do. And I can't expect them to. (After all, I don't give two figs about MySpace or X-Box or Scutaro's batting average or the latest Cute Is What We Aim For song.)
The lesson here is Don't Get Sick. Stay healthy so you can take care of the veggies and the flowerpots and the herb garden and the hanging baskets and the fuchsia and all the little green-beings in your care. God gets the seventh day to rest but He doesn't get sick. And as the god or goddess of your garden, you can't either. So take your vitamins and drink your water and get some rest. You've got a lot of work to do.
All right. It was for more than one minute. It was for a couple of days. I wasn't feeling well over the past weekend and didn't do the usual maintenance. Then I was still not feeling well for the first few days of the week, and when I finally staggered out to blink at the sun about Wednesday midday, I was aghast at what I saw.
The sunflowers had shriveled to limp, bedraggled stalks. A creature had plowed holes in the mulch, as if looking for buried treasure. Anything growing in a flowerpot was hanging forlornly over the edge with wan, curled leaves and withered blooms. And the squash plants have utterly taken over the vegetable plot.
It's hard to imagine that just a few days' neglect could bring about such imminent ruin. Especially given the forgiving nature of plant life. Many times I've brought plants that look almost dead back from the brink of afterlife-on-the-compost-heap to lush, blooming plants again. But I was afraid that, after the few days of warm weather, I was too late.
Luckily, the sunflowers have forgiven me. I turned on the sprinkler and gave them a gentle shower, and within a few hours they were erect and smiling again. The potted plants, not so much. These are the spring annuals that could be perennials if planted in the earth: lobelia, snapdragons, nemisia and pansies. They look bedraggled, even if slightly revived by a cool shower. Blossoms are falling off and it's about that time anyway: time to repot for maximum visual effect. That's on the chore list for the upcoming weekend. We'll just have to see what's in stock at the local nurseries (I'm thinking it'll be petunias, marigolds, cosmos and Iceland poppies, but I could be wrong.)
As for the burrowing creature, not sure who or what that is. I think it's the raccoons. I have a whole spiel about them but suffice it to say that I don't appreciate the helpful random digging. There is nothing under the mulch. Just plastic and then toxic soil. As my father would say, "Don't help."And then we come to the behemoths in full torpor under the spiked leaves of the squash. Growing with an uncomfortable curvature of the spine, these creatures seem to double in length and girth every two days. I asked the Man to take the axe outside to kill one or two fur supper, but he was late coming home from work, so they're still out there. We're gonna need a chainsaw in a few days.
Forget the caterers. When it's time for the wedding feast, we're just gonna eat zucchini: steamed, sauteed, baked, sliced, stuffed, au gratin, whatever we can do. Forget living in the dorms. When our next eldest gets ready to move to college, we're gonna send her in a hollowed-out squash (shades of Peter-Peter-Pumpkin Eater). And the next eldest is chafing for a car of her own. How about we put some wheels on one of these puppies and see how fast it can drive? Everyone knows that Alameda Point is the place to learn how to drive. Just watch out for my baby's zucchini car. Those things don't grow on trees, you know. Oh, wait. Never mind.
Is there a lesson in all of this? Yes and no. Nothing new to be learned, because we know it as a truism already. If Mom doesn't do it, it probably won't get done. That's the brutal reality. And though the family is a helpful crew when asked, or pressed into service, they just don't have the gardener's passion, they just don't get the thrill of seeing the first tomato blossom, of watching something take root and blossom the way I do. And I can't expect them to. (After all, I don't give two figs about MySpace or X-Box or Scutaro's batting average or the latest Cute Is What We Aim For song.)
The lesson here is Don't Get Sick. Stay healthy so you can take care of the veggies and the flowerpots and the herb garden and the hanging baskets and the fuchsia and all the little green-beings in your care. God gets the seventh day to rest but He doesn't get sick. And as the god or goddess of your garden, you can't either. So take your vitamins and drink your water and get some rest. You've got a lot of work to do.
