Well, my annual futile attempt at having flower beds began today. I planted more bulbs and some wild flower seeds after digging as many of the indigenous, overpowering weeds from my flower bed as I could. I have the worst soil on the planet, and invasive weeds and indigenous grass from hell, but I am determined to have flowers to enjoy in my yard eventually. After 5 years of this dance, I at least have a handful of tulips and 6 Peonies that come up every year. Of course the Peonies only get about 9 inches high when they are supposed to get 3 feet tall and they have never bloomed, but hey! It’s a start. Oh! I do have a handful of wild flowers that I planted 8 years ago, that come up every year and they are getting thicker each year. LOL…. My grandfather would be embarrassed by my outcome, but proud of my persistence.
Growing up spending weekends with my grandparents, watching my grandfather grow anything he planted in his half acre backyard garden, he made it look so easy. Not that it didn’t look like hard work watching him stand out there digging and planting, roto-tilling, picking and pruning, but from the side lines it looked like all you had to do was plant what you wanted to eat, water it daily and wait until it was large enough to harvest. It wasn’t until I was grown and trying to grow tomatoes in Colorado clay and sand that I realized how much of an art form gardening is. My grandfather understood this. He was a farmer from Arkansas who had been raised tilling the soil and harvesting the rewards of his efforts from a very young age. I only wish I had picked up a few more of his tricks so that I could carry on his marvelous green thumb. I miss you Pappah.