A Curious Kind of Life

Tag: gardening

  • I Bought Fall Asters. That’s As Far As We Got.

    I Bought Fall Asters. That’s As Far As We Got.

    So…I bought fall asters instead of mums.

    Don’t shoot me, mum-loving readers. 😂

    I love mums. I really do. They come in all kinds of colors, they make your curb appeal look all nice and fall-ish, and they look adorable with pumpkins and gourds.

    Except…I have no pumpkins.

    And no gourds.

    And no covered porch.

    So, there’s that.

    Anyway, I read somewhere that fall asters are better for attracting pollinators, and since I already have native asters growing in the garden, I figured, What’s the harm in adding a few more?

    Then I went to the garden center.

    And there were pollinators all over the asters.

    HOW FREAKING COOL IS THAT?!

    So naturally, I bought a few.

    I had a vision.

    I knew exactly where I was going to put them. I could already picture how darn fall-ish the garden was going to look.

    I brought them home, went into the garden, and randomly placed them in their pots where I thought they looked good.

    And they did look good.

    So…I stopped.

    🤣

    It has been raining a lot lately, which means those asters have now been sitting exactly where I put them for a few weeks.

    Untouched.

    Still blooming.

    And honestly?

    They’re doing just fine.

    The rain has also meant I haven’t had to go out and water the garden every afternoon, so I’m not complaining.

    Adulting is hard to comprehend sometimes. LOL.

    One minute you’re excited because you have pretty new plants for the garden.

    The next minute you’re standing there thinking, Thank God it rained so I don’t have to water anything.

    And somewhere along the way, my carefully imagined vision for where those asters were supposed to go has completely disappeared from my brain.

    Gone.

    Evaporated.

    Apparently filed under Things Past Me Thought Present Me Would Remember.

    Instead, my brain is busy with:

    What shall we have for dinner?

    What other fires do I need to put out at work?

    Dang, I’m so tired today. My brain is fried.

    You know. Life.

    Life is life-ing.

    Meanwhile, the asters are just sitting there waiting for me.

    The main group is all together, patiently waiting in their pots to be replanted.

    They are basically the most cooperative members of this entire gardening operation.

    They’re like, “No rush, ma’am. We’ll just be over here blooming.”

    And then there are the other two.

    The two scattered asters.

    🤣🤣🤣

    Those two have apparently decided they don’t need to be part of the group project.

    They’re just out there doing their own thing.

    No meeting.

    No agenda.

    No regard for the master plan.

    Meanwhile, Past Me had a VISION™ for all of them.

    Present Me has misplaced that vision somewhere between What’s for dinner? and What fresh work fire is this?

    So here we are.

    No pumpkins.

    No gourds.

    No beautifully styled fall porch.

    No strategically placed basket of blankets.

    Because, again, we don’t have a covered porch, and I’m pretty sure putting blankets outside in the rain would not be the cozy fall aesthetic I’m going for.

    Just asters.

    Some together.

    Two wandering around like they’ve gone rogue.

    And me, apparently in charge of Aster Management™.

    Exhibit A:The Main Group — patiently waiting together in their pots.
    Exhibit B:The Two Rebels — scattered somewhere else, apparently having resigned from the group project.

    For now, they’re blooming.

    The pollinators are happy.

    The garden is getting rain.

    I’m getting a little break from watering.

    And apparently, this is my fall decorating.

    🤣

    You know what?

    That’s okay.

    Sometimes you have a vision.

    Sometimes life has other plans.

    Sometimes you buy the flowers and that’s as far as you get.

    And sometimes the flowers are perfectly happy to wait for you to remember what the heck you were going to do with them.

    Life is life-ing.

    We’ll figure out the asters eventually.

  • What the Hell Did I Plant Here?

    What the Hell Did I Plant Here?

    Last autumn, I planted some native plant seeds because apparently there is a thing called cold stratification.

    Say that ten times.

    Cold. Stratification.

    Basically, some native plant seeds need a period of cold before they can germinate. Mother Nature apparently decided that simply being a seed wasn’t enough. They needed to spend some time freezing their little seed butts off first.

    So, being frugal here, I swapped some seeds with other people instead of going out and buying a bunch. I made sure those seeds were in the ground before the first frost of the year.

    Perfect.

    I had a plan.

    Well… sort of.

    If you’ve ever seen some native plant seeds, you know how ridiculously tiny they can be. We’re talking minute. Trying to space them properly is almost impossible. And because I didn’t have a whole lot of each variety to begin with, I figured I’d just scatter them where I wanted them and call it good.

    And then there was my second mistake.

    I thought, “I’ll remember what I planted.”

    I mean, come on. There weren’t that many seeds.

    I knew what I planted.

    I knew where I planted them.

