My Dad and Mackenzie came over this morning and we went on an adventure to find a Garden Claw and some plants.
At the store I let Mackenzie pick out most of the plants. I picked my plants so carefully last year and watched everything wither within a couple weeks. It can’t possibly turn out any worse even in the hands of a five year old. Dad picked some verbena and some pink flowers that didn’t have a tag but were too pretty to leave. Mackenzie picked some "pretty beautfiul" white and red petunias. I picked marigolds because they seemed cheerful. Everything for full sun this year, I learned that much at least.
Chloe and I spent the afternoon amending soil, digging homes for the flats of plants and sowing seeds – morning glories against the front of the house, some cosmos ("so easy to grow, they virtually thrive on neglect!") and wildflowers in the patch that I mulched over last year in frustration. The sky was sunny and oddly cracking with thunder when my neighbour (the nice one, not the crazy one) came over to chat for a bit while I transplanted some ground creepers.
I’ll leave to imagination the part where the rain and hail pummelled the delicatelittle plants to within a millimetre of their lives and water gushed into my basement from all possible directions, the worst flood we’ve had. In the scheme of things it’s trivial and at least I was home to deal with it.
It seems I’m destined to write a gardening post every spring until I
either determine that I like gardening or give up on it entirely. I can see why people get into it. It does
seem therapeutic, the tending of the little plants and also the shear
toil. Still a tight race for me though.