Yard work is not my favorite

Here we go. Spring has finally sprung. Maybe. The grass is growing like mad. So are the weeds. As I write this, where there used to be hostas, a sea of clover has sprung up this spring. Where in the world did that come from? Granted, it’s a pretty shade of green. But it’s a weed, right? And what happened to the hosta? No, it wasn’t deer, otherwise they’d have chewed off the tulip that lives nearby.

Is it safe yet to plant my annuals? I think it was Dick Goddard, RIP, who used to advise us not to plant until all danger of frost was passed, usually around Memorial Day. But garden clubs and nurseries are pushing their wares now, and the weather people are predicting a heat wave. What’s a person with a trowel and dreams of color in the backyard to do? To plant or not to plant, ’tis a quandary.

And aren’t all those hanging baskets and flats of marigolds just calling your name? You can almost hear them. “Choose me. Take me home. Plant me. Water me. Feed me. Prune me. Keep the deer off me. Do all that and maybe I’ll give you a moment to sit down and enjoy having me around for a few weeks.” “Maybe” being the key word here. There are no promises in Ohio. We all know that.

No one has ever accused me of having a green thumb, but if nothing else gets planted, I feel it’s up to me to get our traditional red geraniums, white petunias and blue ageratum to adorn my parents’ gravesite in time for the village parade to pass by on Memorial Day. Yes, it’s work, but I must admit to a sense of satisfaction when we give it a final drink of water and a layer of dark mulch. Bring on the marching band. My work is done here.

Of course, when all is said and done, there are always a few petunias left over, and since my hands are dirty and my knees are good for another hour or so, we might as well plant them in our own backyard. One thing leads to another, and we’re off to the mulch store again. Those bags of mulch just don’t go very far these days, do they?

When shopping for plants, I find it hard to limit myself and not bite off more than I can handle at one time. Often, what looks like enough plants for a full Better Homes and Gardens English garden surprisingly is never quite enough to fill all the bare spots in my yard. That’s when I think I should either let the whole place revert to nature’s whims or try my hand at perennials.

One of my problems with perennials is my inability to recognize them when they are in the process of coming back the next year, and until they bloom, I have trouble telling the difference between them and weeds. Maybe that’s what happened to the Shasta daisies I planted many years ago. I think they came back one season, and that was the end of them. However, I have noticed what I think is a black-eyed Susan plant that has escaped her boundaries and now grows out of control in the surrounding grass until my man on the mower, Ol’ Bill, comes along. Problem solved.

One plant that did well and kept returning was a morning glory that twined itself around a lamppost for several years. That is, until I found she was sending shoots out to nearby shrubs next to the sunroom that somehow offered a surface to latch onto, and we were about to find ourselves draped in runaway morning glories. They were lovely on the lamppost, but this business of running amok had to be stopped.

When I find that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I’m hiring me a yard boy!