I am not an “expert” as some perceive expertness.  If you shook my brain, half-digested bits of garden wisdom would tumble out.  Words like, spade, double digging, NPK, nematode, diatomaceous earth, compost, dappled shade, hardiness zones, root bound and tendrils.

In fact, I use the term “gardener” rather loosely when describing myself.  I can kill plants just as easily as the next person, but rather than admit the pale shade of my green thumb, and that I could be a total gardening fraud, I look down my nose at the peonies and yell “grow damn you, grow”!  They usually oblige.  I don’t think it has anything to do with me frankly but perhaps it’s out of spite and maybe some outrage at my audacity.  Some morning I’ll probably wake up to the climbing rose bush strangling me with its thorny canes wrapped around my throat.

I admit it,  I garden by brute force.  There is nothing easy about gardening.  It’s hard work.  It’s dirty and buggy and sweaty and hot and cold.  Your muscles ache, your back hurts and there’s never an end to the weeding.  Isn’t that an enticing description?  Don’t you just wanna run out to the garden center and buy some shovels and rakes right now?  Thought so.  But it’s just so darn satisfying.  After a hard day of working in the garden, once the last bit of mulch is laid down, you can sit back with a cold drink (of whatever) and survey your kingdom with gratitude.  Once it actually starts producing veggies and/or flowers there is no greater feeling of accomplishment and even contentment.  Just wandering among the blooms, plucking out a weed here and there, enjoying the chirp of birds and buzz of bees, feel free to brag a little.  You can say “I did this.”  The next day you can do it all over again because gardening, like laundry, never ends.  There are always dirty socks to wash and a weeds to pull.  

Toodles for now.  ~Callie

Valentine bleeding heart and ground phlox