My two gardening rants are both real and problematic

 

A – I had a big bunch of needy, gorgeous annuals and perennials sitting in plastic nursery pots in the back yard waiting further instructions. They were to be the  finishing touches of our brand-new garden. After six frantic weeks of planting, having those plants in the ground would push us over the edge to a damn near finished garden. At least for late May. Damn near, anyway.

B – It was raining, steady and sullen. The forecast – I am not making this up – was for 10 straight days of rainy weather in our Louisville-Southern Indiana area. Ten. Straight. Days. Perhaps the most rain since Noah pulled his Ark out of drydock. Ten days.

I was lying in bed, warm and dry,  looking out the window, and pondering the possibilities. I could feel my annuals and perennials looking back, well-watered, but neglected, wanting to be deeply planted, well rooted.

Guilt is a terrible thing to waste

At about 8:23 a.m. I slipped on old shoes, rain pants, sweatshirt, raincoat, old hat, clean gloves and headed out to greet  the rainy morning.

Turned out the rain was gentle, soothing, quite welcoming. Earlier frantic rains that week had toppled neighborhood trees, flooded ditches and had all of us thanking God for our working sump pumps. I gathered my digging utensils, hand-tools and thin-bladed shovel with sharp -toothed edges, the most valuable garden tool in planting history.

Our new plants were happy to see me, a mix of old fashioned and new including marigolds, begonias, geraniums, angelonia, acanthus, rudbeckia, Gerber daisy, helianthus, heliotrope,  and , yes, Bidens – not looking a bit sleepy. At this point in my gardening life, I just want stuff that works.

As I started planting, knees squashed in wet dirt, rain dripping off my hat, I went from being a little concerned about the weather to being very happy. The work was soft-dirt easy, I was alone in it, the rain very friendly. We quickly bonded in mud.

Then I got to thinking there surely  must be a poem or song written about planting flowers in a soft rain, being at one with the landscape, wet words, dancing flutes and piccolos. With no thoughts of forthcoming dirty laundry. So inspired, I went to work on an earthy poem/song. Please feel free to dance. Nobody’s looking.

 

Planting flowers in the rain

It’s so easy on the brain

Digging holes with little strain

Who would dare to so complain.

 

That was only the first verse

I had to pause digging for a few minutes as a cardinal landed about four feet away. He looked me over, aware of my existence, but happy to feed on the numerous worms my sharp-edged shovel had just uncovered. The worms, not so much.

Rural birds – unless hummingbirds – will stay away. City birds think they own your place, which does have some truth to it. Their families were probably here before we moved in and will survive our departures. The robin hopped a few wet feet down behind a new hydrangea and went worm hunting out of sight.

My first planting project in this rain comes with a story. When Janet Hill and I married 63 years ago, we barely had a sharp-edged shovel between us. We washed clothes in a laundromat in those early romantic years. About five years into our marriage, we got an income tax return of $455. That same day we saw an ad for a washer and dryer on sale for $455. A message from God or Whirlpool.

We bought the pair, used it for 10 years , or so, and when the washer died, being a romantic sort, we saved the big washer tub and used it for a planter. We still do almost 60 years later. In this gentle rain, I set the tub in a semi-shady spot under a gingko tree. Then  planted four big, pink, double-impatiens inside this nicely aged planter we have come to personalize as “Edna-Hill Whirlpool.” Nostalgia is a terrible thing to waste.

 

Folks think you a silly fool

Others find it very cool

But we still have a basic rule

Love to Ms. Edna-Hill Whirlpool

The rain slowed a bit

I stuffed five more pink, double- impatiens  in a big, bright blue porcelain pot not too far from Edna. The moment of wet serenity lingered beneath my rain-soaked hat, along with a thought that another nine days of this might not be too bad, depending on the happiness of our sump pump.

Four purple flowering Angelonia were planted over by our fence,  creating a division line between them and what we hope someday to be our small, native-wildflower plot. Some bossier purple heliotrope were planted nearby, adding to the theme. Purple rain.

Seeding wildflowers in the wet

Could  bring on gardening regret

But let us all please not forget

To be surprised at what we get.

All told, I was outside plotting, perusing, planting   and pruning for about three hours. I finished  happy-tired, as gardening does to all of us, but it all seemed more like a head-down 15 minutes. I took my soaked shoes off outside – they are well accustomed to that. My filthy, water-soaked gloves were hung on the outside railing for the time being, next to my drenched hat. The pants were removed three feet inside the kitchen. The washing machine lurked. My waiting breakfast-lunch was strawberries floating in oatmeal.

Your garden starts with tiny sprout

Attend it well in wet or drought.

It’s what the game is all about

Happiness is inside out.

 

I began with Gerber daisy

No fear there of being lazy

Not a plant to be called hazy

Flowers large and slightly  crazy.

 

So garden wettish when you can

Fear not the local weatherman

Mother Nature hatched her plan

About the time our world began.