Old (ish) Woman Gardening

 I love gardening.

As a child, my mother had flowers along the fence which separated our back yard from our neighbor's.  I so enjoyed watering the plants and when I grew a little older, I talked my mother into a couple tomato plants to add to the fence line.  I have a very vivid memory of one early cold snap which imperiled the still green tomatoes on the vines.  I had heard on the radio that if you brought in the tomatoes and put them in a brown bag, the released gases would cause the tomatoes to ripen.  Wearing my long seafoam green coat and a babushka on my head, I plucked the tomatoes, placed them in brown lunch bags, stashed them on the kitchen counter.

They didn't ripen, but never mind that.  I was hooked.

Over the nearly 49 years that the Dan-o and I have been married, I've always cultivated flower and vegetable plots. I chat with the plants, congratulating them as the flowers burst into bloom, encouraging them if they're taking their time (which they should be doing).  The first few fruits on various vines send waves of joy through me, not on a par of giving birth to my children, but perhaps somewhere on the lower end of that scale.  I celebrate their success--yay!  You did it!  You started as a seed, you were lovingly placed in cultivated dirt, Mother Nature provided sunshine and rain, and look what happened!

(an aside--my husband has requested not to be referred to as the Spousal Unit™ in the blog.  However, many relatives and friends do call him the Dan-o, so I'll defer to that.)

In our current home of 35 years come August, I have replicated my mother's fence line along a portion of the chain link fence which surrounds our storage garage, and, conveniently, has and continues to provide a kennel where our dogs can run.  (Right now Benny is attempting to cause me great bodily harm with the selection of branches he leaves for his amusement in the kennel.  More than once I have tripped over them.  Tossing them into the ungrassed area of the kennel does no good, since Benny perceives this as a game and retrieves them.)

As one might imagine, over 35 years plants have come and gone, each offering  a learning experience.  This one probably needed more sunlight (we have a fair amount of shade in our yard).  The soil required amending for this plant to be successful.  This particular perennial was not particularly pleased with being transplanted, or divided, while this one thought its movement was the best thing since sliced bread!  One tenet I've learned is that both you, the gardener, and the plants need to be brave.  Give everything its best shot.  If the plant appears a tad miserable, try a little plant food, additional water, verbal support.  Sometimes the plant will pull through.  Sometimes, it won't.  Just like life, yes?

A couple springs ago, I decided not to purchase any more perennials because, quite frankly, I am aging and the likelihood I would see the perennials take root, become established and offer maximal blooms is diminishing.  Another perspective could be that any planted perennials will be enjoyed by whomever comes after us in this house.  But I'm choosing to put some degree of finality on the gardening career.

Indeed, gardening tasks the aging body.  Certain angles necessary to bend your body into as your spray leaves to prevent mildew or discourage deer and rabbits cause significant discomfort.  I take more breaks during weeding than before because I can only be bent over for a limited amount of time.  I have tried yoga gardening, i.e. downward dog position to weed, with limited success.  

For the old(ish) woman, every day an aspect of the garden requires attention. It gives me a sense of being needed, of responsibility, of accomplishment and success.  It's a much more delightful version of strategic planning.  The execution achieves yields to be shared with family and friends.

While gardening, I listen to podcasts, predominantly political podcasts (through my bluetooth hearing aids) which mostly get my dander up. I hope the neighbors aren't hearing me scream aloud in frustration or swearing at the direction our country appears to be going in.

But the good thing about the garden in this situation is no matter how apocalyptic it all seems, you can step back and savor what the plants bestow.  Marvel at the almost impossibly beautiful colors of the flowers.  Peek through the vines to discover there will be pumpkins and squash.  Celebrate that yesterday's flower is now putting forth green beans or tomatoes or eggplant or cucumbers.  Mound the dirt over the potato plants.  Get your hands dirty in an entirely productive way.

Thus far, the garden and I are communing on a high level this summer.  As I wrote in my Flip Flop Friday Facebook post, in our oh, too troubled world, it's so nice to have a place of peace and tranquility.  Regardless of how elected officials are clearly not listening to me (list too long to enumerate), the birds sing their dedicated songs, take advantage of the bugs the plants attract, visit the feeder.  The local wildlife undoubtedly will gnaw away at some of the squash, the stinkers.  Yet this interconnectedness gives me hope.  

If nature can figure it out, can't we?