Garden Mourning

I've been moping around since Christmas. The husband bought me a lovely Sago Palm from a local, that is SOG, nursery that is open only on Saturdays. I finally planted it yesterday. Granted, I had the excuse of needing to move the sadly misplaced Dracaena which occupied the Sago's spot, but that doesn't truly explain my tardiness. I would walk by it and say "I'll plant you tomorrow." I said those words, but I lied them. Sad though I was at seeing this dinosaur of the plant world still in the black plastic nursery container, I couldn't bring myself to dig about in the garish orange mulch our builder used. I can't fault him. He used some top notch talent in designing our landscape and irrigation system, but insisted on the awful dyed mulch to appeal to buyers of houses he didn't yet have under contract.

For all its fine qualities I have trouble taking any pleasure in this yard. I miss my mid-Atlantic garden of ten gardening seasons. Yes, I mean ten years, unheard of in a military family. We couldn't sell our suburban DC house, at least not for any more than we had in it, the first time we left so we rented it out for three years. I was able to return to my garden, and the triumphs and mistakes that came with it. I spent more hours eradicating English ivy than I care to admit. Honeysuckle, nandina, mint, mimosa trees. Catalogues called them exuberant, or easy, I knew very well they could be trouble, but I wasn't going to marry them-we were only going to date for a while.

Then a five year drought broke while the renters were in charge. With absolutely no attention the perennial border filled to bursting with daisies, the "dwarf" heather bolted to three feet tall and clematis climbed up the coach lamp pole cascading down in luminescent blue. By the time I returned to it, the rhododendron planted to screen the electric meter screened the entire side yard from the street. Sadly, I lost a Japanese Maple to a marauding beaver but its remaining twin grew into a lovely specimen, ready to receive an understory of blue quilted hosta divided and moved from another part of the yard. The front yard redbud was spectacular in its purple spring garb and glorious shade shielded our house from the afternoon sun. I don't miss the house at all, it was never my dream house, but I grieve for the garden.

Now that the Sago is in the ground, the Draecana moved, some liriope divided and moved, a day lily moved and the entire front border weeded I finally feel I can move on. Missing a couple hundred tulip bulbs and asiatic lilies is no excuse for neglecting what I do have. A butterfly garden will rise out of the neglected patch near our mail box. I will make a point of enjoying the hibiscus. I will flirt with orchid addiction. I will grow enough basil to eat pesto every night. I'll neglect my family in favor of trips to plant sales and gardens. I'll covet the antique plants of my neighbors and find myself knocking on strangers' doors to ask for cuttings or divisions. I'll trade home cooking for plants. I will love and grieve again, because I am a gardener.