This year will be different. Yes, this year I will have a plan of what to plant and only buy things I need for my garden. There may be lots of great plants at the nursery, but I don’t have to have all of them.
Then spring arrives. Like the intrepid daffodils emerging from their frozen slumber, “Open for the Season” signs reappear. Despite every intention of driving by, my steering wheel reverts to auto-pilot and I find myself in a garden center parking lot.
Sound familiar? The rationalizations follow. “I might as well take a look. No harm in finding out what’s new this year.”
Like a yo-yo dieter, waging an all out mental war, I stand before the bounty of tempting choices. My resolve falters. My mouth fights a tidal wave of saliva. I’m forced to swallow to prevent a trickle of drool from escaping towards my chin. My knees weaken, my stomach does somersaults, and I forget to breathe. I’m a nervous teenager again, about to receive my first kiss.
The arrays of bold colors; the rippling leaves; those nodding, winking faces—it’s all too much. Plants flaunt themselves shamelessly before me, vying for attention the way hawkers do in booths at the state fair. My pulse racing now, I pick up a tray of annuals. Fighting the urge to fling my arms open wide and caper with abandon through the aisles like a mischievous puppy, I inhale slowly.
“Calm down, for heaven’s sake. Remember, this year is supposed to be different. Taking measured steps, I wend my way through this horticultural heaven, playing my part in the plant world’s equivalent of a pas-de-deux.
In ten minutes flat my cart is laden with a mix of tried-and-true favorites and this year’s darling—Pretty Much Picasso petunias. Heading for the check-out, a litany of excuses starts. And being an unrepentant gardener, there are ample reasons for my excess. “It’s just a few plants. Some people spend more at Starbuck’s each day. Everyone has at least one vice. How harmful are a few plants?” This is quickly followed by, “I need something for the bare spots where my Alchemilla mollis disappeared.” My new excuse this year is, “oh, we have to support our local growers—you know, the locavore movement. Forget the fact the movement is supposed to be about eating locally-grown plants; it’s not about growing locally-purchased plants, or is it?
In my best actor’s voice, I practice my lines all the way home. My husband will be my audience and he’ll prompt me with the classic, “Where are you going to put all those things? Does this mean I have to dig another garden this spring?”
“Oh no,” I assure him, “I’m going to tuck these in among the plants we already have. Everything will blend together and crowd out the weeds. We’ll be able to enjoy the display and won’t have to do any work.” I plaster a big smile on my face, as if I’m thinking of his best interests.
He buys this argument, no doubt relieved backbreaking digging of water-logged soil isn’t in his immediate future.
I’m relieved too. My plant fever has abated, for now. I’ll be taking a longer way to work though. There are only so many rounds of fever I can withstand and driving by the garden center daily is no antidote for my condition.
The writing class I taught, which began in the dark of the winter winds, has concluded in the twilight of the much welcomed spring. Three women, all with their own agendas, their own goals, came together and thoughtfully, and with extreme humor, lifted each other to a place, which I believe, never occurred to them they would go. At least not in the beginning.
