Vegetables?”
I laugh bitterly. “Didn’t I tell you? Fletch kept a corner of the plot for tomatoes, and they grew almost as well as the wildflowers. You know, there’s a book called The $64 Tomato . Pfft, we got that beat.
“After the fact, I learned that Fletch was fertilizing his tomatoes every day. He’s since banned himself from trying again.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I know, right? And at the time I was all, ‘Why do we keep buying tomato fertilizer?’ Live and learn. Anyway, we’re planting a big organic garden on the other side once we have those trees cut down,” I tell her, pointing to the area on the east end of the yard. There’s a scrubby old pine tree that’s about to go, even though I do enjoy watching Loki use the lower branches to scratch his ass. The first time we spied him backing butt-first into the pointy needles, we figured it was a fluke. But the next hundred? Not so much.
Laurie grabs the spade leaning against the side of the house and plunges it into the planter’s soil. She turns over a couple of shovelsful and bends down to run her hand through the earth. She decrees, “This is perfect. This soil is truly perfect.” Then she demonstrates how well it drains by filling the hole with water.
Maisy thunders over and demands a drink before we shut off thewater. She snaps and snorts and ends up wearing more than she ingests. Libby takes off, because she wants nothing to do with the hose. I keep telling Fletch we’ve got to teach her to swim, and he keeps saying we should be thankful for the one dog that isn’t always dampening clean sheets during clandestine bed naps.
“You’re kidding!” I exclaim. I really didn’t expect to hear my dirt was decent. “That’s great news. I thought I’d have to replace it all.”
Still, that doesn’t explain why the wildflowers didn’t take, but whatever. New year, new chance to try again.
“Have you considered a cutting garden over here?”
“I don’t really know what that is,” I admit.
Laurie explains how a lot of their clients keep a separate spot for cutting outside of the view of their main rose gardens, which makes perfect sense. I’m perpetually snipping off all the best blooms and spiriting them away inside, leaving big, gaping holes in the bushes by the pool.
Having a cutting garden would neatly eliminate the problem of scalped bushes. Plus, I’d feel like a pseudo-royal announcing to Fletch that I was off to the cutting garden, and he shan’t expect me for tea. This is a capital idea!
I’m all excited, but then I have to stop myself. “Oh, wait—if I have a rose cutting garden, then I’ll be cheating. I’d really need to tend to the flowers myself to stay true to the project.”
“Then take care of them yourself. I can have Mike and his guys plant them, but you could be responsible for their maintenance,” Laurie reasons.
I consider this. “You don’t think that by having my own little plot and working with my own tools, I’d look like a little kid pushing one of those bubble vacuum cleaners, running after their mommy who’s actually using a Hoover?”
Laurie swivels her head around to take in the wall of trees and blackthorn on the periphery of the yard. “Who’s going to see you?”
This? Right here? Is why Laurie is awesome.
“Excellent point. Okay, let’s do this.” I’m excited—I’ll have bonus roses, and I’ll actively be learning from Martha as I review her tips for growing roses. This is great! This is progress! This is going to happen.
Laurie taps herself a note on her iPhone. “Okay, I’ll get you a list to choose from. My suggestion is we mix heavy bloomers and highly fragranced roses for the best variety. Maybe group them by color, too, for the most drama.”
“Excellent! What should I do?” In my head, I’m already shopping for floppy British gardening hats and open wicker baskets in which to place my snipped roses, because the notion of a cutting garden has suddenly turned
I laugh bitterly. “Didn’t I tell you? Fletch kept a corner of the plot for tomatoes, and they grew almost as well as the wildflowers. You know, there’s a book called The $64 Tomato . Pfft, we got that beat.
“After the fact, I learned that Fletch was fertilizing his tomatoes every day. He’s since banned himself from trying again.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I know, right? And at the time I was all, ‘Why do we keep buying tomato fertilizer?’ Live and learn. Anyway, we’re planting a big organic garden on the other side once we have those trees cut down,” I tell her, pointing to the area on the east end of the yard. There’s a scrubby old pine tree that’s about to go, even though I do enjoy watching Loki use the lower branches to scratch his ass. The first time we spied him backing butt-first into the pointy needles, we figured it was a fluke. But the next hundred? Not so much.
Laurie grabs the spade leaning against the side of the house and plunges it into the planter’s soil. She turns over a couple of shovelsful and bends down to run her hand through the earth. She decrees, “This is perfect. This soil is truly perfect.” Then she demonstrates how well it drains by filling the hole with water.
Maisy thunders over and demands a drink before we shut off thewater. She snaps and snorts and ends up wearing more than she ingests. Libby takes off, because she wants nothing to do with the hose. I keep telling Fletch we’ve got to teach her to swim, and he keeps saying we should be thankful for the one dog that isn’t always dampening clean sheets during clandestine bed naps.
“You’re kidding!” I exclaim. I really didn’t expect to hear my dirt was decent. “That’s great news. I thought I’d have to replace it all.”
Still, that doesn’t explain why the wildflowers didn’t take, but whatever. New year, new chance to try again.
“Have you considered a cutting garden over here?”
“I don’t really know what that is,” I admit.
Laurie explains how a lot of their clients keep a separate spot for cutting outside of the view of their main rose gardens, which makes perfect sense. I’m perpetually snipping off all the best blooms and spiriting them away inside, leaving big, gaping holes in the bushes by the pool.
Having a cutting garden would neatly eliminate the problem of scalped bushes. Plus, I’d feel like a pseudo-royal announcing to Fletch that I was off to the cutting garden, and he shan’t expect me for tea. This is a capital idea!
I’m all excited, but then I have to stop myself. “Oh, wait—if I have a rose cutting garden, then I’ll be cheating. I’d really need to tend to the flowers myself to stay true to the project.”
“Then take care of them yourself. I can have Mike and his guys plant them, but you could be responsible for their maintenance,” Laurie reasons.
I consider this. “You don’t think that by having my own little plot and working with my own tools, I’d look like a little kid pushing one of those bubble vacuum cleaners, running after their mommy who’s actually using a Hoover?”
Laurie swivels her head around to take in the wall of trees and blackthorn on the periphery of the yard. “Who’s going to see you?”
This? Right here? Is why Laurie is awesome.
“Excellent point. Okay, let’s do this.” I’m excited—I’ll have bonus roses, and I’ll actively be learning from Martha as I review her tips for growing roses. This is great! This is progress! This is going to happen.
Laurie taps herself a note on her iPhone. “Okay, I’ll get you a list to choose from. My suggestion is we mix heavy bloomers and highly fragranced roses for the best variety. Maybe group them by color, too, for the most drama.”
“Excellent! What should I do?” In my head, I’m already shopping for floppy British gardening hats and open wicker baskets in which to place my snipped roses, because the notion of a cutting garden has suddenly turned
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