FIFTY-ONE DAYS
The journey to a perfect garden starts with a single bag of mulch. And from now until the Garden Tour, fifty-one days away, “mulch” will be my middle name. I am determined to get the entire garden covered, despite the absence of the burly young men generally employed to handle the chore in my neighborhood. Even if I damned the expense and hired the muscle, I am afraid plants would be stomped in the mulching process. So, for better or worse, I will do it myself.
In fact, I have already laid down the first three bags of shredded cedar mulch and was pleasantly surprised at how far they went. Since I started this garden thirteen years ago, I have encouraged–or simply failed to discourage–various groundcovers. Ajuga romps through the back gardens, as do violets and forget-me-nots. My love affair with hardy geraniums has led to them spreading, carpet-like through some of the beds. Even in spots without “green” groundcovers, the plants are sufficiently close together to make mulch unnecessary. A mature garden is a beautiful thing.
The back garden is cleaned up and weeded–ready for mulching. The onion grass still holds court in the lawn, but it has been mostly banished from the beds. The front, largely unattended until now, still awaits its spring facelift. Luckily the hordes of late daffodils and tulips are blooming, so nobody notices anything else. The front borders will need less mulch than they would have five years ago, but will require considerably more than the beds in the rear. Still, I think that I can get it all done ahead of the Tour and possibly even before my back and pocketbook give out completely.
Now that I have less than two months until the big event, decisions must be made. An elderly rose of Sharon in the front has lichens all over its trunk and bore far fewer flowers last year than in years past. It is also rather crowded in its current situation, so it may be time to remove it. Doing so would make mowing and transit through the front yard easier. Still, removing any plant gives me pangs. Before I chop, I will spend a few more days wrestling with my conscience and waiting to see whether buds are forming on the little tree.
I have a pair of rampant ramblers, both grown from cuttings made from an established rose at our summer house. The parent plant was installed by my green-thumbed aunt and has been extremely vigorous for many years, rambling far and wide on an ivy-covered slope. The offspring are equally vigorous, regularly overwhelming their allotted spaces, extending their canes far and wide and causing trouble in other parts of the garden. I really don’t have room enough or patience enough for two of them, so one should be given away. I would never foist such a rambunctious plant off on just anyone, so I will have to find a knowledgeable rose lover who likes the challenge of wayward varieties.
Poor performers may also get the boot. It is hard to give up hope on something you have nurtured for a year or two, but in fifty-one days absolutely everything has to look fabulous. Besides, every plant that dies opens up a space for something that may be a lot more hardy and exciting.
Most of the lavender plants have been cut back to encourage new, young growth and I am primed to do the rest shortly. A couple of the shrubby specimens appear to be near death, but I will wait until they have spent some quality time in the warm sun before I consider taking them out.
This past week an unexpected cold snap sent temperatures dipping as low as twenty-nine degrees. I was worried about the emerging perennials and all the tender young growth on the roses. All came through with nary a drooping leaf, though some of the tulips looked rather aggrieved in the morning.
The longer daylight hours of early spring make it possible for me to get out at the end of the weekdays and do weeding or other chores. Progress comes in small but satisfying increments and terror about The Tour only sets in on rainy days. Plant vendors are shipping the new plants that I ordered last month. The used cat litter that I dumped down the groundhog hole ten days ago seems to have deterred that garden marauder–at least for the moment. As March goes out like a slightly shivering lamb, anything and everything seems possible.