The new year always makes me restless, and I take it out on my garden. It has been warm-ish and wet this first week of 2020, and I decided that some of my plants would (probably) survive being moved. Time will tell.
I moved the big pink climbing rose from its spot by the fence under the neighbor’s spreading untidy mess of weed trees and honeysuckle, where it was getting too little sun, and to the bed at the foot of the garden. Other things had to move to make room, and domino like a dozen plants were evicted and re-homed.
The rose needed a support, and so I built one from trimmed crepe myrtle branches. I learned that crepe myrtle is an incredibly hard wood and will break your drill bits. Lots of them.
Now we wait. I may come to see this as the Plant Massacre of January 2020, the day my restlessness and impatience killed innocent plant life. Or not. I told my mom yesterday that one of the reasons I love to garden is both the life and the death, the growing and the fading away. I’m not sure there is any need to actually orchestrate the dying, though – there seems to be enough of that as it is.
A Gardener's Lot 