YARD OF THE MONTH

<<Mother Nature is currently teasing us with beautiful weather (for another 24 hours then it's back to winter). Spring Fever grabbed me by the neck and pulled me out into the yard. Three hours of raking and four bags of leaves later, my gardens were ready for their seasonal makeover. As I sat and sipped a glass of (medicinal) wine, I remembered about an article I had published almost a decade ago now. A cautionary tale, about what happens when a girl's dreams of lavish landscaping slam head-on into the reality of making them come true. I figured in the spirit of the changing seasons, I'd share it with you here.>>

My first gardening catalog came addressed to “Robert S. Jones or Current Resident.” That was me--Current Resident. We’d just made our fourth move in two years in conjunction with my husband’s Naval career.  His orders were for twenty-four months. Long enough to plant perennials. Oh, be still my heart!

I thought I showed a great deal of restraint when I limited myself to a $500 order. I'd showcase my patriotic spirit with a rainbow of red, white, and blue flowers in a variety of curious textures. My home would stand out from the others in this newly-constructed cookie-cutter neighborhood. Okay, so I would eat nothing but macaroni and cheese for two months, but with the Yard of the Month awarded by my neighborhood association came a $50 gift certificate to the hardware store, so it would offset the scales a bit. And based on the glossy pictures of what my gardens would look like, I was a sure winner.

One sunny day in early March a small box arrived. A very small box filled with more than a hundred two-inch plants that looked like they should be on life support. But hope springs eternal and I had faith these would grow to look like the catalog picture in no time.

Per the instructions, I should plant my garden as soon as possible. Hmmm. I hadn’t actually thought about that part of it. I’d ordered enough flora to fill three very large areas, all of which were currently sprouting bright green weeds. As any good Navy wife does, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

First, I outlined the beds with edging bricks, over 300 of them, hauled home in quantities of 20 int he trunk of my car. Next step was to loosen the top four inches of soil. After three days of backbreaking work, I broke down and rented a tiller. The dump-truck load of topsoil was deposited in my driveway, smack dab in front of my garage door—with my car inside, naturally. I had to borrow my neighbor’s car to run to the hardware store to purchase a wheelbarrow and move the dirt before I could even get my car out. The important lesson here was exactly how much dirt fit into a dump truck, More than I would need for fifty gardens. Thankfully my neighbor needed to fill in hole left by his deconstructed swimming pool, so he hauled off the liont's share of it. Thinking I’d learned my lesson on the soil, I opted for hauling in mulch bag by bag. By bag. By bag. One hundred and seventy-two, if memory serves. (Did I mention these were three VERY LARGE gardens? And the top dressing on the foundation landscaping needed to match, naturally.)

It took over a month, but I celebrated the day I popped the seedlings into the ground per the plant-by-number instructions. Little tiny specks of plants spaced 12-18 inches apart. It looked like a barren wasteland. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. My back ached, my legs ached, my hands ached. But most of all, my bank account ached. I was in for over $1,500, once I figured in the cost of repairing my husband's truck after I’d run the tiller along its side. I reminded myself it would all be worth it when my husband returned from deployment to find our yard looked like it should be on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens.

That was my very expensive lesson in patience. Having been raised in a well-established mill town, I’d taken for granted the lush flora planted by long-dead ancestors. I had no idea it took fifty years for ivy to climb the brick exteriors, or forsythia bushes to grow as tall as the houses. I expected instant gratification in my gardens. Needless to say, my sparse plantings did not earn me Yard of the Month, let alone any return on my investment.

We moved nine times over the next fourteen years, as is the way things work when married to a sailor. I never made the mistake of undertaking significant landscaping projects I would never be around long enough to enjoy, but at every place we lived I left some small patch of perennials, usually peopnies, for a future nomadic tenant to enjoy.

We found ourselves back in the area of that home where I'd planted my patriotic garden. We detoured down the street where I’d foolishly invested so much time, energy and money. I cried when I saw it. The big red peony blooms smiling up at the sunshine took my breath away. Vinca vines had filled in enough to choke out all the weeds and make annual mulching unnecessary, which had been my goal. The gardenia bushes, which had started as one-foot-high twigs, now formed a thick, fragrant hedge. But the thing that caught my eye was a sign right smack dab in the middle of the lush red, white and blue collection of perennials--Yard of the Month. That sign was more a testimony to time than to effort.