Unfortunately, dirt soft enough to work its way under my nails is hard to come by in winter. In fact, looking out my window now I can't see any dirt. I see snow. I see bare branches. I see nothing that looks inviting.
Nothing, that is, except my chaise longue in the living room, next to the roaring fire. That chaise is where I garden in winter. The gardens I create there surpass in scope and splendor anything Gertrude Jekyll ever designed. And they are done in absolute comfort. They are paper gardens.
These gardens begin with the arrival of the first seed catalog. I read it gravely, pencil in hand, checking off everything that looks interesting, I always carefully make a mental note of where I might place the plant in question before checking it. No need to go off on a buyer's fantasy spree. I do this for every seed catalog that arrives. Then I get my trusty note-pad and start to write my choices down. I make a note of which catalog offers it, and the price. This allows me to comparison shop.
Soon after the seed catalogs come the plant catalogs. I go through the same procedure here. I try to be very disciplined. If there is no room in my shade garden I try not to be tempted by that gorgeous new host--unless it's really special and an absolute steal I make note of all my choices. I note price, light requirements, size, height, color, and make little jottings about where this new acquisition would go.
This is where the garden designs get grand. Those catalogs are wish books. Until you actually place the order, all things in them are possible. You see a gorgeous rose bush that would look splendid rambling down your hillside and make a check. And that variegated hydrangea would really brighten up the dark green yews. And wouldn't those freckled violets look smashing tumbling over the rocks that edge the bed? And how about some bright blue delphinium this year instead of the safe white ones?
The only problem is that when the next catalog comes, you do the same thing. Relieved of the necessity of actually spending money and digging holes, you cover that rose arbor several times, and overburden that rock wall with about 5 plants per dirt pocket. In your mind it all works out, and your paper garden is a happy profusion of color and scent, minus weeds or the problem of plants strangling each other in their exuberance. We are gardening; we are dreaming. These are the most perfect gardens we will ever have.
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