In his novel, An International Episode, author Henry James says, “Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.”

            I agree with him, but the flip side of that quote might be something like, “Rainy weekend, rainy weekend; to me those have always been the two most disappointing words in the spring gardening season.”

            Last week I wrote about my quest to make my garden glorious—or at least extremely presentable–in the eight hours of time that I reckoned were available before the Memorial Day Weekend.  Now Memorial Day is upon us.  The garden outside my window would be harder to mistake for an unmowed hay field, but it is nowhere near glorious.  Rain—pouring, soaking, cold, unrelenting rain—accounts for the ongoing glory deficit.

            I awakened clothed in hope last Saturday, and augmented that hope with a sweater, hooded raincoat, waterproof garden clogs and heavy garden gloves.  It was a great day for weeding, with onion grass and dandelions popping right out to the ground.  I filled half of a large lawn and leaf bag in the first thirty minutes, after which I was cold, soaked and ready for a cup of hot tea.

            Instead of abating by afternoon, as is common for spring rain, the chilly monsoon continued all day, ruling out mowing, hedge trimming, or, in fact, much of anything else.  I groomed the houseplants and seethed in frustration.  There was nothing left to do except go grocery shopping, which I hate.  By the end of the day, the cupboards were stocked, but the garden was practically under water.  The only available enjoyment was watching the birds frolic in the vast puddles.

            Sunday was only marginally better, but I weeded again and plucked a great deal of ivy from various garden beds, the sides of my house, and the fence that surrounds the back yard.  Ivy eradication is intensely satisfying, even as it brings to mind the myth of Sisyphus and his unending task of pushing a boulder up a mountain only to have it roll back to the bottom again.

            After the soggy weekend dripped into history, my only recourse was to labor in increments at the end of each weekday.  I did that, working incrementally.  The lawn got mowed, the string trimming happened and more weeds left the scene.  While I worked, the roses, iris and clematis, which had been waiting patiently for a few rays of sunshine, moved closer to blooming.  I took a break from the more back-breaking tasks to plant a new variegated iris and pot up a rose in a decorative container.  I may install small bedding dahlias at its feet just before I walk out the door for Memorial Day Weekend.

            In the end, I did not get my eight hours, but managed just over three.  Shrub pruning is barely started, but I used up 70 of the 80 minutes I allotted for mowing and trimming.  The south side of my front garden is now more or less clear of self-sown maple seedlings.  I may have actually removed enough ivy so that it can’t recover all of its lost ground before I resume the effort next week.  The bags of mulch sitting beside my driveway remain untouched, as does the landscape fabric that will go underneath some of those cedar shreds.

            In the fifteenth century, theologian Thomas à Kempis wrote, “”Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit” or “Man proposes, but God disposes.”  Gardeners are among those who understand the real meaning of those words—especially after a monsoon weekend.

            Next week, I will look over the situation and get back to work.  I’ll check the forecast, water the bedding plants in my holding area and make a new deadline.  In other parts of the country, Memorial Day is only the start of the gardening season, so I am probably way ahead of my fellow horticulturists in Anchorage, Alaska or Edina, Minnesota.  That is enough to make me believe that the coleus will be in pots before Labor Day.