I always think that my gardening life will be more relaxed in the fall, which is yet another example of a triumph of hope over experience. In fact, the fall season is usually fraught with a long to-do list and a sense that time is running out. Life heats up after the relative ease of summer and while temperature and humidity levels are more conducive to hard outdoor work, the days are shortening. There are bulbs to plant and perennials arriving from all those nurseries that lured me into their sticky retail webs by promising savings on plants purchased before the end of September. And if the garden stress level isn’t already elevated, I am acutely aware—along with everyone else on the East Coast–that the past two Octobers have been capped by disastrous storms. Those of us who still have gardens to think about worry on that score as well.
So, short of hiring burly men to do all my planting while I spend a day at a spa, how can I get everything done? The answer—at least for me—is to remember that all large chores can be divided into smaller pieces. Doing things this way helps you live in the moment and provides a feeling of accomplishment on even the busiest day.
Of course I have ordered too much. I always order too much. But this time it will all go into the ground before hard frosts hit. I generally make exceptions for the tulips, because as long as you can chisel holes in the earth, you can plant tulips. I have planted them while turkeys roasted on Thanksgiving, taking regular basting breaks. I have planted them while listening to the strains of Christmas carols. This year, though, I plan to get all the tulips before the Halloween candy gets stale.
This calls for a bit of triage, of course, choosing the most urgent tasks for the earliest attention. In my case, this is shrub planting. Until this week, my plant holding area contained a large ‘Tam ‘O Shanter’ rosebush, one dark-leafed crape myrtle and a rather large lavender. Since shrubs are the largest plants—at least in my holding area—and need the longest time to settle their roots before frost, they have the distinction of going in first. I planted the rose yesterday, eking out ten minutes early in the morning to assemble the tools and dig the hole. At the very end of the day, I found another ten minutes to water in the rose, fill the hole, tamp down the dirt and water the whole thing again. Mulching comes tomorrow. I expect to repeat that procedure in the next day or so with the crape myrtle, which is going in a sunny front bed. While I am digging and grunting, I will glance around and try to find just the right spot for the lavender, which is the smallest of the shrubby trio.
Newly arrived plants cannot languish for weeks in the holding area, as they did last spring. They will be unpacked, watered and installed promptly, even if that has to be done in five minute increments. Fortunately the new-bulb-to-new perennial ratio this fall favors bulbs over perennials, making perennial planting easier.
Because of the storm last fall, I did not prune my collection of roses of Sharon. As the result, all of them shed copious quantities of seed and I have spent this growing season plucking out unwanted seedlings every time I go out into the garden. It will not happen next year, because this fall my leggy roses of Sharon will be pruned in a timely manner. The crown-shaped seed pods are decorative in the winter and useful in dried arrangements, but I am willing to sacrifice those things to save the time it will eventually take to root out the seedlings. I can’t really accommodate another hundred roses of Sharon unless I annex the neighbors’ property.
In the midst of all this frantic activity, I will still have to do the usual and seasonal chores, including weeding, hedge trimming and raking up the bumper crop of leaves that will soon cascade down from the trees. It would be nice if I could work in some additional mulching as well. Of course I would also like to preserve the quinces produced by the flowering quince, make lavender sachets from the lavender drying in the kitchen and sketch a few of the more notable autumn plants. Those ideas dance around my head, like photos from an upscale shelter magazine. When reality sets in, I will most likely bake the quinces, put the dried lavender in plain envelopes for distribution to various drawers and closets and leave the sketchbook in the cupboard. Maybe I can sketch the holiday amaryllis instead.
Whatever happens, I will work fast and happily, since gardens fertilized with guilt invariably produce stunted fruit. Autumn is best when you remember to leave plenty of time to bask in the mellow, golden light.