“Why couldn’t you have done this whilst we were together?” my ex asked as he surveyed my newly planted patio garden. He was at my house to pick up our son, but my lack of interest in sharing the gardening was something he ofteniless reminded me of.
“I don’t know,” was my feeble reply.
“Then what did you do when we were apart?” he asked. I grew up with my Spanish mother, and she was never without a few burns or a sour stomach.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “It’s probably something I could have told you.”
“So have you ever thought about getting into gardening?” he asked. I pause. “Have you?”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing?” he replied.
“Then I suggest you do some research. It’s really important for you, and it’s also important for your son.”
My mind raced. Five minutes of careful research later, I had become an expert. I was going to Kirstenreenhouse, the leading garden centre and home supply store in South East London. Two hours of research later and I was ready to buy garden furniture.
I accompanied my ex to see the garden. We emerged from thexes and into the enchanting garden. He streaming sunlight into my little haven.
“You see this?” he said. “This is the best garden in years. It’s full of lovely colourful plants. This is my masterpiece.”
I lookedlings over the balcony. The greenhouse was full of hanging baskets planted with creepers. There were fairy lights placed in every corner of the garden. My interchangeable garden gnomes were decoration around the patio.
I smelled the mustiness of old books. I inwardly CE reclaimed my independence.
“I never learned to be a gardener,” I told my ex. “You’re welcome to try gardening with me any time you want.”
And I meant exactly that. I was about to embark on a new journey of gardening and am happy to call myself a washed out wannabitch, but I couldn’t wait to get started.
I was going to follow her example. I was going to grow my own garden.
“I don’t want to be alone in a garden with me that’s too small anymore,” I told my ex.
“You’ll have every option you want,” my ex said.
She was right.
I almost decided on that very evening.
I was going to install my own garden shed in the garden. It was going to be a place to do my gardening andmy childhomeshoweverI was going to decorate it.
I was going to use some of the old tools and trimmers to give a face lift to this garden and that was going to be a garden I would not only recognize by its name but also by the things that decorated it.
The garden shed would have to be large enough to hold all the items and furniture I had. I was going to use some of the throwpillows, and believe it or not, I was going to find some coloring to add into it.
I almost decided on the shed just the other day. It was so tempting. I was going to close my eyes and pretend I was making a garden. I was going to ignore the rain and the bugs and grow my garden. However, I kept one thing in mind and that was to not grow too much.
It was almost dark so I would have room to keep my tools.
Last night about 6:30 I came across the seed bank. All the lights were gone and everything was wet. What was I going to do with all this stuff? Was I going to squish some soil in and make a compost pile or get some plastic and pots and repot them? Am I going to sift through it and pick out packets of seeds?
No, I loved the idea of gardening. I wanted to grow some of my own food. I wanted to make a garden with my own children. I wanted to share what I growing and have people understand that we have a lot to be thankful for, even in these tough economic times.
I found the perfect spot last night. It was just nearby where I stay. There is a faint memory — I think it was from another era — of an African-American family of farmers. There are blocks of houses there, all built on what was original dirt. There are bird baths and a water fountain, and the flowers have grown and reproduce. There are a lot of flowers.
I stopped just short of the edge of the block, and there across the road was another little garden. There was a bird feeder, a couple of yards long red flowers overflowing from a bush. Bird feeders don’t have to be old rusty Chicken coupe feders anymore.
