strike that

itching

The insides of my arms from wrists to elbows are a mess of hot pink angry splotches, because this weekend I was attacked by bedstraw. I guess, more accurately, I was the attacker. I pulled it out by the armful. Pulling bedstraw is very satisfying because it clings to its neighbors like velcro, but then comes free all at once in long sticky tendrils. It rolls into mean bundles that bite your arms on the way to the yard waste bin.

I know that there are more critical things to fix about my house. The plumbing, for example. The framing. The insulation. Things that would make it a safer, easier, more pleasant place to live. But the sun comes out and I can hear the weeds growing. I’ve already missed my window for planting peas. The garden isn’t waiting for me to get my shit together.

May, who lived in what is now my house for approximately as long as I have been alive, put a lot of work into the small amount of land that surrounds it. It’s a third of a tax lot; a twentieth of an acre. But the back was built for vegetables – raised beds, fertile soil, enviable solar access - and the front is in endless bloom. Each time I think I’ve fully inventoried the green, something new and unexpected shoots up: grape hyacinth, trillium, fringecup, columbine. This kind of garden doesn’t happen on its own. A few months of neglect could ruin years of May’s work.

So yesterday, back from a weekend of playing with Operaman and his kids, I pulled on my ladybug boots and dove in. Late showers have made things muddy and lush. It took two hours just to clear the invasive geraniums, whose poky red stems were choking my bleeding hearts. I raked the newly built compost bin. I filed and oiled my Felcos.

And this week, maybe, I’ll finally get around to calling someone about the sewer. But for sure I’ll sink the pole beans in, and the carrots, and the cukes. For sure I’ll cut back the butterfly bush. It’s still gray and wet but it’s spring one way or another.

posted by tortaluga @ 12:20 PM