How Does My Garden Grow?

Obviously Mistress Mary had someone helping her in the garden, looking that lovely and clean, her linen clothes impeccable  . . . or all she did was water her plants. I have had two Monday mornings out in my yard, weeding, planting, hauling debris in the proper paper sacks to the curb for the trash to pick up, all the while . . . looking like something that had rolled in the mud.

I garden like I paint.

Half of what I do lands on me.

Perhaps that is part of the fun. Maybe Mistress Mary would not look so solemn if she allowed Mother Nature to make her a little dirty.

Then she would be grinning like I do when I finish my rounds in the yard.

This year my resolve is to get my gardens in shape. It started last spring with a picket fence out front. A stately, yet cottage style, picket fence in natural wood and a  lovely garden cement maiden that would make any yard proud. I had help planting a few Knock Out roses, a few large Hydrangea plants that cost more than a meal at a fine restaurant, but a feast for the eyes and soul, more than any entrée I've devoured. (Although I do enjoy the instant gratification of a wonderful meal in a lovely setting with a glass of wine shared with friends.) The garden bed by my picket fence started to take shape.

Imagine how excited I was to see my roses start to bloom a week ago, their pretty faces peeking through the pickets of my fence. I clapped my hands with joy and did a happy dance. I decided I needed more roses, more flowers, more sweet charm.

I found roses one rainy afternoon that spoke to me as I went through the garden section of Home Depot, looking for plants as table decorations for an writer's event I had volunteered to do the floral table arrangements for the following week. I decided not to buy cut flowers at their expense, but to pay for the flowers myself, buy something I could take home after the event, and plant in my yard.

The flowers would be a lovely reminder of the friendships from that evening, but it would also get me off my lazy butt to plant in my yard. You just can't leave plants in the trunk of your car for any length of time! So the following Monday found me digging in the dirt.

I had the time of my life. The soil was easy to work, it had not gotten parched from the heat, but was delightfully damp from all the rain we had. Did someone say use gloves? I never do. I love to feel the dirt between my fingers, makes me more one with nature. Also makes for a heck of a lot of scrubbing to get nails clean again. I dig deep and claw at the ground to pull old roots, ivy, and anything in my way.

Life is changing for me again this year. I am growing, reaching in new directions, just like my roses. I've weeded out what needed to go in my life so I can branch out to do more of the things I want. I am a hanger-on, it is time to let go. Antiques have always been a love of mine, and they still are. But I want to buy for myself when I get a whim, not buy for resale. So I've closed my antique booths and the words antique dealer are off my resume, replaced with  . . sometimes antique dealer. (I let go slowly!)  My selling will be private when the mood strikes. Not having a booth to tend to will give me time to work in my garden, write my books, relax with the dogs.

Letting go of things can be difficult, but if you choose wisely, what goes, what stays, the feeling is euphoric. Or maybe it is just the feel of the soil, the sweat from working hard, breathing in fresh air, exercise, all the things that make you feel physically great, and one with the universe.

My universe sends me signs. I swear the roses spoke to me as I packed the soil around them.  Plant more is what I heard. You'll find me next at a favorite shop that sells fragrant herbs. What is a garden without Rosemary and Lavender?  

A few photos of my roses. Small, lovely, but my little garden that I will tend to with joy! It is a start . . . and with everything in life, the first step is starting. Stay tuned to see how we grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother Nature is a B****

Rascel (front) and Bertha (back) enjoying the sun today!

The storms ripped through north Georgia yesterday and a small town suffered more damage than the mind can take in. My dogs and I were huddled close waiting to see what weather would come across Decatur. We were lucky here, only some heavy rain. My downstairs basement room had some water trickle in from the baseboard, as it always does when it rains. One day I'll fix the problem. For now, my idea of home repair is to drop a few quilts to soak up the puddles, and file the problem away for tomorrow.

It is a scary thought to loose everything to mother nature. She is really mean spirited lately. You can't turn on the TV without hearing another weather related horror story. I pray for my home when she gets riled up and I weep for those who have suffered under her rule. As a nester, I know how much my home means to me. It is my safe harbor. What if it were gone?

Last night I started to think, what makes a home? I love all my possessions, as most everyone does of their things, but they just fill a house, with beauty, with clutter, with memories. Home is different when it holds a family, a husband and wife, life seems to be in constant motion. Sometimes by myself, since I've lived on my own now as a widow almost five years – single woman, my new title - how different the space feels. The energy level is different when it is just one. Good, but different.

Even with six dogs by my side, there is a quiet that you don't have when you share your home with someone. My house is very still this week, since my teen foreign exchange student moved on to another host family. I was her welcome home for five months. There are no text messages, no dogs howling and carrying on to greet her, no waiting up late to be sure she got home in time, and no late night conversations and laughter before she headed downstairs for sleep. It is a quiet that stands out from the last months. It is a quiet I needed. My head was about to explode from all the teen activity! (A note: I have never been around kids, so this was a new and wonderful experience).The timing for her to move on was perfect. She is with kids her age and I am with my dogs, writing again at my computer.

Have I gotten so used to living by myself that I am happy with just my dogs? I needed my life back to be able to connect with friends, a hard, almost impossible thing to do, when you are on call for a teen. Now I am home alone, but not lonely.

I am back in my social groove, a new groove actually, for I've met some new friends. After months and months of looking at real estate ads, it dawned on me, maybe I need friends in my neighborhood, rather than to change my neighborhood to make new friends. I got online and started a meet-up group for boomers who want to get out more in Decatur. The response was amazing. Over sixty members in a few weeks. Many from outside the area who want to come to Decatur to be social. As great as that was, the best news is a small group of ladies who live close by joined and we get together on a regular basis. I love my friends outside the perimeter (that beltway that circles Atlanta) but it is a joy to drive only a few miles to have fun.  I plan to keep up with all my friends, but it is good to be grounded close to home.

So, to answer my question on what makes a home? Family, friendships, love and, for me, a pack of dogs. Those are treasures you can't replace. I like living with my dogs, our house is a happy place. I am more content here now since my list of friends close by is growing. And because I know my mother will read this, I love that we talk every night, even though we are miles apart.

I'll still worry myself sick when mother nature comes to visit. I'll pray for my safety, the safety of those I know, and those in the direct path of such a wicked turn of weather. My dogs and I will snuggle together and I will remember that home means love, and I will treasure that above all else.

Rascal. Oh to be a dog on a sunny afternoon!