Tag Archives: gardening

The Myth of the Patient Gardener

Garden lessons are life lessons

All great things start small. Photo by Filip Urban on Unsplash

Gardeners aren’t patient people.

Oh, it may appear to the uninitiated that gardeners are patient. How else do we wait so long for a seed to grow into a sprout and a sprout to grow large enough to produce a tomato? Who else can play a long game and plant a tree today knowing that it won’t provide shade enough to host a teddy bear picnic for at least another decade?

Yet, I still stand by my statement — gardeners ARE NOT patient people.

Nowhere is this more evident than in a new garden, particularly a new ornamental or cutting garden. All too often, in an effort to make the garden look full and established, small perennials are planted nearly on top of their neighbor.

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It’s Time to Let Go of the Brown Thumb Myth

Your thumb has nothing to do with your gardening ability

Photo by Katya Ross on Unsplash

“I have a brown thumb,” Jan said apologetically, “I mean, it’s so bad that even silk flowers curl up and die.”

The rose bush I had planted a few weeks earlier was dropping its leaves and looking a bit yellow, but it wasn’t dead. I knelt beside it and dug my fingers into the soil. The roots were still firm and there was no sign of slime. We weren’t too late.

I smiled at Jan in an attempt to put her at ease. She had hired me because she had always dreamed of being a gardener, but she didn’t know the first thing about gardening. My job wasn’t just to install plants, it was also to teach her how to garden.

“You don’t have a brown thumb, just a heavy hand with the watering can.” I couldn’t help but chuckle, “You’re loving this poor rose to death!”

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The Day I Spared Peter Rabbit

Beneath dead earth new life arises

Photo by Davies Designs Studio on Unsplash

I was wading knee deep through the fallen soldiers in a wasteland of death. The skeletal remains of heather, a sword fern, and countless other shrubs and perennials that could no longer be identified crunched underfoot.

Someone, in the not-too-distant past, had tried to eradicate a horsetail problem by dousing the entire garden border with a broad-spectrum herbicide. The only living things that remained were the prehistoric green fronds of the horsetails themselves.

I levered my spade underneath one of the heather remains and pushed it upward. A frantic squeaking accompanied the severing of the plant’s roots. I quickly stepped back and surveyed the scene before me.

With the heather gone, I could clearly see a small burrow with a lining of soft brown and white fur sticking out.

Oh no. Bunny nest.

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