You know how in the neighborhood you grew up in there was always that one lady who was a sick gardener? She’d be out there first thing in the morning, her nightie flapping around her legs and she’d stay out way past the mosquitos. Her gardens were magnificanet testimonies to greenery and sunlight. She grew all her own vegetables and handed you fresh pea pods as you walked by. In the quest for more acreage, she rototilled her front lawn, put in a picket fence, and planted tomatoes. (If you grew up in my neighborhood in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, sometimes this lady also wandered around slack-jawed with a butcher knife. But that’s another story.)
I’m not this lady in my neighborhood, but I’m getting close. Everywhere I look I see something to dig. And everything I think is a small project turns into an all-day affair. Yesterday I planned on transplanting a few orphaned hostas, but that turned into creating a new perennial bed altogether.
Today I headed into the backyard to plant the basil and ended up making (or trying to make) a little kitchen herb garden.
Now I need more seeds and I’m beginning to think that my driveway is really in the way.