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I was never The Master Gardener in my previous life. I always loved the garden and had distinct ideas about what was swoon-worthy (tangled drifts of blue and white flowers; nothing too contrived; no tight dots of military arranged begonias). However, the reality was, I placed no real value on my own contributions and it was simpler to pass the reigns to my husband as he strutted through the garden with Napoleonic control, instinctively knowing what should go where and why certain colours were superior to others. My role (which we joked about frequently and the word “navvy” was often playfully supplied) was to clear out the weeds, bag and bundle the branches he tossed aside and make sure there was a pitcher of martinis and an elegant meal ready at the end of the day.
When he left and I found myself alone with the garden, I felt intimidated and childish. Ashamed as well and then angry that I was ashamed. I also felt paralyzed, afraid of making expensive mistakes I could not afford to make. Of course, I read as much as I could, and asked friends for advice (and divisions!) but there was also the sheer size of the garden to deal with- as soon as one part was tamed, another would spring out of control. Seemingly overnight, an elegant but huge bamboo installed beside the pond – and not by me, friends – multiplied into a swaying, evil grove, twelve feet high and ultimately pierced the lining. Even with a crowbar and my entire body strength, the root system could not be moved from the ground. Every day when I came home from work I fretted and tried to win against it, once staying outside till it was 10pm and ending up weeping on the grass. After that, someone recommended a landscape person, just starting out, who might want to take it on. When I watched them arrive – as if in slow-motion – two women, both with machetes strung low across their waists I cannot even say the relief I felt. What they did, worked and I will never forget the simple revelation that I can always find the right person to help.
Nowadays, the garden is still a big task, often still overwhelming but I try not to hear the smug, amused voices in my head, asking why I would do a certain thing, why I have chosen flowers in garish colours better suited to a circus (answer: because I like them) or why I haven’t got around to dividing the water lilies in 10 years …
The General is not a gardener himself and he tells me this daily, sometimes hourly, in a warning, worried voice, because he incorrectly thinks that I expect him to be like The Master Gardener I used to be with. He does not seem to realize that this lack of interest is a fantastic arrangement because he never judges anything I do in the garden (or elsewhere for that matter) and although he is supportive and feigns interest, he does genuinely believe that everything I plant is a snapdragon. Last week I bought a few just so he could be right some of the time! He has also been building a gleaming yellow pathway for us out of some abandoned house bricks he found and although he insists that, (like when he cuts the grass and trims bushes) this is not gardening (because that is something he does not do), we now have a magical curve at the end of the lot that shines like butter after it rains.
So, you have your very own Yellow Brick Road, then? I am so envious!
Well yes – and it is beautiful! Sans flying monkeys too which is a bonus
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Isn’t it interesting how we divide the tasks we are responsible for in a marriage/relationship? Until recently, I didn’t have to think about putting gas in my car or changing lightbulbs. The Ex didn’t have to think about dentist appointments or tax returns (and five million other things that he’s just discovering now!). Two days ago I replaced my first light fixture without electrocuting myself. And I even replaced all the burnt out bulbs while I had the ladder out!