In the garden

And so I have spent time in the garden. Yesterday I mowed the lawn because today we were expecting rain. Today, after the rain, I attacked the White Ginger. It grows like Bamboo (which is a noxious weed here in Australia because it has no natural enemy other than a good dose of Round-up and heavy labour to dig the *&%@ stuff out), spreading out and notoriously difficult to get rid of. The wet soil made it so much easier.

This is unlike me. I am, and freely confess to being, botanically-challenged. What looks to me like a weed, may not be; what I think is pretty, might be a weed. I can remember plants that I think are interesting – for any reason – but unlike my siblings who can remember even the Latin names, dull, run-of-the-mill names go in one ear and out the other.

I love Daffodils and Snowdrops and Freesias but can only remember Babianas by thinking of them as Babylonias.

This year, the McCartney Rose is splendiferous. We’ve been lucky: at this time of year, we get howling sea gales and the blooms can’t hold on, scattering like snow across the street. We also get people stopping by for a cutting; some ask nicely and chat for a while. Others simply break off a cane and run for it. There are plenty of blooms for everyone, and I’m happy to cut some. But. According to an uncle of mine, the best growing plants are the ones that are nicked.

I certainly don’t begrudge the nickers; I’m of the firm belief that flowers are to be enjoyed by all as long as you don’t offend the owner of the garden.

I remember when I first lived in Canberra and the Daffodils came out. I walked down the street, heading into the city, and admiring the spring blooms. I came across a beautiful garden, with a low fence. The Daffodils were gorgeous with full trumpets and an alluring perfume. I looked left and right to make sure no-one was looking and then hopped the fence for a sniff.

I hadn’t checked hard enough and a middle-aged woman popped her head up from across the garden where she’d been weeding. “Excuse me?” She called.

Me, I was barely out of my teens and flushed scarlet with guilt and pleasure. “Ahh… just admiring your Daffodils.” I said hesitantly, expecting a serve of vitriol.

She pointed a trowel at me. “Well, thank you for that, but could you admire from the other side of the fence?”

I can laugh about it now, but then, I was mortified, simply… gaahhh. So I don’t begrudge people admiring the rose; nor do I bitch and moan about them taking a piece. It’s a beautiful rose, why not spread the lurve?