It was a beautiful weekend and I spent most of it outside weeding, planting, deadheading, and enjoying the scent of oriental lilies. So what do I have to complain about? Not much, just this:
A bag of mulch by any other name
What’s in this? I like the stuff; it’s finely shredded and looks a lot like the compost underneath it. I could guess, of course, and I’m not really all that concerned, but it does seem as though there’s enough real estate on this big bag of mulch to include a simple list of the shredded woods it contains. From the scent, I’d say pine is involved—why not say so? If mulch going to use the word “gold” in its name, it should proudly disclose the ingredients that justify the name.
Packaging run amok
It’s the plants that are supposed to be beautiful (and for the most part they are)—not the labels. Native plants have worked out very well for me. I couldn’t get along without my eupatoriums, rudbeckia, leucothoe, and all the ephemeral woodland natives like hepatica and trillium that we enjoy here in spring. And I think gardeners across the country have been realizing the benefits of using natives, so much so that we no longer need all this packaging and labeling destined for the recycling bin or the landfill. I think the big plastic sticks that hold the labels annoy me the most. Well, those and the extra few bucks that all this “beauty” is costing me.
Buffalo’s city inspectors have yet to learn the difference between a neglected lot and a perennial garden according to this report. Big sigh. It’s called gardening, people. But the good news is that they’ve yet to invade my neighborhood; otherwise, our block’s luxuriant curbside plantings would surely be ticketed. Just one or two horticultural training sessions would fix this!