Bad Gardener

 When it comes to gardening I am too soft hearted to be a good gardener. Oh sure, I’m all for shooting Bambi and his mother, but I have a hard time thinning plants.

When my perennials need dividing I like to find a good home for them first. Will you promise them at least six hours of sunlight daily and frequent watering until they are established? They love chicken poop, so promise to feed them chicken poop at least once a year. I haven’t gone so far as to require background---look Ma! A pun!--- checks before I hand over my unwanted bounty, but I do like to make home visits and see how the little lovelies are faring.

Good gardeners sometimes are required to make difficult decisions and to know when to pull the plug on a languishing plant, and when to thin with ruthless efficiency for the good of the survivors.

That point was driven home to me last week when two of the trees in our Secret Woods suddenly fell over. Thankfully, no one was hurt, but the difficult decision was made to take down the rest.

Timber!

As I write this with the sound of chainsaws in the background---9 a.m. on a Sunday morning, yes, we are that neighbor ---my heart is a little sad around the edges. I try not to cringe every time a tree thuds to the ground.

Instead, I try to imagine that this is an extreme sport for trees “Whee! Watch me fall now!” And that they welcome the opportunity to become something else: homes, furniture, or maybe paper for poetry.

A new life awaits...

My gardens will welcome the extra sunlight now available to them, and in time, new trees will raise their branches skyward as the Secret Woods renews its self.

And if I tell myself this enough times, I hope I will come to believe it.

Watching the fall of giants from a safe distance. Notice the guy with the best seat on in the house...

If it is to be done, ‘tis best it be done quickly- Me, misquoting Macbeth