The weeds in my garden have roots in New England that rival the descendants of the Mayflower. My lavender sends shoots up everywhere including right in the middle of my miniature rose plant which is about the size of a softball (decidedly not a bush). My coneflower is, literally, one foot tall. Just when the phlox bloom in their glorious bright pink, their shaky stems decide it’s just too much and they collapse onto the walkway or rest upon the browning yarrow, that I am sure I just deadheaded yesterday.
My garden will clearly never be on a garden tour; it continually confounds me. Yet I love it. Each year in July I tell myself that I really should just uproot the lupine—their brown, crinkly leaves and dried tubular stalks are unappealing, and the phlox behind which I attempted to hide them were taken down by a white powdery fungus. Yet I let the lupine thrive, and the following May as I watch their perfect star shaped leaves hold drops of water after the rain, and their flowers turn from green to pink, top to bottom, I wonder how I could have harbored such destructive thoughts. Then the aphids show up and although I reconsider, I let the lupine alone. Or my Rudbeckia flowers in profusion and within days needs to be deadheaded, leaving its hairy brown stems behind.
Last summer I nurtured my stunted plants along and was rewarded with buds ready to burst into cascades of color. Each morning as I excitedly approached my garden, not a speck of color could be seen. Every bud about to burst had been chomped off by a voracious deer. Then this summer, knock on wood, my buds have all been left alone to unfold into brilliant color. Did the deer take an alternate route? Did it find better grazing grounds where it didn’t have to reach down quite so far to nab a tasty bud?
I would continue to expound about the frustrations and gifts from my garden, but a giant foxtail is creeping in the window and tapping on my shoulder.
