Garden, Gardener, Gardening

I like the word garden.

I don’t like the words “gardener” or “gardening,” as in “I’m a gardener” or “I like gardening.” It reminds of those Bree Van DeKamp, Connecticut housewife types that say they like gardening, but manage to keep their gloves pristine and fingernails in tact. They wear delicate straw hats, cutesy aprons and never seem to break a sweat. Their roses are remarkable. And, Japanese beetle, is never a word in their vocabulary.

Desperate housewife, I am not. Expert gardener, I am not, and every year, I dig back in anyway. And when I “garden,” I end up wearing dirt like it’s a second skin. I barely know how to take care of the roses I have. I still mourn the loss of perennials planted one season, never to return. I still haven’t determined if gardening is a hobby or a contact sport.

Yes, I like to garden. Love, actually. I never thought I would be the type to love gardening. It was never something I did growing up. Perhaps home ownership brought it out in me. Or, Martha Stewart. There’s just something about taking soil into your own hands (literally) to produce something of beauty. Something appreciated by friends and neighbors. I’m sure my neighbors would appreciate me a lot more if I could get certain areas of the yard under control, but I digress…

Spring is back and so am I. Making up my own rules, learning from my mistakes and creating my own expertise.