How Does Your Garden Grow?

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary.  How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.”  (English nursery rhyme)

Just a short year ago, when I joined the ranks of the semi-retired, I decided that it was about time I created a small garden in my backyard.  Nothing elaborate or fancy, just a pleasant little space to brighten up a dingy corner.  My eyes have always appreciated the aesthetic merit of lavish floral displays spreading colour and beauty across a backdrop of lush velvet greenery.  Alas, my poor nose doesn’t share the fascination.  Allergies force me to restrict my proximity to many flourishing blooms.  Still, a garden I wanted and a garden I would have!

So, dressed in my best Indiana Jones costume, I set off into the area 51 section of my backyard (out behind the garage) where no human had ventured to go in many a year, armed to the teeth with spade, pruning shears, and whippersnipper, hell bent on thrashing the bejeepers out of whatever entity had taken up residence there for the past five decades.  The battle lasted for at least a week and it was not a pretty sight.  After hacking, slashing and digging my way through waist high mutant weeds, I eventually emerged triumphantly from the wilderness, although by that time I probably resembled John the Baptist more closely than I care to admit.  My victory was sweet, though, as I proudly surveyed the little patch of cleared land just waiting to fulfill my botanical dreams. 

A trip to the gardening centre was next on the agenda and I eagerly browsed through the colourful selections until my watery eyes and dripping nose prompted a hasty exit.  But I was happy with my pretty, though limited, flower choices.  Back home again, I filled in the tiny garden area with some lovely blossoms and delightful ornaments.  Pleased with myself, you betcha!  Yep, I enjoyed two glorious days of patting myself on the back before the damn weeds returned with a vengeance.  The rest of the summer passed by in a blur as I was forced to participate in repeat performances of the battle of the weeds.

This year, when the snow finally melted and the mud disappeared, I rather reluctantly crept out behind the garage once more to sneak a peek at the remnants of last year’s garden.  What a mess!  The hosta that seemed to be doing so well last summer was nowhere in sight, grass was growing up through the black earth I had spread with such care, and those ugly, octopus like weeds with their vile yellow tops were the only things flourishing in my poor little garden.  Anger exploded behind my eyes in mind-numbing flashes and I grabbed the shears with murderous intent.  Not only did I viciously snip off the tops of the weeds, but I also mercilessly dug out their far-reaching tentacles from beneath the earth’s surface and threw them over the fence in wild abandon.  I briefly thought of using a chemical weed killer but the wellbeing of my doggies overcame my desire for immediate annihilation of those dreadful troublemakers.  At the end of the first day, I crawled out from behind the garage battered and exhausted but satisfied that I had won another round against my mortal enemy. 

Refreshed after a long, soothing soak and a good night’s sleep, I strolled onto the patio the next morning with a cup of tea  and revelled in the sun’s warm touch on my skin as I surveyed my little backyard kingdom.  I nearly choked on Greek yogurt when my eyes perceived the unmistakable invasion of sneaky, snaky weeds in the grass far beyond the confines of the garage.  Oh, me nerves!  Logic and rationale vanished as I attacked the marauders with the mind-set of Attila the Hun and I’ve kept up the assault for days.  My fingers are muddy and torn, my legs hurt, my back aches, my arms scream in pain, and my butt is in agony.  The backyard looks like a pock-marked lunar landscape.  If NASA wanted to recreate another staged moon landing, they could do so quite convincingly right here.

I have a daunting suspicion that I’ll wear out before the weeds do.  The mere thought of repeating this process on an annual basis sends pulsating shivers of abhorrence up and down my spine.  Joni Mitchell probably had the right idea when she sang, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”  Might be something to consider!