Over the weekend we had lovely spring – almost summer – weather and I finally got out in my garden on Sunday. I cleaned off the patio table (bird shit – but at least it means the birds are back), brought out the rakes to the backyard. Took a side trip to the local gardening centre a few blocks away and bought some pansies. Some I repotted and all were set outside – on the patio picnic table, on an old baby’s porcelain bathtub I use to hold plants and on a couple of stands on the front veranda. Brought out a folding chair for the front. Even spent a bit of time sitting there reading and drinking some wine. And eating my meals out on the patio.
The garden is coming to life with tulip plants, irises, peonies, sedum, lamb’s ears, hyacinths, day lillies (the plants, no flowers yet), some onions that didn’t come up last year, chives, and my big surprise – a mum plant sending up new shoots. Usually these mum plants don’t do this – at least not the big ones I buy in the fall, even though they are supposed to.
The photo at the top is not from this year’s garden. It is what my garden and I aspire to. When there are some actual flowers, I’ll take photos and post.
So I got busy raking the grass and cutting off last season’s dead branches from the perennials. Lots to do here, but I am taking it gradually as it is too soon to plant anything new, although when I was growing up in the 1950s, Mom and Dad were out turning the soil and planting seeds – in April.
I am also assessing the damage done by God’s winter weather and what I need done – who will do it – and what I can afford to do. I have put it out there for all this to be fixed and where necessary for the money needed to do so to come to me.
I firmly believer that whoever causes damage must repair it, or at the very least, provide the tools (people, money, etc.) to do so.
But for now I will enjoy being out in my garden.
And doing a search for a new rain barrel. The old one and its setup unfortunately have to be replaced, “unfortunately” because it will cost me money.
Sharon A. Crawford
Only Child Writes