issue. Maybe you don’t have enough earthworms.”
I think back to all the worm vivisections I accidentally performed when planting last year. “No, we’re lousy with worms.”
I sip my latte and remember a conversation I had with Angie last year. She’d had similar problems with her garden, so she checked to see what Martha recommended. The advice somehow culminated in Angie killing parasites by baking cookie sheets full of dirt in the oven.
“Ever smelled an oven full of hot dirt?” Angie demanded. “No? Then be thankful. Don’t let Martha hoodwink you into cooking your topsoil. Stick to containers.”
Yet the whole point of the year of Martha is to get out of my comfort zone, so I really can’t keep doing what I’d been doing. I don’t want another year of 2011 results. What if my future happiness hinges on my efforts in the garden?
Laurie offers, “I can come over and check out your dirt to see what you need.”
I have to smile. “I really never thought the quality of my dirt would be important to me, but here we are. Please, yes, come over!”
“Why don’t we go after we finish our coffee?”
“Thank you; that would be great, mostly because I don’t know what to do with the bed. It’s all…Well, you’ll see.” I’m having trouble describing the wasteland of stunted greens and wan, listless sprouts.
Soon we’re in my yard inspecting the few pathetic shoots that reappeared this spring, aided by three enthusiastic dogs that keep plowing into us while we’re bent over the soil.
I point to the back corner of the garden. “I don’t get it. These were supposed to be sunflowers over here! They’re practically a weed! You see them all over the sides of highways, and guys have to come out on riding lawn mowers because they grow so tall they obstruct drivers’ vision!”
With an expert eye, Laurie assesses the garden placement. “Do these trees cast a shadow?” she asks, pointing to the wood line ten feet back.
A moment ago, the dogs raced circles around us. Now Maisy and Libby are wrestling, while Loki stands a few feet away and barks with much enthusiasm. I love watching Maisy tussle—one, because it means she feels well, and two, because of her fighting position. Instead of standing her ground, she lies on her back and wriggles around, pushing back Libby’s advances with four kicking legs. She still has such abdominal strength that she can spin in a 360-degree circle like a breakdancer without ever losing contact with the grass. Fortunately, Laurie’s a dog person, too, so the racket they’re causing doesn’t faze her in the least.
“They’re showing off for you,” I explain, pointing at the scrum of dogs that’ve just discovered a tennis ball. “But the shade? Not until late afternoon. This plot gets southeast sun all day, starting at daybreak.”
Laurie scans her mental checklist. “What about water?”
I wish the problem were just water—but that’s not an issue. “The sprinklers hit the corners, and I have a hose on the side of the house that I drag over. I keep the soil moist, but never saturated.” Laurie nods encouragingly. “What really pisses me off is that I spent so much money on these damn plants. How do grasses not grow ? We cut the lawn every week because it’s so hardy. I wish it would grow slower. But the stuff I paid fifteen dollars per container for? Nothing!”
Laurie bends down and pulls off a green, leafy branch and then smells it. “Your mint is coming in beautifully, though.”
At this moment, Libby and Maisy rocket through the bed, stomping directly on the mint, which immediately snaps back into place.
“Yeah.” I snort. “That’s the one plant I didn’t want here. Fletch yanked it all out last year but it keeps coming back.”
“Mint is the STD of the plant world,” Laurie says. “Once it takes hold, it’s almost impossible to eliminate completely.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So what are you going to do with the planter?
I think back to all the worm vivisections I accidentally performed when planting last year. “No, we’re lousy with worms.”
I sip my latte and remember a conversation I had with Angie last year. She’d had similar problems with her garden, so she checked to see what Martha recommended. The advice somehow culminated in Angie killing parasites by baking cookie sheets full of dirt in the oven.
“Ever smelled an oven full of hot dirt?” Angie demanded. “No? Then be thankful. Don’t let Martha hoodwink you into cooking your topsoil. Stick to containers.”
Yet the whole point of the year of Martha is to get out of my comfort zone, so I really can’t keep doing what I’d been doing. I don’t want another year of 2011 results. What if my future happiness hinges on my efforts in the garden?
Laurie offers, “I can come over and check out your dirt to see what you need.”
I have to smile. “I really never thought the quality of my dirt would be important to me, but here we are. Please, yes, come over!”
“Why don’t we go after we finish our coffee?”
“Thank you; that would be great, mostly because I don’t know what to do with the bed. It’s all…Well, you’ll see.” I’m having trouble describing the wasteland of stunted greens and wan, listless sprouts.
Soon we’re in my yard inspecting the few pathetic shoots that reappeared this spring, aided by three enthusiastic dogs that keep plowing into us while we’re bent over the soil.
I point to the back corner of the garden. “I don’t get it. These were supposed to be sunflowers over here! They’re practically a weed! You see them all over the sides of highways, and guys have to come out on riding lawn mowers because they grow so tall they obstruct drivers’ vision!”
With an expert eye, Laurie assesses the garden placement. “Do these trees cast a shadow?” she asks, pointing to the wood line ten feet back.
A moment ago, the dogs raced circles around us. Now Maisy and Libby are wrestling, while Loki stands a few feet away and barks with much enthusiasm. I love watching Maisy tussle—one, because it means she feels well, and two, because of her fighting position. Instead of standing her ground, she lies on her back and wriggles around, pushing back Libby’s advances with four kicking legs. She still has such abdominal strength that she can spin in a 360-degree circle like a breakdancer without ever losing contact with the grass. Fortunately, Laurie’s a dog person, too, so the racket they’re causing doesn’t faze her in the least.
“They’re showing off for you,” I explain, pointing at the scrum of dogs that’ve just discovered a tennis ball. “But the shade? Not until late afternoon. This plot gets southeast sun all day, starting at daybreak.”
Laurie scans her mental checklist. “What about water?”
I wish the problem were just water—but that’s not an issue. “The sprinklers hit the corners, and I have a hose on the side of the house that I drag over. I keep the soil moist, but never saturated.” Laurie nods encouragingly. “What really pisses me off is that I spent so much money on these damn plants. How do grasses not grow ? We cut the lawn every week because it’s so hardy. I wish it would grow slower. But the stuff I paid fifteen dollars per container for? Nothing!”
Laurie bends down and pulls off a green, leafy branch and then smells it. “Your mint is coming in beautifully, though.”
At this moment, Libby and Maisy rocket through the bed, stomping directly on the mint, which immediately snaps back into place.
“Yeah.” I snort. “That’s the one plant I didn’t want here. Fletch yanked it all out last year but it keeps coming back.”
“Mint is the STD of the plant world,” Laurie says. “Once it takes hold, it’s almost impossible to eliminate completely.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So what are you going to do with the planter?
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