Imagine my horror when I returned from
a two-week vacation to find that my garden had continued to grow—wildly
grow—without me. How dare I leave town in spring (or summer or fall)? Apparently the rain had come down and the sun had shone and
the temperature had remained moderate to warm. So the garden had
done what gardens do in such conditions: it sprouted, grew, and
died all at the same time. And it did it all without me. It's like
coming home to accusing stares from children whose birthdays you
missed or the wreckage from teenagers who partied in your absence.
And let's not even look for a metaphor for the weeds that multiplied
in unthinkable numbers.
And where do I start? The Lupines have
more stalks gone to seed than flowering ones, and powdery mildew
blankets almost every stem that doesn't have an occupying slug. The
Rhodies, blooming when I left, are studded with spent flowers.
Branches of brown petals mark the locations of the Azaleas. And the
gravel path through the beds is now a bed for errant grasses,
multiple varieties of Willowherb, and dandelions. The Creeping Yellow Buttercup (the invasive Ranunculus repens) has crept into everything from the Japanese Bloodgrass to the Chinese Astilbes.
The vegetable garden is a mess: all
the Arugula and most of the lettuces bolted; winds and rains knocked
the sugar-snap peas off the teepee trellis, bending the major stems
thus killing off the leaves and peas above the break; and the peppers
have simply vanished--the work of rabbits I imagine (hmmm . . . or rabbits I can't imagine). Only the
garlic and tomato plants seem immune to my absence.
Then there is the massive tangle that
is the blooming, fruiting garden, surprised just in-between: the
Nigella flowers pushing up through branches of fruiting Red-flowering
currants; Oregano barely avoiding the the sharp spines of the Rose
Glow Japanese Barberry; and the Catmint splayed in the walkway, heavy with blooms and bees.
And though I did photograph all of
this--truly I did--I post none. As mentioned (time and time again), I still
struggle with taking garden shots that include more than a plant or
two. Well, I can take the shot, but the final image is just too
boring. After a week in Newfoundland, I find that I can take landscapes, but still no medium-angle garden shots.
So here's a single rain-beaten Geum
coccineum 'Borisii' compared to
one that escaped the deluge:
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| Astrantia major |
But then there are the Great Masterworts--fabulous name--towering above the carnage of rain, wind, slugs and weeds. And I feel hopeful again, and, for me, it is once again spring.
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| Astrantia major 'Abbey Road' |
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| Astrantia major 'Abbey Road' |
