Columnists
Time to wet your plants
April! Who knew we’d still be hiding out in 2021? Well, maybe someone knew, but I was more confident a year ago. Like many of all y’all, I was sure we’d be over and done with COVID-19, and I didn’t even give the possibility of variants a second thought. So, today I’m going to write about stuff “not COVID-19” or related, even though our lives have grown to accommodate the pandemic.
LOML and I spent a morning picking up garbage on our property. From the look of what we picked up, we seem to have a fast food and sugary drink problem and, apparently, we have a pet. We filled the bin with lots of soda cans, fast food containers, straws, tatty blue face masks and dog turds. It’s a task we’ve done every spring for forty-nine years, on one property or another. It’s not a terrible task; it’s a bit like trimming your toenails. Nobody really likes to do it, but it has to be done, so we do it. Sometime this week we’ll start raking the leaves and the thatch then cramming all of that yard-salad into yard bags. If I were to say I happened to be jealous of anything, it would have to be of the municipalities that pick up organic yard waste when you leave your bags of greenery beside the road. I suppose yard-waste-removal jealousy is better than garden envy. Of course, being a semi-normal human being, I have had the odd pang of garden envy. I think I’m cured.
Many years ago, a friend had a book barn out on one of the County roads. We loved to visit there. Our children would disappear into the barn and spend an hour picking through the shelves. But I was mostly impressed with the owner’s wild tangle of perennials in a huge garden bed in the middle of her driveway. The garden served up a delicious assortment of tulips and irises, lilies and gladiolas. I’m sure I’ve missed a plant, or ten, but it was my dream garden. It was full of life and colour and whimsy. So impressed was I, that I drew up plans to replicate—to a certain extent— the wild, beautiful abandon of her garden on my own property. Somehow my interpretation of that lovely space never had the same feeling of other-worldliness. I realized it wasn’t just about the plants in the garden, but the gardener herself. She had imparted her own personality onto it. I wasn’t her. I was me. And after five years of trying to make a silk purse out of the sow’s ear, I parcelled up all of the plants I’d accumulated in my front yard and gave them away. I was, and am, a far more contained and structured person. I could enjoy the beauty of the wild, but I couldn’t recreate the breathtaking, cultivated chaos.
From all of my gardening lessons I did learn of my love for certain types of plants. I am a sucker for what County folks refer to as “Ditch Lilies” and I’m enamoured with irises. Of the two, irises reign supreme in my yard. I don’t care what colour they are, they’ve got my heart.
Apparently, “Iris” is Greek for rainbow. Irises came into my life just over 40 years ago. A friend offered me some rhizomes, telling me anyone could grow irises. I probably said, anyone could, except me. I wasn’t a gardener and was fairly certain I could kill any garden variety of plant with same finesse I’d used to slay numerous houseplants. In my house, spider plants didn’t “spider”. African violets rotted from over-watering or withered from neglect. An unwise but kindly neighbour gave me a rather large, ancient house plant, making the same promise as others had done in the past. “You can’t kill this. It thrives on neglect.” It was a lovely plant. An enormous succulent that reminded me of a plush green sweater which I casually draped across the kitchen dresser. It lasted a few months. Its fossilized remains were disposed of with the kitchen waste. And then came the irises. The irises loved me. The irises thrived in my garden. The Irises understood me. I should mention, in addition to plain, old pale lavender irises, I do have several varieties of lilies. Most of the lilies are of the “ditch” variety, some are hybrids, given to me as a gift. I couldn’t hurt the irises or lilies if I tried, or wanted to do so.
So, this week, while many are celebrating the return to their beloved outdoor planters and gardens, I’ll just pour myself a coffee, head to the side porch and smile at the hardworking irises and lilies that, more or less, take care of themselves.
P. S. Trash Bash on April 24. Contact Picton or Wellington Home Hardware for details.
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