In the cool of yesterday evening, we went to see the waning glory of Brighton Dam Azalea Gardens. Even though most of the blossoms were fading, there was still loveliness to be found, and the kids enjoyed the fresh air.
Today in the cool sunshine, I worked in the garden for the first time in two weeks. I got totally into character and dreamed I was a farmgirl. I love to wear rubber wellington boots, overalls and a hat. I’m sure I’m seen as the neighborhood eccentric, but my little house looks like a character in a Beatrix Potter book by the time the end of June rolls around so it’s okay. I like watering cans and old-fashioned tools that I buy here, and the whole idea of making things grow. To complete the scene, I baked this bread during my occasional breaks from the sun and dirt.
If only my results always lived up to my dreams. They don’t. The weeds are never under control, the flower beds are completely undesigned and have a decidedly “natural” look, and the vegetable garden does not follow any sort of square-foot plan. When I look at my neighbors’ manicured landscaping with the mulch put down neatly at the right time every year, I sometimes get a little envious of organized people. Every year, though, I bring in armloads of lovely bouquets for my table, I get waves and waves of tiger lilies and black-eyed susans and peonies and hydrangeas, and usually enough tomatoes for quite a few good sandwiches and salads. I don’t mind when the local kids pick my flowers on the way home from school, and it thrills me to see praying mantises and ladybugs and worms. Like most things in my life, gardening is a process endeavor rather than a product endeavor, meaning that I am perpetually more interested in the doing rather than the finishing. As my beloved knitting friend taught me, I am more curious than ambitious, and I’m okay with that. Luckily with a garden, there’s always another season to try to grow spinach again, and maybe this fall will be the one when I remember to plant tulips at the right time.
If only my results always lived up to my dreams. They don’t. The weeds are never under control, the flower beds are completely undesigned and have a decidedly “natural” look, and the vegetable garden does not follow any sort of square-foot plan. When I look at my neighbors’ manicured landscaping with the mulch put down neatly at the right time every year, I sometimes get a little envious of organized people. Every year, though, I bring in armloads of lovely bouquets for my table, I get waves and waves of tiger lilies and black-eyed susans and peonies and hydrangeas, and usually enough tomatoes for quite a few good sandwiches and salads. I don’t mind when the local kids pick my flowers on the way home from school, and it thrills me to see praying mantises and ladybugs and worms. Like most things in my life, gardening is a process endeavor rather than a product endeavor, meaning that I am perpetually more interested in the doing rather than the finishing. As my beloved knitting friend taught me, I am more curious than ambitious, and I’m okay with that. Luckily with a garden, there’s always another season to try to grow spinach again, and maybe this fall will be the one when I remember to plant tulips at the right time.
My Red Door Days 