I’ve always wanted an English garden, complete with a fully blooming rose arch. However, when a delphinium dies when I thought I exhausted every option, I am reminded that I can only fully control my perspective.
Did I prepare the soil well enough to drain? Did I separate the herbs far enough from each other? Did I mix the right ratio of water to fertilizer? I always ask myself a ton of preparatory questions so I can have a plan for the setback. To fly solo rolls in this combination of liberation and the gnawing burden of self doubt. I also didn’t realize how much more involved a garden was, rather than having someone tell me what to do and where to dig. I can work so hard, and sweat so good in my garden, and have nothing to show for it. A plant can bloom one day and then die and give you the middle finger in the same week. The first year and half of creating a small, dedicated butterfly garden in my own house, was difficult. Her vision was coming to life, and silently, we were just as pleased as she was. By the time I went off to college, my mom successfully grew a glorious trumpet flower on one side and a climbing rose on the other. It took all four of us to set that bulky, 8’ tall arch down into the ground, only after a few obscene words were said under our breaths. Next to this, my dad, not a craftsman by trade, built her a wooden arch that she wanted for so long. My older brother and I spent a couple weeks digging out tiers on the side, of that rock hard slope, so mom could plant her heart's desire of rows upon rows of roses. If any of us argued that her newest idea would take a lot of time, she would chime in brightly, “I’ve got time.” Completed with a look that said, “I’m not going anywhere soon.” By this time, I’m in 7th grade, and my entire family was involved in her master plan. She would save these pictures and articles of inspiration in her pink binder that had a glossy picture of a yellow rose on the cover. Her ideas were highly influenced by clippings she kept from numerous sources, specifically from Better Homes and Gardens. Her plants came and went multiple times throughout the years, and yet she held strong to her belief of attaining an ultimate rose garden. She was determined to make something of her “Tara.” Eventually, each of us slowly got wrapped up in her ideas. My mom frequently asked me to help dig whenever she had to plant something that required a depth of 12” and a diameter of 24.” With a deep sigh, I’d lean on the warped wooden handle of my shovel, and listen to the lady talk on and on about her newest find, or her current idea for the yard as she poured potting mix into the hole. There was no watering system except for the four hose outlets coming out of the ground, in four inconvenient places. Every summer the Fire Marshall would site our property and we were required to have our land cleared from fire hazards. If anything grew, it was foxtails and tumbleweeds. We lived on undeveloped horse land that consisted of rock hard, compact clay, everywhere. My mom worked hard in her “garden” that was inclusive of the entire perimeter of our house. I remember in the beginning, our yard was pure crap.
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I learned what annuals and perennials were before I knew how to add and subtract properly. At times, my mom would casually lean over me and point out to a flower and explain their properties to me. I knew then I should set my expectations low and consider this trip was going to be an extensive one. I remember how she would stand in the aisle with her curled index finger on her chin, hemming and hawing over a flower. Unknown nurseries except to those who were on the lookout for other enthusiasts, specifically in the PennySaver. Those I’d like to call the “underground” nurseries. Sometimes we would roam around some stranger’s yard who was selling an abundance of fresh blooms in reused plastic containers and milk jugs. Whether the lady was getting something or not, she enjoyed walking aimlessly up and down the aisles of nurseries. I remember the sound of gravel groaning underneath my Doc Martins as I dawdled behind my mom.
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