I felt the dryness of the tendrilling vine as I grasped the offending weed and gave it a hard tug. It was only afterward - its withered remains sprawled out in a wheelbarrow – that I recognized the sting of a thousand tiny thorns the “volunteer” had used to try and defend itself from my attempts to tear it, stem and root, from its hiding place beneath my admittedly inglorious hydrangea.
I assume the blame.
Last year, the blooms were so large and plentiful they obscured their own leafy greens. I didn’t take credit for them, though, since the entire neighborhood was brimming with stunning floral poms.
My gardening skills, I will tell you, are, almost in their entirety, knowing the difference between the things I’ve planted and the things that came in on the wind. What I think sets me apart from other black thumbs is how I might decide long after the season ebbs which of the weedy plants I will try to nurture next year.
It’s not pretty, but the planter box is littered with evening primrose, juniper, and any number of seedlings I didn’t plant.
“This is just one of a thousand reasons gardening is just NOT my thing,” I tell myself as I tend to the burning in my hand more closely.
The “burrs” looked innocuous enough. Flat, brown little flakes - like loose tobacco - sticking to the meat of my palm. I tried to brush them off, but only managed to transfer them and their burning sensation to my other hand.
This could be the ghost of a thistle I planted several years ago for its purulent purple flowers. I had the cheeky thoughts back when I’d reluctantly become a gardener that I would only plant risquély named or appearing flora.
I imagined nonchalantly telling anyone who asked after the identity of the pretty pink flowers dipping their clustered blooms over a shrub of leafy green at the edge of the driveway, “Oh, that’s Hot Lips Turtlehead.”
No one ever asked.
I can’t help but think that was the direct result of my directionless care. For instance, I have no idea what pH number my plants would prefer any more than I know how to make the soil measure up. I also never planned for height or color or lighting needs. Which means each season brings a new surprise.
Some are remarkable, but most of the surprises are unbecoming to a garden.
I know it doesn’t take as much effort as I think it will. A few weed plucks here, a few pruning clips there, will give the garden enough shape to look landscaped.
For all the years my children needed tending at the bus stop, the garden looked unlike nature had always intended.
Those days are long gone. And while I miss them, I have found ways to move on.
As I clear away the prior year’s leaf litter —- again — I toy with the idea of scrubbing it all. Scorching the earth…. mowing it all down … maybe even paving it over so the fruits of past labor can’t revisit.
But I won’t.
I’ll just plan my time better and always wear gloves.
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