The upside of gardening

Okay, so we don't live in a lovely big Victorian in Adams, but our Vermont house really isn't all that bad. I've grown to love it, with its bizarre quirks, strange plumbing, the crazy post-and-beam construction, the sloping floors and all the mismatched windows. It has personality, it has spunk, it even has a bit of charm. It's cozy warm in the winter and breezy in the summer, the half-finished basement a refuge for kid toys and exercise equipment. We are even planning to renovate the roomy, vaulted space above the garage.

Gardening here has been a challenge. I'm not really a "gardener." I'm a kid of the suburbs, I don't really know how to do stuff. Growing up, I mostly remember a rock garden with crocuses in springtime, and a rose garden, though I'm not sure if the roses belonged to us or our next-door neighbors. We had a small grove of apple trees, though the fruit was mostly used for family games of "apple ball," not for consumption. My parents have since moved from that suburban house, and now have a garden that is the envy of Berkshire county -- planters overflowing with annuals, a delicious herb garden, a perennial garden that should be in "Berkshire Living," luscious tomotoes growing on the vine, an idyllic wildflower garden, and blueberry bushes to beat the band. Plus acres of woods and meadows surrounding it all. Whenever we visit, we are truly inspired. We grow lusty with ideas -- we could do blueberries, too!



We certainly try. In the spring, a myriad of daffodils bloom along the fence row, giving way to irises, Rosa Rugosa, peonies, and Stella D'oro day lilies. A picturesque boulder is the backdrop for crocuses in spring, alongside an uncontrollable nest of Artemesia, Easter lilies, and incredibly tall and wild bee balm that is currently in its glorious bloom. Our "sun garden" is filled with chives, lemon balm (good for tea, I hear), and sage, which is turning into a true sage-bush. Our delphinium flopped in the June hail-storm, but coneflowers I planted by seed two (or three) years ago have finally come to fruition. A thicket of black-eyed Susans is blooming, and gladiolas are even coming back (I never dug up the bulbs last year, just crossed my fingers that they'd make it through the Vermont winter).

Here's part of our garden, shortly after we returned home to Vermont in mid-June, after a year in New York City. (Thankfully, the ratty birdhouse is now gone.)

We expected the rhododendron and irises, but a big surprise was encountering the gargantuan lupine. These were planted by seed last summer, after we had read Barbara Cooney's "Miss Rumphius" (also known as "The Lupine Lady") for the millionth time.










So now it's summer. Our bee balm has completely taken off this year (I love the crazy frizzly petals), along with the chives, lemon balm, sage, and hydrangea (white, purple, and endless summer). Some of our rhododendron look a bit sickly, so we've started treating them with a steady diet of coffee grounds, thanks to our local coffee shop. There are some mysteries, things I don't remember planting: tall spiky plants in a bed along the fence row--they look like they'll be butterfly magnets, so they're keepers for now; black-eyed Susans have migrated to the back yard; daisies have moved to the front yard (including the front walkway); and little Johnny-jump-ups wintered in the whiskey barrel and are now happily co-existing with geraniums and Vinca vine.

I love gardening, I love the anticipation in early spring, the trial-and-error, the oops, oh well, that didn't work, so much for benevolent neglect. I rejoice when something thrives (hardy Lavender, Lamb's ear, Ladies' mantle, Astilbe) and mourn when something just doesn't make it (tulips bitten off at the head, sunflower seeds eaten by critters before they even have a chance to emerge from the ground, slugs who devour every delicate wildflower seedling).

Our biggest surprise by far was our accidental pumpkin patch last summer. We planted lilies in a bed, and covered them with some delightful compost from our heap. A few weeks later, we had pumpkin plants emerging, which by the end of the summer produced the most wonderful array of jack-o-lanterns for us. From that same compost mix came cherry tomotoes and even a pepper plant. This year, the pumpkins that I planted from store-bought seedlings are not as hardy, though a cherry tomato plant has returned. And we have one lily.

What I really love about our garden is seeing the bees buzzing around, digging for pollen in the blooms. The butterflies, hummingbirds, even the rabbits and chipmunks all have their niche. We're part of the system, so we try to do our part. We try to weed out any invasives that come our way (goutweed, for example). No chemicals, fertilizers, pesticides or herbicides unless absolutely necessary, and then we use organic compounds, whatever that means. We even mow the yard with a 'reel' mower, so as not to create noise and air pollution for us and our neighbors. I feel more in touch with our yard after a good mow: just this morning I encountered numerous little frogs, leaping out of my way, many kinds of mushrooms and fungi, plenty of sticks that I piled up for Katie to use in her fairy-house construction projects. We compost all our yard waste and kitchen scraps, and try not to disturb the delicate ecosystem surrounding the stream that wends through our backyard.

It's lovely here, quiet and peaceful. The constant sound of the stream comforts us by day and lulls us to sleep at night. Now if we could only convince the mosquitoes to move on, we'd be golden.