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Growing Trust in the Garden

© Kate Berry

Gardeners are, by nature, a little more obsessive than your average folks. We simply are not content to leave Mother Nature entirely unassisted in her tasks. We help in the growing process, pruning branches, pinching off terminal ends. We select plants that She would not choose for our climates. We hybridize to route out "undesirable" traits. We water through droughts, mulch through a hard freeze, fertilize faithfully, and glibly decree certain plants as so loathsome that they should be forever known as "weeds." Gardeners are, in short, control freaks.

I'll admit, I am no exception. Perhaps I'm even worse than most. Those who love me describe me as a "Type-A" personality. The truth is, they're being kind. I confront my garden armed with planting diagrams of what goes where and checklists of monthly chores. I have a database of every plant I've ordered, from which company, and how the plant fared in my garden. All of this is cross-referenced with my planting diagram so I know exactly what plant came from which company, and can decide whether to order from them again. There's a word to describe control freaks like me... but I'll not repeat it in polite company.

Perhaps, because I'm a control freak, I've been overly zealous about protecting my garden from certain predictable dangers. Have you seen the commercials in which a woman requires collateral before allowing the use of her treasured Tupperware? That's nothing compared to the screening process for entering my garden.

I did not start off that way. I initially hoped that my garden would be an extension of our home, where we would entertain guests at a dining table by the pond. Where we'd spend "couple time" on lazy Sundays walking arm in arm on winding paths, picking blossoms and talking in romantic hushed tones. I envisioned my husband lounging with a glass of iced tea under the shade of a spreading maple, while I deadheaded roses with my dog and cat in adoring attendance at my feet.

But then my dog uprooted dozens of daffodil bulbs and my cat decided that my daisies made a nice, comfortable bed. I hastily solved the dog problem with a sturdy white picket fence. As for the cat, let's just say I've become a sharpshooter with the garden hose. Meanwhile, since Hubby crushed my delphiniums with several haphazard footsteps, eradicated a bed of seedlings in the mistaken belief they were "weeds," and overturned his wheelbarrow not once, but twice, on top of my roses, his privileges were revoked as well.

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