Guilty as charged. My kids have said I obsess about my garden. Well, I’ve been worse. But here is the latest example.  This past week it finally occurred to me that the pain I was feeling all last week was not, in fact, back strain from digging in the garden. It was, uh… kidney problems. Yeah, the throbbing pain was in an internal organ, not a back muscle. Well, dang. That means the inconvenience of doctors and tests and meds….

However. What it does NOT mean is that I have to be careful with my back, and that means I can work in my garden! When my husband came home Monday evening to find me on my hands and knees in the front garden with piles of winter garden debris around me, he said, “Your back must be feeling better, huh?” I answered, “No, not really.” And he just shook his head.

What’s kidney pain when you can be out in the garden getting it ready for Spring? “I’m saving lives here!” I said. “Look, my Daydream Tulips were all but choked by the Evening Primrose. I just hope I got to them in time!”

My garden has Evening Primrose that spreads like weeds. It’s really obnoxious. But, it is so pretty, and showy and cheerful — like a child who a mother might characterize as “high spirited.” So, I just try to keep it from stepping all over its brothers and sisters in the garden.

Right now, the daffodils and grape hyacinth are up and cheering. Grecian windflowers are lounging around looking stunning with their startling purple against winter-weathered mulch. Tulips are pushing up and are still in tight buds. The ones at the edge of the garden have leaves that have been chewed by deer. The gladiator allium greens have sprouted, but no stalks yet. And there’s promise of a riot of color in a matter of weeks, because there’s also the 8 inch tall peony stalks, iris, lilies, delphinium and flax. I can hardly wait.

Over it all is a stately weeping cherry tree who stands there in all her early glory announcing the change of season, and taking up her place in the “order of things.” “Hello, dear garden estate,” she seems to say. “I announce that Spring is here. I want you all to know that I am here. I spread my branches and behold, my blossoms are beautiful, are they not? Don’t fret, my companions, all will be fine. Spring is here. I have ushered it into this lovely place, and I will stand here as an example to you, with my pink petals quivering in the wind. I will hold vigil here, and wait for you until you are ready to blossom as well.”

She’s so showy. And of course, as soon as the rest of the garden starts to “pop” and compete with her, she will pout, drop all her petals in a show of exasperation, and then muscularly cover her branches in a serene dense green. She will re-gain her sense of importance and duty, however, when I drag my hammock under her protection, and lie there, cool and refreshed, looking up into her branches and tell her how pretty she is, and thank her for her service. I for one won’t forget how she stood there exclaiming joy and beauty while we waited for the redbuds and dogwoods to catch up. I am especially fond of her.








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