NINETY-THREE DAYS
I have exactly ninety-three days to get as close as I possibly can to garden perfection. The seconds are slipping away fast and every day the deadline looms large in my imagination.
I got myself into this by saying a single word–“yes.” In this case the “yes” was in answer to a request to open my garden for a garden tour fundraiser. Of course there will be plenty of other gardens open for this event, but that doesn’t take the pressure off The owners of those gardens might have people to help or easier schedules or low-maintenance plants. They might not be completely neurotic about chickweed, or, even worse, they might not have any chickweed. Of course, if they are organic gardening/foraging locavores, they might actually eat their chickweed. I can’t even contemplate that.
I was honored to be asked and basked in a rosy glow for at least ten minutes–until the terror set in. I did the math. When you subtract time for sleeping, work, unexpected emergencies, volunteer commitments and the rest of life’s minutia, ninety-three days suddenly seems a lot like ninety-three minutes.
It has been such a mild winter, that now, in mid-February, the snowdrops are already up, a few crocuses have bloomed and a handful of my neighbors’ early daffodils are showing color and preparing to fling back their petals. The roses are breaking dormancy. If the warm weather continues at this rate, everything will be ahead of schedule. Who knows? We might have asters and chrysanthemums by May.
I can’t worry about that–much. I have to worry about cutting back every growing thing on the property, mulching every piece of bare earth, edging every bed, moving plants around, dividing and replanting, raking out the privet hedges, weeding ceaselessly and filling holes in the beds and borders. The porch railing needs a coat of paint. The top of my predecessor’s ornamental wishing is too disintegrated to be billed as an artistic ruin. It has to go and for that I will definitely need people to make it vanish.
Then there is the question of access. All the groundcovers, vines and other impedimenta creeping into paths must be dealt with severely. The ‘Gloire de Dijon’ rose that grows like it is on steroids has to be cut back and relocated so it won’t be tempted to abduct a garden visitor. The hollies have lost their elegant shapes and are beginning to look like giant green sasquatches. Even with a sturdy ladder and an extension pruner, the hollies will be too much for me. Now is an excellent time to call the tree surgeon.
And what about the long narrow strip behind the garage? It would look lovely ornamented with a line of large pots overflowing with colorful tuberous begonias and coleus. If I don’t get those begonia tubers now, they won’t be big enough to have an impact.
Any day now, the lovely woman in charge of the garden tour will call me to arrange to come around and see my garden. It is still in the throes of winter doldrums and on gray days, looks like it could easily belong to the long-neglected estate of Miss Havisham of Great Expectations fame.
The last time I opened the place for a garden tour was five years ago in the fall. When the woman in charge did her walk-through several months in advance of the event, she said, “Well, this is quite the cottage garden, isn’t it?” What she really meant was, “I put this mess on my garden tour and now I will never live it down.” The garden is much changed and improved since then, but I fear that if it is inspected before spring clean-up, I may well get booted from the tour.
Given that I am clearly neurotic about the whole thing, you might think I would wish for that. However, pride is also a factor in the equation. I like a challenge and know that deadline pressure can be the mother of inspiration. My garden will undoubtedly be fertilized with abundant amounts of desperation come May, but at least desperation is free and available in limitless quantities.
Maybe the answer to the chickweed problem is to call find some local foragers who would be delighted to harvest and eat it.