There is no real springtime in Brazil, where I grew up.
I mean, nature is wonderful down there, with green foliage and flowers blooming all year round, plus the monkeys, toucans, hummingbirds, and whatnot we had the joy to live with during our seven years in our glass house in the woods.
But, like in human life, the perspective of life and death adds to nature an extra layer of delight.
When I arrived here, I used to love the orange fall leaves everywhere. It was my favorite season. But after I embarked on the indescribable adventure of being an amateur gardener, it all changed radically.
I’m a springtime “gal” now, and will never change back.
It was inevitable that at some point, after I started The Middle Way, I would feel compelled to reveal my gardener persona, maybe to prove that I’m not all evil.
When I designed, and Alan and I subsequently built our house in the woods of South Carolina, we paid extensive attention to all details, from the toilet paper holder to the side window in our bedroom always facing sunrise, moonrise for part of the year, and Venus a little more rarely (Venus morning rising is approaching this March).
However, just this morning I realized that I paid zero attention to the extensive pieces of land around the house, namely in the front and on the left side, where I now keep a wildflower “meadow.”
Let’s start with the meadow, notwithstanding that I planted practically every gigantic tree now standing in the front with my bare hands.
It was the February of Covid, yeah, you’re right, unbelievable five years ago. Like any other American, I was going about my business making a fair amount of money when the plague hit. Everything was suddenly just gone… And I saw myself penniless and with a lot of time on my hands, so I decided to do something about it, and I mean… gardening, like millions of my fellow Americans — something that was very clear if you visited websites and went to nurseries wearing the inevitable, annoying mask.
Everybody seemed to be gardening all of a sudden, and I was no exception.
My first “brilliant idea” was to plant poppies, so I started by tilling the land without the appropriate tools. Two years and a lot of blisters and bouts of frustration later, I understood my garden was not up for poppies.
Yes, a garden has a will of its own, and you disrespect it at your own peril. A lesson learned is a lesson earned, so I had the next brilliant idea of buying seeds and starting a wildflower adventure, which was — is, finally — a success. It gets better every year.
So, if you are yearning to get some useful tips here, I suggest you go with American Meadows. I’ve been buying seeds from them for years now and the result is pretty good, although, of course, they don’t promise anything, and neither do I.
The story of my garden is a long and emotional one, but today I will focus on the most recent discoveries, like the wonderful daffodil bulbs I planted last fall for the first time. They are blooming! The first flowers of the season!
Also, this year I went pretty radical with pruning my roses, and I confess I was worried about it. But hot weather came along et voilà, one by one they started sprouting. I can brag a 100% success rate by now.
And speaking of roses — I didn’t promise you a rose garden, but there you have it — I have a peculiar story to tell.
Last year I planted several rose bushes bought from Lowe’s at the right time, and they all grew and bloomed beautifully. However, one of them developed very long, thin stems and demanded several bamboo sticks to go on growing. I was struggling with it, not really understanding what was going on.
That’s when I read an essay by Kat Rosenfield — no pun intended — in which she mentioned a climbing rose she had brought from her mother’s house and was now blooming in her own garden. I wrote a comment saying that I had a rosebush I suspected was a climbing species, and I didn’t know what to do with it. She answered my comment with some advice, and I followed it.
The rest is history. I pruned the rosebush, bought a trellis on Amazon, tied the branches accordingly, and winter came in.
So starting this week, I’m immensely enjoying the fact that my diagnosis was right, and Kat’s advice was sound: The climbing rose is thriving, so thank you very much, Kat.
Now on with my own advice to you: Don’t go with too many rules and internet mandates. Just observe, care, pay attention, and you will go far.
Happy gardening!