Ripping out the gardens
My gardens have mostly been a failure this year. Many of my perennials failed to come back this at all in the spring: the echinachea, the dianthus, the speedwell. The bed of irises I planted with such hope in the alley behind the garage (a bed of forty roots) never came up at all. The only thing that thrived were the impatiens in the front, and the basil in the vegetable garden. The geraniums in the white planters were fair (better, certainly, than the petunias I tried there last year). I didn't get a single tomato this year. Not sure whether this was because of the heat, because I eventually gave up watering and fertilizing them or because neighborhood boys stole them off the vines for green tomato fights. Could be all of the above.
By July, I had truly given up. I had planted violas in little aluminum tubs on the front porch, which looked lovely for awhile, but died once the heat set in. I did try for awhile, but eventually stopped trying to keep up with watering the hanging pots, leaving the lobelia to perish miserably. I gave up weeding. Today, I started trying to wrestle back the ground for our team, which meant ripping out tons of really muscular weeds, weeds on steroids, weeds brandishing Kalishnakovs, weeds that have claimed that this patch of ground is theirs and sneer at me don't even think of setting foot here, babe. This here is our turf now.
I emerged victorious in the strip by the garage. I had attempted to plant a wildflower garden; nothing came up but weeds. Now it is stripped bare, tilled with a hand rake, and covered with mulch.
The vegetable garden was more of a total rout, alas. I discovered dozens of slugs under the weeds, and got only about a third of the unauthorized greenery ripped out. I executed a strategic retreat and limited myself for awhile to ripping weeds out of the cracks of the concrete area behind the house. This gave me the illusion for awhile that I was accomplishing something.
I took a break for a couple of hours, and then geared up again and attempted to ambush the enemy in the pink garden at the south side of the house. Yes, there is an elm tree growing right smack in the astilbe, and it has gotten so big that I am not sure I can get it out. I feel like a fool for letting it get so large. What was I thinking? Purple loosestrife has been waging a stealth campaign there, and even though I ripped great quantities of it up, little purple berries are scattered all over the soil now, like landmines.
I feel like sheepish and ashamed of the state of my yard, like I have exhibited a failure of character. I had planted seedlings in the basement with such eagerness this spring, setting up grow lights to make them grow--such ambition! Such hubris! The mice got the lion's share before I even got them into the ground. And now this is all I have to show for it: black garbage bags bulging with weeds, and slugs rampaging all over the pitiful remnants of the stunted beets and strawberry bed.
There is lots more to do, and I am quite depressed about the whole thing. When I am at my gloomiest, it feels like a metaphor the state of my life. I had such plans, but I didn't keep up with the weeding, and now there is nothing to do but clean up the mess, with no hope that things will be better next year.
By July, I had truly given up. I had planted violas in little aluminum tubs on the front porch, which looked lovely for awhile, but died once the heat set in. I did try for awhile, but eventually stopped trying to keep up with watering the hanging pots, leaving the lobelia to perish miserably. I gave up weeding. Today, I started trying to wrestle back the ground for our team, which meant ripping out tons of really muscular weeds, weeds on steroids, weeds brandishing Kalishnakovs, weeds that have claimed that this patch of ground is theirs and sneer at me don't even think of setting foot here, babe. This here is our turf now.
I emerged victorious in the strip by the garage. I had attempted to plant a wildflower garden; nothing came up but weeds. Now it is stripped bare, tilled with a hand rake, and covered with mulch.
The vegetable garden was more of a total rout, alas. I discovered dozens of slugs under the weeds, and got only about a third of the unauthorized greenery ripped out. I executed a strategic retreat and limited myself for awhile to ripping weeds out of the cracks of the concrete area behind the house. This gave me the illusion for awhile that I was accomplishing something.
I took a break for a couple of hours, and then geared up again and attempted to ambush the enemy in the pink garden at the south side of the house. Yes, there is an elm tree growing right smack in the astilbe, and it has gotten so big that I am not sure I can get it out. I feel like a fool for letting it get so large. What was I thinking? Purple loosestrife has been waging a stealth campaign there, and even though I ripped great quantities of it up, little purple berries are scattered all over the soil now, like landmines.
I feel like sheepish and ashamed of the state of my yard, like I have exhibited a failure of character. I had planted seedlings in the basement with such eagerness this spring, setting up grow lights to make them grow--such ambition! Such hubris! The mice got the lion's share before I even got them into the ground. And now this is all I have to show for it: black garbage bags bulging with weeds, and slugs rampaging all over the pitiful remnants of the stunted beets and strawberry bed.
There is lots more to do, and I am quite depressed about the whole thing. When I am at my gloomiest, it feels like a metaphor the state of my life. I had such plans, but I didn't keep up with the weeding, and now there is nothing to do but clean up the mess, with no hope that things will be better next year.