Today the heat is on—literally and figuratively. The autumn equinox has passed and the end of the growing season is in sight, at least in my part of the world. The temperature has taken its first dip into the cooler fall range, though we are only in sweater territory during the day, and warmer weather is set to return next week. My houseplant collection, still luxuriating on the back porch, can continue to enjoy the sunshine for another little while.
The story is different for the plants in the holding area—that space by my garage that is home to garden center finds that have not yet found their way into the beds and borders. The plants are all alive, which is an accomplishment in itself after the late summer drought, but they are yearning to break free of their containers and spread their roots in garden soil.
Most years, the holding area is arranged in neat rows, with the larger plants at the rear, as if posing for a group photo. Knowing my propensity for putting off garden installation, this year I decided to group them more artistically. It worked, and I found the effect so comforting that it made procrastination feel like an artistic statement.
The time for that kind of artistry is past. The time for action is now. I have a multi-step plan for getting the lead out of the gardener and getting the plants in the ground.
Step one is the dispersal. I will load up all the holding area specimens in my little garden wagon and work my way around the front and back gardens, placing the containers where I think the plants will have the best chance of success. I will make special note—on an index card, not in my fallible brain–of where each plant has been dropped, so I don’t forget any of them when I return to do the installation.
Something as large as a potted rose will always grab my attention as I go about the business of planting, but the inconspicuous ‘Penny Black’ viola might otherwise get lost amid the tangle of Siberian iris foliage in the semi-shaded area of the front garden.
I will follow up the mass dispersal with a trip to the garden center to buy enough mulch to give all the newly-planted specimens a nice insulating blanket of shredded bark. While at the garden center, I will refuse to give in to the siren call of the plants on the sale racks, because I do not intend to repopulate my holding area.
Returning home with my load of mulch, I will arm myself with spade, garden fork, trowel and watering can and work my way around the garden once more, planting all my babies, watering in each new specimen. As I work in the beds, I will also do a thorough weeding and ply my clippers to trim back any perennials or shrubs in need of pruning, deadheading or other ministrations.
These end-of-season planting orgies usually also include digging up at least some of the spring-flowering bulbs that lie near the designated planting holes. I replant them carefully and make the usual vow to be more observant the next time. In all my years as a gardener, I have rarely kept that vow, but in the great ledger of good and bad deeds, I hope that my good intentions count for something.
After completing all of the planting, weeding, clipping, and related tasks, I will apply mulch around the newly planted garden inhabitants, using any extra to cover spots where old mulch has deteriorated. Mulch is always in the process of breaking down, of course, but before that process even starts, the bark shreds tend to move around my garden. Some shift as I pick my way through the various areas doing routine chores. Some is displaced by the dainty hooves of Mr. Antlers and his burgeoning harem. Wind and rain disperse the mulch on the edges of the borders. Being a thrifty soul, I make an effort to rake up all the displaced bark shreds and put them back where they are most needed. I know that while I engage in this virtuous practice, several of Mr. Antlers’ offspring are lurking in the neighbor’s yard snickering to themselves and planning a midnight assault on my garden. I brandish the deer repellent and spray the susceptible plants to foil at least part of their dastardly scheme.
It is inevitable that while I am in the process of making a mad dash to get everything in the ground, the big box of spring-flowering bulbs that I order weeks ago will land on my front porch.
In fall as in spring there is no rest for the weary. I plan to compensate for that by planning a long spell of hibernation in January.