“Mary, Mary, quite contrary how does your garden grow?” I cannot speak for Mary but for myself, the answer is “not well, actually.” I’m more of a grass and weeds sort of gal.
Just as bird watching snuck up on me, so too did gardening. I come from a long line of house-proud, gardening types. It has recently come to my attention that the home of my great-great grandparents in 1913 had epic gardens including ponds and rock features. The same goes for my great-grandparents and grandparents’ respective properties. My mother has created her own oasis. All throughout the last two centuries, my people have, quite literally, bloomed where they planted. Then there was me. I grew … grass … sometimes. I also went nuts with hostas and shrubs. I lean toward things that require zero care and grow almost in spite of me, not because of me.
Then something clicked and now I’m poring over the merits of hydrangea versus snowball viburnums. Granted, my choices are dictated more by what is non-toxic to our self-proclaimed free range goat, than to what grows best in U.S. Zone 5. I’m more about goat range than climate, really.
Snowball
My mother, trying to encourage me, gifted me shrubs of my choice. Having learned that snowball viburnums are reportedly non-toxic to goats, I chose those. A friend of my mother’s was also helpful when he shared the following tip. “In general, viburnums are not particular about where they grow, though they prefer fairly rich, moist soil. Viburnums do not transplant well once established, so the best strategy is to plant well-established container-grown plants and take care to choose a location where the shrub will have room to grow. Early spring is the best time for transplanting, giving them a full season to adjust.” This is a person who knows a thing or six about plants, obviously.
My reply was succinct and sincere. “These shrubs lot in life are to be planted during a record heat wave in Appalachian soil that is mostly rock. I will start out strong watering them early morning and in the cool of the evening, but will probably lose focus sometime in mid-July. May the odds be ever in their favor.” I am a realist, obviously.
Our yard is clay and rock with some jagged metal and broken china mixed in. I have no idea how they ever grew things here. This valley was formed by glacial activity. This is a reason we unearthed an enormous boulder in our yard almost without trying. Another epic boulder sits in the woods nearby and we suspect plenty more lurk just underneath the ground surface.
We were, just last night, talking in wonder over the men who dug out our deep basement in around 1904, presumably by hand. How strong they must have been!
Back to planting, I feel like once we get things in the ground they do fine. I can’t recall losing any plants or shrubs. As a matter of fact, one holly bush took off when it wasn’t supposed to survive at all. When we removed the swimming pool, Mr. Wonderful yanked it out with the tractor and unceremoniously dumped it off to the side of the deck. He had every intention of scrapping the unwanted shrub. Now, eight years later, this bush is thriving. We keep it because it earned the spot fair and square.
Come to think of it, I wonder if I can plant all the shrubs this way? Who needs to auger holes? We will just drop them on the ground and hope for the best!
Puttering
I admit I am enjoying my newfound gardenscape. I’m still more indoorsy than outdoorsy. However, I do go out very early in the morning and again in the evening to water my charges. I flutter around like a garden troll and fuss over spots on the leaves. I have no idea what to do about the spots, but I do notice and feel terrible about them. Meanwhile, I’ve hung a few pretty bird feeders and carefully chosen bird seed suited for the species that visit our region. I put water in a little bird bath. I encouraged the resident toads to help themselves to the water too.
I went to bed, secure in the knowledge that I was one with Mother Nature.
Then, a raccoon climbed the propane tank, emptied a bird feeder, tore down the insulation under the porch and left a massive poo as a calling card.
Dear Mother Nature, all bets are off.
