Gardening is in my DNA. I love digging in the dirt. Love to plant, weed, harvest. But for some reason, I don’t like to plant in the fall. I have never had good luck with spring flowers because of this. No tulips, daffodils, alium, or for me, unless they were planted by previous inhabitants and survived my neglect in separating the overgrown bulbs.
Last fall I tried again to overcome my block. I wrestled with my conscience over the beautiful bright red tulip bulbs calling to me at Home Depot. I lusted after the alium bulbs, which are my idea of a hot statement in the yard. I gave in and bought them, knowing in my heart they were probably doomed.
I brought them home and laid them in their final resting place—still in their plastic netting bag—in my front yard. And I left them there. Through a month of potential planting season, they lay. Squirrels evidently couldn’t breach the plastic netting, which is a good thing to know.
Through the first freezes, they still lay there, like an accusing body of evidence. Still, I kept walking by like a heartless lout, saying “I can do that tomorrow.” Ha. The snow fell, the bulbs were buried. Relief! I didn’t have to look at their sad little accusing bulby forms, huddled together. Snow and snow and snow happened. Winter came and stayed and did the winter thing: bury life.
Then, a few weeks ago, the snow finally went away, exposing the yard once more. And sure enough, the bulbs had not spontaneously planted themselves. The squirrels had not breached their netting. And God in heaven send me a sign, there were shoots coming out of them, and roots. Could this be????
Feeling like I had a second chance, I finally did The Right Thing. I got my shovel and dug up a nice soft place and planted the bulbs. I put just a little dirt on top of them, not to discourage their new relationship with the sun. I figure any bulbs that refuse to lay down and die over an above-ground winter will have extreme hardiness, and superb will to live. The kind of garden that will speak to me every time I look at it and remember its beginning.
There is a line in the movie Jurassic Park that I love to quote: Life will find a way.” Jeff Goldblum’s scientific character is making this solemn pronouncement about the sterile dinosaur community, which has been carefully vetted of male chromosomes so there will be no reproduction, and the dangerous dinosaur population can be controlled. However, as fans know, life did find a way, and they did reproduce, and it was a great movie all around.
The line fits the determined pack of Home Depot red tulip bulbs, too. Their life is inspiringly tenacious. Maybe they were too dumb to die, maybe they'd never heard of the specific instructions planted on their little bag. Maybe they were too full of life to quit. Maybe they had been lucky to be raised in a good home, or had Super DNA. Whatever "force that drives the green fuse", as Dylan Thomas wrote, they have it in buckets. Bless their little tough hearts.
If they survive where I planted them, these bulbs will add their special meaning to my yard and garden memories. Scattered around my small portion of the earth are starts of my mom’s red peonies, my grandmother’s yellow irises, thriving white hyacinths from a friend (given in a pot, and planted in spring. Not fall.), a pussy willow tree which I have kept starts from since my son was born 33 years ago. Many more memories live with me in my garden. When the garden comes to life in spring and summer, my heart comes alive in many ways. All gardeners know this, of course. That’s what gardeners grow: love. We witness the will to live every spring, when "April is the cruelest month" coming after the death of winter, and small things awaken from the dead to face the hard work of living again--and the garden does, it does.
No comments:
Post a Comment