Another Day in the Country
Too many tulips
© Another Day in the Country
It all began on a cloudy, rainy day in September. I comforted myself by watching “Gardeners’ World” on television. I couldn’t get outside because of the weather, so I watched someone else puttering around in the dirt.
Coincidentally, it was raining on the program, too, but the program still was so inspirational that I decided that I definitely needed more tulips in my garden. It must have been a spring show.
Even before the show was finished, I was spooling through flower bulbs on my smart phone.
Last winter, I got the tulip bug a little late in the season, and the ground froze before I had a chance to get all the bulbs planted. So, I ended up with bulbs in pots — which was less than satisfying.
I wish I had a greenhouse, but I have only a back porch that’s on the north side of the house, so it doesn’t really suffice as a pseudo-greenhouse. There’s not enough light. It works only as a sheltered spot for ferns and geraniums — if I’m lucky and a cold spell doesn’t last too long.
The last-minute tulips I planted outdoors did come up. But even 50 bulbs, which entailed a heck of a lot of digging in the cold, cold ground, looked sparse in the spring. I wanted more.
And then, I forgot all about tulips and began worrying about other things — like would I really try planting one of those Three Sisters gardens I’d been reading about and was it too early to plant those tomatoes, given that the weather was so unseasonably warm?
Gardening is supposed to be a relaxing hobby, a rejuvenating thing for the soul as well as the soil. But there are concerns. Luckily, they are seasonal.
In spring, the concern is whether I’m jumping the gun, planting something before the last frost has come.
Who can predict things like that? Frosts are fickle. They can stop in February and show up again in May.
In spring, I’m asking, “Will we have apples this year?” and “Will the lilac bushes really get a chance to bloom?”
Summer concerns are whether grasshoppers will show up in hordes and ravage my brand-new garden that is in full bloom.
Weather always is a concern if there are too many days over 100 degrees, and I wonder whether I am watering enough.
By the time September comes around, we’re on a roll. Regardless of whether there was a bumper crop, I’ve harvested the cabbage and made kraut for another year. Jars of tomatoes are lined up on the pantry shelf, and I’m a happy camper.
And then I start dreading the first frost of fall. It usually comes around Halloween. It will be sad to see the zinnias go; they’ve been so beautiful this year. The four o’clocks are getting leggy, but as the sun goes down, their fragrance permeates the porch.
“Breathe deeply,” I say to myself. “Enjoy them while they are here.”
Bulbs, in themselves, aren’t much to look at. It’s the promise they represent that hooks me.
“I promise,” they seem to say, “that in a couple of months I’ll surprise you — just when you need it most, after a really long cold spell, and you’re sick and tired of cold weather and dirty snow.”
Tulips are inspiring. Tulips are hopeful. Tulips bring a smile to my face just thinking about them.
When I ordered 200 tulip bulbs on a cloudy day a couple of weeks ago, I was opulently optimistic! I spent way over a hundred bucks at the click of a button and said, “Why not?”
“Yes, yes, and yes!”
I chose them at random: 50 mixed pastel tulips, 30 double late mixed tulips, 50 mixed triumphs.
I wasn’t thinking in precise terms as to where these tulips would go. It was the general idea — the vague hope for the future — that inspired me.
I didn’t even register how many six-inch-deep holes I’d need to be digging in dry, compacted, Kansas clay, or even where they all would go. I was just on a roll.
Why not get more daffodils, too? So, I threw in some narcissus paper whites and 50 Dutch master bulbs, and some grape hyacinth just for good measure.
The color combo of blue and yellow will be lovely come spring.
For 10 days, those bulbs have been sitting on a counter, calling to me. I haven’t made a move toward planting them.
All those sacks of potential spring beauty represent a lot of present-day digging.
It’s another day in the country, and I’ve been hope, hope, hoping for a little rain to soften things up a bit, but I’d better get started.
Where did I put that shovel?