For the past decade or so, I’ve not had the chance to garden. And I’m one of those people who (perhaps due to a terrible memory) claim to love to garden. When Michael and I were looking for our home it was Autumn and the raucous wild nature of the South was ebbing away. We were very enthusiastic about wanting a yard. And when we stumbled upon the home we live in a big reason why we chose it was because it has a secret garden up hill from the backyard and lots and lots of green. Green, woodsy goodness, right?
And now it is full on Spring in Atlanta. Those of you that are familiar will know what that means— pollen, sure. But also a daily discovery of something new blooming. Azaleas are in full force. Dogwoods, redbuds, pear, and all of it changes the ride to work daily. It’s gorgeous. A gardener’s delight.
And then there is the yard. That lovely thing we wanted so badly. A lot of it is our impractical procrastination of things. We didn’t have a lawn mower before the rains started. Now we do. And it is still quietly locked up in the barn waiting for the rain to stop. Our yard is over a half a foot tall of weeds that are really thriving in the mists and fog and rain of the past week. I’m beginning to wonder when the county is going to fine us for having an unkempt front yard.
And the secret garden? Even after removing several dead trees and about a ton of unwanted privet— it’s still very secret and is going to be a complete beast to control. Seriously, there are ivy vines out there thicker than my wrists. We can swing on them like Tarzan.
So real gardening may not happen for a while. Sure, when the weather allows we may slightly tame some of the tendrils and tidy the wild. But the wait is real and the rains keep coming.
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