Chandra Clarke

Award-winning entrepreneur. Author. Professional Optimist.

All Green Thumbs

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Image Credit: Pixabay

It’s winter — well, it is here in the northern hemisphere, anyway — and that means it’s time for all good homeowners to plan out their spring home and garden maintenance. I mean, how else do you get through a winter except by anticipating greenery to come?

Your local newspaper will probably print a spring section, but since I didn’t write it, clearly it’s no good. What follows is *the* definitive guide to yard work.

Day One

1. Start first thing in the morning and attempt to get outdoors. Remember, too late, that the door opens inward. Find you now have a large mass of leaves, twigs and plastic grocery bags (which piled up against the door over the winter) in your foyer.
2. Crawl over pile and survey lawn and gardens. Feel warm sun. Sit on stoop to assess the situation and devise a plan of action.
3. Determine situation much better assessed with drink in hand. Walk to corner store to get one.
4. Return to stoop. Continue assessing.
5. Wake up hungry; realize it’s time for lunch.
6. After lunch, head to garage in search of gloves, rake, and bags.
7. Wait until family member realizes you’re missing and comes to free you from tangle of Christmas lights left near the garage door.

Day Two

1. Shove pile of leaves from foyer out onto lawn. Retry your search for gloves, rake and bags, this time armed with a pair of sharp scissors as defense against Christmas lights.
2. Start raking. Sip tea as you go.
3. Chat with neighbours who stop by on way to store or work.
4. Realize it’s lunch time already. Nip in for a bite.
5. Rake more. Drink more tea.
6. Step on rake. Spend 10 minutes looking for bandage for nose.
7. Keep raking. Take another hit of the tea.
8. Keep raking. Do a quick calculation and realize that the one metre by one metre corner patch you’ve been working on all day has enough leaves in it to fill approximately 35 bags. This is known as the Law of Winter Compression/Expansion, which in turn is based on the Theory of Disbeleaf.
9. Realize — very suddenly — that you’ve had way too much tea. Sprint for bathroom.
10. Finish bagging up that area as the sun goes down. Crawl into bed.

Day Three
1. Attempt to get out of bed. Stop screaming only long enough for spouse to administer muscle ointment to your arms and shoulders, which feel like they’re on fire.
2. Spend day watching TV, as it’s the only thing that doesn’t require much upper body movement.

Day Four

1. Drink about three cups of coffee to try and shake the daytime-TV-induced stupor you acquired yesterday.
2. Wonder if those people that threw the studio chairs at each other really had extramarital affairs with the stepbrother’s cousin of their tattoo artists while wearing vinyl hats.
3. Discover that half of the bags came undone in the night, and that the leaves blew across your neighbour’s lawn.
4. Do a quick rake of the leaf path to hide the fact they came from your yard, but leave the rest on neighbour’s lawn.
5. Start on a new patch of your lawn. Rake slowly.
6. When coffee wears off, call it a day.

Day Five

1. Go outside and discover that your neighbour put all your leaves back on your lawn.
2. Suspect he put all of *his* leaves on your lawn.
3. Suspect he put his other neighbour’s leaves on your lawn too.
4. Hit by sudden inspiration, drive to hardware store, buy industrial strength leaf vacuum.
5. Come home, let fly with a “Mwa ha ha ha ha!” and start the vacuum.
6. Get half the lawn done before you hear a MEOW! followed by a loud *thuck!* and a *whump!* and the vacuum stops working.
7. Spend the next two hours extricating Muffles.
8. Spend the next four hours getting stitches.
9. Return cat to neighbour with apology. Try not to fume when he says, between gasps of laughter, that the video he made of the cat extrication makes up for it all, because it went viral and now he’s got interviews booked with several daytime TV shows.
10. Call a lawn service.

Hosta la Vista

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Flower
I want this one. I want all of them. (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Mail order catalogues are evil things.

I have always claimed that I hate shopping, and I also like to think I’m not an impulse buyer. Me? Fall prey to an offer on something I don’t really need? Never.

Apparently that’s only true if you’re talking about traditional shopping. That is, something that involves a long drive to the store, hunting around for what you need, searching in vain for sales staff to help you, standing in line at the checkout, etc. I hate shopping this way and if I’m forced to do it, I try to make it a ‘get in and get out’ type errand. No browsing.

Give me a mail order catalogue on the other hand, and there are just two words to describe me: Suck. Er.

I realized this the other day when I found myself tucked up on the couch with a cup of coffee and a pile of catalogues from that most seductive of categories: gardening. I caught myself turning down page corners and saying things like: “Ooh, that looks cool!” and “I could use one of those!”

The flower catalogues are the worst. Is it just me or does anyone else find the pages and pages of gorgeous blooms completely alluring?If I won the lottery tomorrow I’m sure I’d spend most of it on bulbs and perennials.

