Monday, April 02, 2007

Garden of Delights

I believe I will me made whole when I once again fully embrace all the hobbies I practiced as a twelve-year-old. My latest rediscovery is gardening.

Childhood forays into the pastime included the construction of a "Japanese" garden in the middle of a pasture, replete with stone steps, a bamboo patch, and rock outcroppings. (The sheep eventually ate the bamboo.) But—due to the complex whirring and clicking of some inner-clockwork I don't entirely understand—gardening fell by the wayside and suffered a two-decade-plus period of neglect. (Drawing, cooking, and geekery all experienced similar dry spells.)

Now though—as part of our post-diluvian zeal for all things domestic—we have thrown ourselves headlong into the glorious world of flora. I spent the weekend trekking back and forth to nurseries, digging countless holes, mulching, watering, weeding, and pruning. (And I have the sore muscles and farmer's tan to prove it.) To the previously planted weeping willow, red-leaf plum, angel's trumpet, oleander, irises, and confederate jasmine we've added a bottle brush, two crepe myrtles, a bird of paradise, a variety of variegated grasses, and three types of bamboo. (I have something of a bamboo fetish.) And we're not done yet.*

I must say, I prefer it to the off-brown "flood and construction chic" we were previously sporting.

* One of the weirder aspects of this reconstruction has been the massive scale of everything we do. I thought this sort of wholesale blank-canvas domestic makeover was the exclusive domain of home-improvement TV shows and bored wives of the super-rich.

4 comments:

  1. 1) More info on bamboo fetish?

    2) Whatever happened to Joe? Haven't seen him since January!

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  2. We can lend you some sheep to eat this bamboo, also!!!

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  3. Am I at Lisa's blog?

    Oh...only delights. No "irks".

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  4. That would be "crape myrtles", not "crepe myrtles". (I like my crepe myrtles with butter and a sprinkling of sugar.)

    As for the bamboo fetish, if you're expecting me to say that I like to be vigorously spanked with a bamboo cane while wearing a pair of bare-cheeked chaps, you'll be sorely (har!) disappointed. I just like bamboo. A lot. Hence the three varieties: some sort of little two-foot dwarfy thing for a bit of a hedge, ten-foot-ish "Golden Goddess" (what a name) to the side of porch to add some visual interest, and the really huge stuff in the back to blot out the hulking form of Baptist Hospital.

    As a wee lad—for whatever reason (this was somehow tangled up in the aforementioned Japan-o-philia)—I liked to imagine having a hideout deep in the heart of a towering bamboo forest. Now, with the acquisition of my very own massive stand of Oldham's/Giant Timber Bamboo (that picture is weird, by the way), I've achieved a modest approximation of my youthful fantasy. Or rather will achieve. Right now the Giant Timber isn't really so giant—it's actually absurdly puny. But give it time. Give it time!

    Is that sufficient?

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