I've
been breaking in a new pair of walking shoes this week – red suede.
I'd thought about buying blue suede shoes, but then I should be
walkin' in Memphis, instead of in Moscow. I came home one morning
from a brisk turn around our neighborhood in time to see the letter
carrier delivering a box to our front porch. If I needed a reminder
that The Impetuous Gardener is an accurate name for my column, that
box was all the evidence required. I felt the first twinge of alarm
at the size of the carton and its many air holes. But, I assured
myself, tulip and daffodil bulbs take up space, and there's probably
a lot of packing material inside to protect them from damage during
shipping. I stooped to pick up the box, couldn't lift it even an inch
off the ground, and felt the little twinge morph fast into full-blown
panic.
I bet that carton weighed more than Rags, my Old English
sheepdog, and the pudgy Benjamin BadKitten combined. How many tulips
and daffodils had I ordered? Did my husband and I commandeer --and
plow – part of the neighbors' yard, to compete with the West Side
tulip fields in northern Washington state? My immediate worry was how
to lug that monster bulb box from the front porch all the way to the
patio at the back of the house. (Pride and embarrassment stopped me
from waiting until my husband came home to act as tulip transporter.)
I
am a small person but possess a great deal of determination. After
propping open the front and patio doors, I gulped extra air, flexed
nonexistent muscles, and hefted that box as far as my hip. After
huffing out a couple of brief, colorful phrases, I staggered through
the living and dining rooms to the patio door. The Garden Goddess
must have protected me from taking a header down the two steps from
the dining room to the patio, because I certainly couldn't see around
the carton to check my footing. I plunked the box onto the patio
table and then opened it, to find every square inch stuffed with mesh
bags of bulbs. I had ordered approximately six billion tulips in
jewel and pastel colors, a “super sack” of naturalizing
daffodils, and blue, purple and yellow crocuses to celebrate the
arrival of spring.
Our
gardens already include bulb beds, which I started digging when we
moved to Moscow five years ago. This summer I added a flower bed in
our front yard and imagined its winding paths framed with tulips and
daffodils next April and May. I love creating beauty, in our home and
in our yard. If seeing bright-petaled flowers brings passersby as
much joy as the sight brings me, my own happiness multiplies. During
the gardening months, I include a budget item for buying plants and
bulbs – and got a great deal on the tulips and daffs I ordered. Now
I have to imagine where the heck to plant the 12 billion bulbs in
that box. I see many hours of spading soil in my immediate future,
and my husband has offered to spend much of this weekend with our
rototiller.
While I'm digging, I'm not sure I can count on my garden
staffer to keep me company. Unfortunately, Tessa the Vague needs a
bit more orientation: If she wants to go out to the patio, she waits
for me to open the dining room door. (She also knows how to use the
cat door, a major milestone, but that leads to the front yard.)
Recently, when Tessa and I were in the laundry room, I opened its
door, which also leads to the patio, and waited for Tessa to go
outside. She paused at the threshold, studied the patio, and looked
up at me with total confusion in her wide, vacant green eyes. From
the door, she could see all the familiar landmarks on the patio, but
the perspective was different. My chief garden executive believed I
was trying to send her to Mars, and skittered away.
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