I’m an okay, albeit erratic, gardener. Back home, every spring I start looking at plant catalogues, taking Scout for a walk through Terra Nurseries, and planning out my pots, annuals, and vegetable garden. I’m busy planting, watering, and weeding in May & June, I maintain some semblance of mowing in July & August, and by September I’ve lost interest and have hired a company to do fall clean-up in October.
I knew when I moved to Braidwood I’d have some work outside. My aunt and uncle have a small front lawn and a large, terraced back garden. I believe my aunt was all about the flowers, and my uncle was (rightly) very proud of his vegetable garden – a greenhouse full of tomatoes, as well as carrots and leeks being harvested well into late winter – just amazing. He was gardening until just a few months before his death, including climbing a ladder with a massive electric hedge trimmer last summer – my heart stopped when I came around the corner and saw that. And my cousin – well. Her garden in England is absolutely overflowing with beds, pots, and hanging baskets; and she and her husband are the president/treasurer (or something like that) of their community allotment (who knew allotments had leadership teams?). So when I arrived I was very intimidated by repairing/maintaining these gardens, patio, and walkways.
It doesn’t help when I see my nextdoor neighbours (all in their late 70s or 80s) out looking after their gardens for two or three hours each day. It’s even worse when I can see one tiny little couple (he has Parkinson’s) out helping each other up and down, digging and trenching, mulching and deadheading – all while I am inside making myself yet another cup of tea.
I have accepted that I am not going to begin to do these gardens justice. So we’ve hired someone to mow and weed, and I’m sure when Viv comes in July, she will show me how things should be done. For now I water, and watch the birds. C’est tout.