My grandmother’s thumbs were green, her arms were strong and her yard was always lovely. Just lovely. Cheerful, well-manicured flowers bordered lush green grass.
Mom inherited her thumbs and arms. But mom’s yard is not so tidy.
In a good way.
Mom’s entire yard is a garden, with pavers winding through a vast array of annuals and perennials. A bistro table and two chairs here, a bench there. I wish I had taken pictures when I was there last week. Everywhere you look there is something to delight your eyes: Big, healthy barrels of bleeding hearts, flowers and herbs covering every inch of ground and adorning well-placed urns, planters and pots.
“I said I wasn’t going to plant anything this year,” she said as we unloaded her loot from the flower store.
“My left thumb doesn’t work anymore,” she said as she used her hands to dig small holes just big enough to tuck a few more flowers into a large arrangement.
She’s 85 and her garden is amazing.
I’m not like my mom and her mom. My thumbs are not green and my arms are not strong. Pathetically not strong.
Sure, I do well with lettuce, tomatoes, garlic and herbs, but flowers…
I don’t know what kind of soil a particular flower needs, I don’t even know what kind of soil I have. So I stick with pots and planters. Really basic pots and planters.
But this year I’m inspired.
So I ventured beyond my patio and porch and stuck flowers in out of the way places. Just to delight anyone who might happen by.
I passed a little flower stand on my way to the Farmers Market yesterday… and there is an abandoned urn at the edge of the woods just crying for a bleeding heart…