    I would obviously remember.

    Pfft.

    So there I was, happily sowing my tiny little native plant seeds into the ground, completely unconcerned about labeling anything.

    Because why would I need labels?

    I was going to remember.

    Sure.

    And Then Spring Happened

    So here I am, looking at the space where I planted my seeds.

    Some were sprouting.

    Some weren’t.

    Which meant that, at first, my flower bed had these weird little bald spots where absolutely nothing seemed to be happening.

    Then the weather finally stayed consistently warm enough for me to clean up all the dried leaves from the previous season.

    And that’s when I started seeing more little plants popping up.

    Okay!

    We’re growing!

    Except…

    I stood there looking at the flower bed and thought:

    “Are these weeds, or are these the native plants I planted?”

    I had zero idea.

    Everything was coming up at once.

    There were tiny little plants everywhere, and I couldn’t tell which ones I had intentionally put there and which ones had apparently decided to move into my flower bed without paying rent.

    So I did what any responsible gardener would do.

    I left them all alone.

    😂

    I wasn’t about to pull out a perfectly good native plant just because I couldn’t remember what it looked like.

    So I watered them. I took care of them. I watched them.

    Basically, I became a responsible gardener to a group of plants whose identities I could not confirm.

    And then things got even more interesting.

    Because every so often, another plant would just shoot up.

    And I’d look at it and think…

    “What are you?”

    Were you here last year?

    Did I plant you?

    Did you just decide to show up?

    I honestly couldn’t remember seeing some of these plants being this big last year.

    And then one day, I’d look at something that was already ridiculously tall and think:

    “Like, what the heck, dude? It’s spring and you’re already as tall as me! WHAT ARE YOU?”

    At this point, my garden had basically become a mystery box.

    I planted native seeds.

    I apparently planted some things I remembered.

    I apparently planted some things I didn’t remember.

    And there were definitely some things growing that I was pretty sure I didn’t plant.

    Which brings me to the problem I had created for myself:

    I had absolutely no idea what I planted here.

    And Then Summer Happened

    So summer rolled around.

    And some of them were already blooming.

    FINALLY.

    And suddenly, I started remembering.

    “Oh! I know what you are!”

    That one had orange flowers. I remember you!

    And that one had yellow flowers!

    Ohhh, yeah. You’re a coneflower! I remember you now!

    It was like my garden was slowly handing me the answers to a test I had apparently forgotten studying for.

    But there were still some plants in there that I couldn’t quite figure out.

    Because, duh…

    They hadn’t bloomed yet.

    It’s summer, hello!

    Are you just going to grow and grow and grow and not bloom at all?!

    What exactly is your plan here?

    Your brothers and sisters are out there doing their thing, blooming, attracting bees and butterflies, feeding the bugs like they’re supposed to…

    And you’re just standing there.

    Growing.

    Taking up space.

    Getting taller.

    Doing absolutely nothing helpful for my memory.

    WHAT ARE YOU?!

    So, like any responsible gardener who has completely lost track of what she planted, I turned to Google.

    I took pictures.

    I uploaded them.

    And basically asked:

    “What is this?”

    Google came back with:

    Maybe an early sunflower?

    Okay.

    Maybe.

    And again:

    What is this?

    Looks like an aster.

    Okay… maybe.

    And that’s when I realized that I had somehow managed to create a garden where I was not entirely sure what was growing in it.

    But here’s the thing.

    I didn’t hate it.

    Actually, I kind of loved it.

    Because instead of knowing exactly what was going to happen, I had to wait.

    I had to watch.

    I had to see what grew, what bloomed, what attracted bugs, and what turned out to be something I had completely forgotten I planted.

    Every new flower became a little reunion.

    “Oh! I remember you!”

    And every plant that hadn’t bloomed yet?

    Well…

    You and I were still going to have a conversation.

    And Now We’re Nearly in Autumn

    And now we’re nearly in autumn.

    Some are still blooming.

    Some have already lost their blooms.

    Some were completely devoured by the bugs—which, honestly, is exactly what I wanted to happen.

    Some are still in the process of blooming, taking their sweet time while I stand there wondering when they’re finally going to show me what they are.

    And apparently…

    I planted a whole bunch of asters.

    Yes.

    That’s what they are.

    Now that they’ve finally started showing themselves, I can recognize them.

    Of course I can.

    Where was this knowledge when I needed it in the spring?!

    Don’t get me wrong. There are still plants out there that I have absolutely no idea what they are.

    And you know what?

    I’m okay with that.

    They’re growing.

    They’re blooming when they’re ready.

    They’re getting eaten by bugs.

    They’re attracting pollinators.

    They’re becoming part of the little ecosystem I’ve been trying to create in my garden.

    So I leave them alone.

    I don’t need to know the name of every single plant growing in my flower bed.

    Apparently, I just need to know enough to know when not to pull it out.

    And maybe that’s the funny thing about this whole experiment.

    I started with a bunch of tiny seeds, a vague memory of where I planted them, and an unreasonable amount of confidence that I would remember what everything was.

    I didn’t.

    Not even close.

    But somehow, it worked.

    The plants came up.

    Some I recognized immediately.

    Some took months to introduce themselves.

    Some required Google.

    And some are still keeping their identities a secret.

    But they’re all doing something.

    They’re growing. They’re blooming. They’re feeding the bugs. They’re attracting pollinators. They’re filling in those bald spots I worried about in the spring.

    And next year?

    I’ll probably label everything.

    Probably.

    No, not really. I know myself. I won’t label them.

    Because then, next spring, I get to experience the exact same kind of chaos all over again.

    No growth. No lesson learned. Just flowers.😂

  • The garden I didn’t know I was growing

    The garden I didn’t know I was growing

    I’m the type of person who doesn’t like to just see grass—I know, I know, unpopular opinion—but I love flower beds. The less I—or I should also say, my husband—mows, the better.

    I just don’t want to see a sea of green.

    I want colors. I want flowers. I want bugs flying around. I want butterflies. I want birds stopping by. I want it to feel alive.

    So here we were in a new house about four years ago, and it was a blank slate.

    Perfect!

    I can do whatever I want.

    I didn’t have any grand flower-bed plans in mind. I just knew I wanted to transform one section of the yard into a garden.

    The area I chose was a downhill slope on the side of our driveway. For the most part, it was sunny. Perfect. I could plant my Asiatic and Oriental lilies, hydrangeas, coneflowers, Black-eyed Susans, and whatever else caught my eye.

    I looked at Pinterest posts on how I should plant everything.

    Tall ones in the back. Shorter ones in the front.

    Got it.

    So my husband and I tilled the area, and then came the fun part: planting.

    My son and I planted the lily and gladiolus bulbs, then we bought some starter plants to put in the middle and front of the garden.

    Now, I don’t know about some ladies going to garden centers, but I go in there with a list in my mind.

    And once I’m there, I get so overwhelmed with all my choices that I come home with more than what’s on my list.

    And if I’m being completely honest, the plants on my list aren’t even the things I end up buying.

    So here they are, stuck with me.

    One of the things I’ve learned is that no matter how gorgeous lupines are, they will not grow in my yard.

    I tried them one year, and sadly, they didn’t come back the next year.

    I didn’t know what I did—or didn’t do—but I guess I just had to accept that, sadly, lupines weren’t meant for my yard.

    Then there were the lilies.

    One thing I didn’t anticipate was that some lilies can grow as tall as six feet, while others stay around two or three feet.

    Did I take that into consideration while my son and I were planting the bulbs?

    No.

    Of course not.

    So here they are, all coexisting beside each other, with some as tall as my husband and others short enough to be closer to my height.

    So much for tall ones in the back and short ones in the front.

    And that’s really how this garden began.

    Not with a carefully designed plan. Not with a perfectly coordinated color palette or a detailed planting map.

    Just a blank space, a shovel, a whole lot of enthusiasm, and a tendency to come home from the garden center with plants I never intended to buy.

    But somewhere along the way, something changed.

    I started paying more attention to what was happening in the garden.

    I noticed the butterflies.

    The bees moving from flower to flower.

    The birds visiting.

    The little creatures I had never really thought much about before.

    And eventually, I became especially interested in monarchs and native plants.

    I started thinking less about simply filling my garden with pretty flowers and more about creating a place where something could actually live.

    A place that could provide food for caterpillars, nectar for butterflies and bees, and a little bit of shelter for the creatures that make a garden feel alive.

    My garden is far from perfect.

    There are plants that didn’t make it. Plants that grew much bigger than I expected. Areas that don’t get enough sun. Areas that get too much water. And plenty of things I’m still trying to figure out.

    But I think that’s what makes gardening interesting.

    A garden is never really finished.

    There is always something to learn, something unexpected to discover, and occasionally, something that comes back when you were sure it wouldn’t.

    So that’s what I’ll be sharing here.

    Not a perfectly landscaped garden, but a garden in progress.

    I’ll share the plants I’m growing, the butterflies and other visitors that find their way here, the things I’m learning about native plants and creating a more welcoming habitat, and, undoubtedly, some of my gardening mistakes along the way.

    Because if I’ve learned anything in these past four years, it’s that gardening doesn’t always go according to plan.

    And maybe that’s the best part.

    What started as a simple attempt to get rid of some grass has turned into something I never really expected—a little corner of the world that feels more alive every year.

    And I think that’s a pretty good place to begin.

    How it started