Garden Whisperer

I am not one of those people who devotes hours to gardening once summer comes. We have a nice yard, smallish, and I try to add a jot of color for the summer. We moved in 22 years ago, and before I could blink, Steve had commandeered a pool company to fill most of the grassy area with a large, rectangular pool. There is not a tremendous amount of land left to tame, and so I approach the space in an erratic, Janet pleasing way.


When my boys graduated from college, I used their school colors to anchor my theme. I used purple and white for Pat, orange and blue for Mike (very hard, and not as easy on the eye as I might have wished) and red and blue for Matt. It is an extremely random gardener that selects plants based on universities. This year I am experimenting with a monochromatic theme. I am after a Zen experience. In fact, am copying my sister’s garden from last year. I saw pictures of her beautiful back yard- the back yard I grew up in, in point of fact, and I decided to poach her idea of using discipline in selecting my plants. Which one color would Steve like me to use, I asked. Blue, he replied. Oops. There are not enough different blue flowers for me to “paint” my garden with. Pink is rich with possibilities. And I can add a bit of white. Done.


So I filled the SUV with all sorts of pink and pinkish stuff, and for the last few weeks, I have been transforming my yard, in search of peace. Mind you, I am only one lawn ornament away from being Granny on Beverly Hillbillies.



I have embellished my yard with Steve’s pee-pee boy from It’s Too Early, and though the boys plugged his equipment with sticks years ago, so he no longer flows, he is illuminated with his own light.I have a gryphon gazing upon a bowling ball. Steve hates that bowling ball. There are a few random trellises with morning glories and moonflowers twining upward- I check them every morning to see their new shoots- it amazes me that 3-4 inches appears magically overnight. I have a concrete fountain/birdbath, assorted wind chimes and strings of mirror tiles to reflect and refract the light. The crowning glory is my gazebo- Janet’s folly. I thought I would sit inside it, gazing out at my yard, bug free. Instead, I store the cushions for the patio furniture. I’m going to work on this. At any rate, it is a challenge to create Zen in such a yard.

Plus, I cheated and snuck in a run of blue ageratum for Steve.

Last week I was schlepping, and cultivating and plopping flowers in the ground while Matt lollygagged with his dog, Walter. Then Matt came upon a bird- injured, peeping from the corner of the yard. His St. Francis of Assisi kicked in, and he spent hours attempting to assist it. He dribbled water in its pleading mouth, and before long, he had me digging up worms. Note to birders: baby birds cannot eat worms unless their moms mash them up. I was the pessimist, warning him of the inevitable demise of such a creature. If it could not fly, it would die, I warned, a la Johnny Cochran. It was Nature’s thinning of the herd. But Matt’s reversion to the sweet animal lover warmed my heart. It was like seeing him back in his Osh Kosh days. He sailed off to softball, content with his efforts.

The next morning, I surveyed my moon flowers with a guarded look at the corner- the bird was gone. Dead, I thought. I was wrong. Somehow, Bird Mom had relocated Junior to my window well. Junior could not fly, but hopped around peeping like crazy. For the next few days, that mother bird hovered nearby, pecking for worms, and delivering them to Junior. The extended family chirped encouragement from the trees above. It was a very work intensive life for Ma, but Junior became stronger, and was able to hop up onto the window ledge. I could not resist adding a little cup of water when the weather turned hot, and a nest of sparkle yarn for a bed, when it cooled. I put a little metal shelter in the corner to provide some shade. I worried that its claws would tangle in the yarn- I actually lost sleep. For its part, Junior ate and pooped- birds are really messy. But I could not stop worrying about my patient. Maternal instincts are embedded.

I don’t think my story has a happy ending. Yesterday my window well was empty, and there was a euphoric moment where I believed Junior had winged away. I looked up at the tree, expecting to see a small bird peeping its thanks. I started to clean the window well, discarding the water and hosing the ledge of its souvenir droppings. And I found a sliver of feathered wing. I am not sure a bird could fly without this section. In Janet World, the bird has been relocated, and is learning to overcome its amputation. In the real world, a cat or raccoon probably had brunch. (update..I think I saw Mama trying to teach hop-a-long to fly. That’s my story and I am sticking to it)

With my house guest gone, I cultivated the dirt by the window well and planted a bed of Zen pink impatience. I planted all remaining garden stock in a burst of purpose. The front porch was spruced up. Flowers were watered, walks swept, fountain treated with chemicals and dog run washed down. Bird Hotel Janet will now attempt to turn her attention to cleaning the gazebo and figuring out a place for the grapevine balls with twinkle lights that are currently dangling from the cross beams of Janet’s folly. Maybe I will find time to experience Zen. But I am also considering covering the bowling ball with mosaic tiles and grouting it. Peace is elusive in my yard.