Off The Edge Gardening

One of the great things about being self-employed is that it is my party and I can cry if I want to. What I mean is my life is flexible.  Today it rained.  I said “I don’t mind if we don’t do any work”. So we drank coffee and ate cake whilst listening to old vinyls. We sat on the big sofa and chatted and laughed and watched whilst Max acted the fool.  Sometimes there is more to life than gardening. Strange but true.

It didn’t seem to get light today.  All day long it threatened to downpour but only managed the odd spitter-spot which did nothing to alleviate the oppressiveness.  And I didn’t feel on top form.  A slightly out of focus day.  Nothing I could quite put my finger on, but the edges seemed blurred, the air like treacle, any spring in my step was reduced to a scuff.  Still good work was done and Mrs Bun’s chocolate fridge cake went a fair way to remedying my inertia.  Without its boost I may have lain down in the mint jungle and snoozed the afternoon away.

It was good.  I sang tra la la quite a lot and it was heavenly (the experience not the sound).  I attempted inappropriate songs.  I sang as loud as I could.  My teacher didn’t scream (out loud anyway).  I am smitten.  I just wondered, has the moniker “The Singing Gardener” been taken?

My Dad was not a gardener.  Valiantly he went through the motions, mowing the scrappy lawn, growing a few tomatoes, hacking back every now and then.  His favourite job was leaning on his spade whilst laughing and joking with the passers-by.  On one occasion he thought he would try to grow mushrooms.  After getting an appropriate book out of the library it was soon decided that it was far too complicated and much easier to pop across the road to the Spar.   That was my Dad, all or nothing.

After he was taken devastatingly ill, suddenly and unfairly, I wandered up to the greenhouse at the top of the garden. Previously I had believed this ramshackle self-build was for newspaper reading and escaping non-specific stuff. Much to my great surprise, languishing atop the bench in a plethora of pots, were hundreds and hundreds of marigold seedlings.  Earlier that month my Mum had mentioned that she rather liked marigolds.  He must have sown the whole jumbo bag in one go. That was my Dad.  All or nothing. For his Peggy.  For hours I stood and pricked these little love tokens out into pots, most probably weeping, clinging to the fact that somehow I was helping. Just keeping things ticking over.  In denial of the fact that he would never come home again to plant these treasures in the garden.

My Dad was not a singer.  This fact never held him back, in fact it underlined his resolve.  He loved to sing loud and he loved to sing hard.  All or nothing.  Today, would have been his birthday.  To mark this occasion I am having my first singing lesson.  I am going to sing loud and I am going to sing hard.  I shall give it my all.

Although it was a beautifully warm day, with an advantageous breeze which greatly assisted the workers in their toils, it somehow felt different.  The light has become softer, kinder.  Instead of sucking the soul out of colours it is enhancing them, embracing them.  I like it.

This morning Lady Mantle greeted me with “Today we are going to be drawing pictures and making notes”.   The horror on my face prompted a rapid “Don’t worry, I will be doing the drawing”.  This is just as well, I once came second in art-off with a 4 year old.  Luckily Her Ladyship made the notes as well.  She has exemplary handwriting.  When later she dropped the pad into the mud she brushed it off saying “now it is a proper gardening notebook”.

We methodically examined each of the carefully numbered borders and garden areas on her blueprint, listing the plants (which for me was a horticultural spelling bee) and discussing our hopes for next season.  This involved identifying plants that need to be moved or extracted and pinpointing areas that “could do better”.  We also patted ourselves on the back and admired our own handiwork.  This exercise took all morning but was not wasted time, quite the contrary, it was an invaluable way to spend a few hours.  Now we have something to aim for.  We have a plan. Quite possibly to ignore.

This sunflower is not rushing to shine.  It will get there, but in its own time.  You can’t hurry these things.

The quince at The Farm has hit puberty.  Some have prematurely left home, a scattering of immature fruit tragically circle the tree, to become snacks for the badgers no doubt.  But I have high hopes for this persistent beauty in particular.  It is now beginning to shed its adolescent fluff, revealing the adult beneath, and elongating into the elegant pear shape of its destiny.  Is it a good idea to become so attached to a fruit, when so much is at stake?  We will see.