Part of that may be because flower catalogue designers know what they’re doing. They have only the best photographers and copywriters. Over the years, through sometimes bitter experience, I’ve learned to translate some of that copy:

“Masses of blooms.” Yes, this will bloom profusely. But we’ve taken this photograph with a 100x zoom, to make you think that you’ll actually be able to see these flowers without a magnifying glass.

“Lift in fall.” Even though you live in Canada, we will dazzle you with beautiful pictures of almost-tropical flowers and plants that you feel you must have. We will con you into thinking you can have them in your garden by suggesting that all you have to do is dig them up in the fall and replant in the spring. This assumes that you will have time to dig these things up in the fall; that you can find where you had planted them; that you have some place to store then that is squirrel proof, mould and mildew proof, and not subject to sub-zero temperatures; and that you can remember where you stored them in spring.

“Will expand where happy.” This plant will completely take over your garden. And your lawn. And your neighbour’s lawn. As much as you might like the look of this thing now, you will come to hate it in two seasons. Meanwhile, your neighbours will come to hate you.

“Neverending Perennial Garden.” Our artist sketch shows you what this garden would look like if all of the plants were to bloom at once. This means one of two things will happen. A) The garden actually will bloom all at once on April 5th, and leave you with brown, dead stalks for the rest of the summer or B) Each plant will bloom one at a time, which means that you’ll see exactly one flower in your garden all year long.

“Deer Proof.” But not squirrel proof, cat proof, raccoon child proof, and definitely not lawn mower proof. And of course having a deer proof garden is especially important if you live in downtown Toronto, where entire herds have been known to swarm a single window planter box.

“Perfect for Containers.” Will only grow in a special container, and requires expensive potting soil, twice daily watering and weekly feeding. Because clearly, if you’re shopping via catalogue, you have the time for this kind of maintenance.

You’d think, knowing what I know now, that I’d stop even looking at these catalogues. But no, apparently when it comes to being able to turn down flower deals, I’m all thumbs.

Sadly, none of them are green enough.

 

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

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Rose Garden

They arrived last month.

Evil, seductive things that they are, they started showing up in my mailbox, unbidden, but promising miraculous results and weeks, nay, months of gratification. And I am powerless to resist.

I’m talking, of course, about flower catalogues.

Spring is finally here in the northern hemisphere, and that means every nursery from here to Guadalupe wants to lead me down the garden path. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except that I’m a lousy gardener. Never mind having green thumbs, I’m all thumbs when it comes to flowers, bushes, and even vines. It’s true what you’ve heard — I’ll never make the ivy league.

I start out with the best of intentions. I look over all the catalogues, looking at every gorgeous full-colour photograph at least twice. I get silly about shastas and I fantasize about phlox. Then I open my wallet, make a ridiculously large order and from there, well, my plans go to seed.

The first time around, for example, I ordered several trays of annuals from a German-owned greenhouse in a nearby city. I also bought a load of topsoil, figuring that the garden dirt looked pretty depleted. After two days of planting, I had a magnificent garden.

Until it rained.

At that point I realized my topsoil order also came with approximately 6,756 crabgrass and dandelion seeds. The little plants struggled valiantly, but in the end I had to bid them auf Weedersehen.

My second time out, I decided to try perennial flowers like dahlias and daffodils. That was the year it hailed, and the lilies, being dim bulbs, didn’t have sense enough to lean out of harm’s way. With the mixed glads looking very sad, and the rest of the garden looking like so much mulch, the dandelions moved back in. In fact, the tulip section got so bad that a smart alec neighbour posted a sign there that read: Weed my `lips.

I considered planting wild flowers this year, but I’m not sure that even they would be tough enough for a rumble with that rough bull thistle gang that moved in last fall. Besides, I’m sure the people across the road would vetch about the late night ruckus — I’ve heard those purple coneflowers can throw one heck of a garden party.

I even thought about doing the trendy thing and installing one of those elaborate ponds. However, with my luck, I know that one of the following would happen: A) The store clerk would sell me coy fish instead of Koi fish, and I’d never be able to find them in the pond, B) I’d find the neighbourhood dogs doing laps around the water lilies or C) the heron that lives at the nearby creek would take one look at the pond and think: Sushi bar!

With that in mind, I figure I might hedge my bets this year and plant some really tough flora. None of those prim roses, bleeding hearts or pansies this year, no sir. I’m thinking of something with some real flower power, like a mean dogwood or a snapdragon. Or perhaps one of those shady characters called white edged hostas — so it could say `hosta la vista, baby’ to the weeds, and mean it.

Or maybe I’d be better off taking the sage advice of a frond, erm, I mean friend: pave over the garden. I suppose with a few strategically placed garden gnomes and a pair of rose coloured glasses, it might make a credible substitute Eden.

Until the next time the catalogues arrive of course, at which point I’ll be green with envy all over again.

Photo Credit: “Roses-rosengarten” by Croq – Own work. Licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons