It’s official: I am obsessed with planting and plants right now.
I like flowers. I think that’s kind of obvious if you’ve ever taken a gander at my Flickr pictures. Flowers are beautiful. They are also just what I talked about in yesterday’s entry– make no mistake. But I just love them and love knowing more about them and like to attempt to grow them.
I guess we’re all works in progress, just like plants. I am a very amateur gardener, only impaired by my sloth and forgetfulness, because more than one poor innocent plant has succumbed thanks to my steady diet of neglect and lack of water, combined with little sun. Oh and root rot– how I hate thee, and yet how I aid and abet thee too.
Right now, in between catering to Herr Meow and his burning desire to be melded into one happy, sweet, forceful-petting union with Mademoiselle Gracie –who really does not want to partake in his overtures–
I am happy to report that my outdoor planter (of which I had mentioned nary a thing until today) is sporting three happy little lavender crocuses. My little baby Trader Joe’s rose seems to have a bloom in the way. The two Alberta spruces I repotted are happily growing, and so is the basil I bought a while back– presumably to use it up within the day, but I couldn’t bear to part with it when it actually started to thrive. The little cheap ivy I keep on the shady side of the house is thriving, and two little blueberry plants are waiting to be planted, along with three roses we got through Jackson & Perkins. They are three climbers, and are sitting outside, soaking in some lovely water, waiting to sink their little roots into the soil, and I am excited. Rose gardening has its ungrateful moments (especially when you get pricked by those spines), but those are always rewarded with sweet blooms and lovely aromas. Plus, some of the happier memories in my life are associated with working, playing in, and tending gardens. My grandmother had some unfortunate red roses she babied like nothing else, and which rewarded her with an astounding amount of suckers, spines, and nasty fungi on the leaves (Bogota is not good rose weather and my grandmother was kind of a lousy gardener); she didn’t give up on them, I don’t think, until we moved away and the roses stayed behind in their unhappy little rose ennui.
Ah. Roses. Flowers. Spring.
A chance to grow something from scratch, and do things right .
The roses are already in trouble.