The Suburban Jungle

When we moved to the suburbs in 2003, I was pregnant.  And on bedrest.  I didn't get unpacked until 2005, much less start to get the house in the order I wanted it in. In 2013, I'm still - not - quite - there.

One of my priorities was the garden:  it had been a quiet haven for the previous owners, with a large water feature known to me as the toddler death trap - until the pump broke, and it also became the main West Nile Virus Mosquito Breeding Facility of Danville, CA; abundant flowering plants, all of which were extremely decorative and deadly poisonous; and a brick patio which unfortunately slanted toward the house rather than away from it, leading to considerable puddling during the rainy months, and a certain paranoia  on my part that perhaps the foundation of the house was being undermined.  Well, we haven't slid down the hill yet.

(Oleander.  Lovely and lethal.)

I'm not much of a gardener.  I'm still surprised that the local garden center rings up my purchases as "perennials," they should know by now that anything I purchase is going to live out life as an annual.  I've committed agapanthicide in the front yard, over-watered the lavender to a sodden mess, and under-watered the ferns to a nice, crunchy consistency.  The euphorbia hung on for two or three years, I am convinced it did so mostly out of spite - I put it in the wrong location and it looked horribly out of place.  Feral invasive weeds thrive under my inattention, domestic species wither and dry out, or succumb to mold and bugs under my not particularly watchful eyes.

But in 2005, I persevered, for a while.  I removed the giant water feature, the first and most urgent priority, and set to work taking out all the plants that had died from neglect.  I removed bricks, stacked them off to one side, and set to work leveling the ground.

After two or three weeks of dedicated hard work, I felt positively ill.  Complete with a fever.  And I had a funny bulls-eye rash around my naval.  I was aware that Lyme Disease was a problem in Danville, but had showered and checked for ticks regularly on my arms and legs - but not, unfortunately in my belly button - which frankly hasn't ever been the same since having two children, but that's another post and not for those with weak stomachs. Those deer ticks are tiny.

Four weeks of tetracycline tempered my enthusiasm for gardening, as well as for eating anything more exciting than yogurt, and it was well over six months before I ventured out again to tackle the garden again. All the plants were gone, I was starting from scratch, a tabula rasa, my partially shady blank slate with one sunny stripe, on which I was destined to plant the right plant in the wrong corner...

This time, my daughter, a precocious toddler, wanted to help.  (My son, at nearly five, already knew better.) We turned over soil, broke up lumps, and worked the euphemistically named "soil amendment" in to the ground.  One afternoon, my daughter asked what was in that soil amendment, because it smelled bad.  I explained that it included steer manure, and that was likely what presented the unpleasant aroma.  That explanation initially satisfied her, but about a half hour later, she asked, "Mommy, what's manure?"  I told her.  She looked at me quietly for a full minute, contemplating the magnitude of the betrayal, then set down her little shovel, and announced somberly that she was going back in the house now, and wanted a bath immediately.

(The source of her discomfort)

My then-husband - now known as the ES (Estranged Spouse) offered his help when it became apparent the job was too big for one relatively small woman to complete single-handed.  He finished leveling the area where the bricks had been, and put down weed cloth.  That was enough for him. He was done - and just as well.  If I am the Mussolini of murderously bad gardening, the ES is the Stalin, and outdoes my black thumb by a factor of hundreds.  In spite of my admonitions and advice, I've caught him liberally spraying Round Up on the carefully planted azaleas and creeping thyme, along with the knotgrass and invasive puncture vine.  If it has pollen or seeds or drops leaves in the fall, his goal is complete eradication. I suspect the ES's ideal garden involves a large concrete slab, a grill, and a small potted fern.

It's been over a year since he moved out, and time to add on to what little has survived my sporadic attentions.  I have kept the new lavender alive for nearly three years, and day lilies are blooming.  The thyme hasn't quite given up, and the Japanese maple, after threatening for several years to join the deceased azalias, seems to have staged a remarkable recovery.  The daffodils and crocuses bloom in late winter, and the gophers seem to have gifted me with freesias, because I didn't plant any, but my neighbor thought she had and then nothing came up on her side of the fence.

I spent an entire 90 minutes in that yard today, and I am please to announce that I am done for now - not because all the weeds have been pulled, not because I planted anything new, not because it looks good, and not because I am tired.  But the green garden waste bin is full, so I have an excuse to put any further work  off until at least Wednesday.