05/13/2007

The View from Sunnybank

Queen (clean) for a day

By Dee Blair
Local columnist
dblair@
voyager.net

Read Dee's past columns here
Read Dee's Good Dirt blog

There are times when my family's peaceful afternoons are jolted as I holler, "Rubbish!” from my sofa nest.

I really enjoy reading about a flower's assets in attractive plant catalogs. Some descriptive comments, however, elicit unladylike noises from yours truly.

Here's a glowing description, for example, of the wonderful features of double impatiens ''busy lizzies'', one of my favorite annuals.

"Their layered blossoms are a delicate pink and white, and appear rose-like.” True.

"They are rarely bothered by insects or disease.” True.

"The plant enjoys part-sun to part-shade, and grows all season, its wonderful colors undimmed.” Also true.

"The blossoms fall away neatly, as this plant is self-cleaning, freeing up the gardener.”

WHAT??

Hoots of laughter follow this absurdity. Uh-huh. Diaper-less babies are self-cleaning, too. But the stuff doesn't fall far from the source, eh?

Plants do drop their personal waste, but it doesn't vanish. It lies in unsightly piles on the hapless plant's own foliage, or on the leaves and blossoms of neighboring plants, or on the garden floor, moldering, piling up and looking awful, like a baby without a diaper, or a minder.

I suppose if one doesn't mind the mess, one can look past it. It's mind over matter: If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.

But I do mind.

The fact is, if I ask a plant to grow, if I want it to look clean and neat, I must clean it. Work and gardens are inevitable, like death and taxes. Even '"LOW-maintenance” gardens aren't "NO-maintenance.” They all require down-and-dirty work, especially for the sort of garden I have.

I love to grow flowers; I enjoy their marvelous architecture; I love blending annuals and perennials, and daubing a bit of color and texture here and there to create a picture that pleases me. But the work associated with this endeavor is considerable. I must constantly clean up plant messes, every single day.

I must also stalk weeds, another haunt. Often visitors exclaim that "It's so clean in here; I can't see any weeds!”

Oh, they're around, all right. I crawl here and there, pouncing, but I never get them all. Weeds hope for complacency; they try all sorts of ingenious disguises to fool me, but I usually unmask and unseat them.

I'm frequently asked what chemicals seem the most effective, but I don't use them. They may deter the wretches for a small while, but, like TV ads or dirty dishes, weeds are always with us. Meanwhile miserable worms crawl away to unpoisoned soil, or cough and gasp where they are.

Fine, say you; I'll abandon weed terminators. But how about rolling out large swathes of black "weed inhibitor” material?

Well, now the gardener has a black, fabric-y barrier that, though buried, eventually peels away and shreds, leaving flapping ugliness.

Weeds, relishing the challenge, find chinks in freshly laid-out material (which is easy, because shovels regularly penetrate the fabric as gardeners plant unsuspecting new, upper crust residents). Then stealthy culprits cheerfully burrow in too, divide, and try to conquer.

Weeds are wily, but so is this vigilant minder. Eventually, chagrined to constantly find my hands around their necks before they can get a root-hold, they'll retreat. But they'll NEVER stop plotting and scheming.

Minders must be smarter than weeds, or plant catalogs. Hunter-hands, constancy, a pinch of salt for absurdities, and a big bucket are all proven weapons.

Attractive gardens are about detail. Weedy "dust bunnies,” garden bed bugs and sloughed-off "poop” will always be there, but if I am too, I win — for just that one day.

Dee Blair has cultivated her English secret garden at Sunnybank on Sixth Street in Traverse City for 15 years. Open to visitors in season, the garden is now closed. She can be reached care of the Record Eagle, or via e-mail at dblair@voyager.net. Also, see her blog, which often elaborates on columns, at http://blogs.record-eagle.com.