The Inevitable Fall Race
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No project ever seems to be without a hitch or a glitch, and for me bulb-planting season is usually filled with a series of hurdles in a race with time. The time is at hand and I am ready to face the falling of the leaves, with plenty of garden projects. I can't wait to tackle the stacks of fall catalogs cluttering my office. Thumbing through every page, looking at the glossy images and reading their descriptions, I know that some catalogs are written by expert word wranglers, who spin creative plant characterizations that urge me to buy, buy, buy. I feel like a child in a toy store, as bright red, striped or pastel tulips jump out from the page. I mark, tag and mutilate each catalog filled with giant alliums, tulips, daffodils, crocus, lilies and every little specialty bulb, tuber, corm or rhizome. Writing down each selection, the grand total reaches proportions rivaling Santa's toy list. After treating myself for shock, I take another look at the items, I move many entries over to the wishful thinking column, until the amount of plants left align with my garden budget.
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I have a month to prepare a space in the garden for my new purchases; I'm confident I will complete the groundwork before the bulbs arrive at my front door. With the list whittled down to a manageable amount of plants, I am positive there is room in the garden, after I make a few adjustments, and time to plant every one. I send off the orders.
The first box arrives, announced by a ring of the doorbell. I quickly open the box like a Christmas present, eager to see the contents. I spill bags of bulbs, envelopes, and planting directions across the kitchen counter, showering flecks of soil and packing material across the newly mopped floor. Boxes always seem to arrive after a thorough cleaning. Yet I don't care. For now I'm going to dance around the kitchen, holding bags of bulbs in each hand, anticipating the production of digging bulbs into the soil, for next spring's floral show.
Finally, the rest of the boxes arrive. I've checked them off my list, saved all the receipts, put each bulb name into my database. Sound organized? I haven't planted anything yet.
I grab the bulb planter, a shovel, fertilizer and the first bulbs to go into the ground, throwing everything into a five-gallon bucket. I walk into the garden about the same time as an autumn squall opens its flood gate, dumping a large quantity of huge raindrops, soaking me within seconds. Looking at the sky, I mutter, “Very funny!” I'm determined to continue my planting quest, in spite of nature spitting on the ground; I dash inside, slip into my hat, rain coat and muck boots. Quickly the small storm passes through, and the sun peeks out; a rainbow in the distance reveals the squall is still kicking up a fuss somewhere else. Here I stand in the fresh-washed air, a bag of 100 lily-flowering tulips in one hand, a shovel in the other, wondering where I am going to plant them.
The sun shines its warmth down where I plunge my shovel in, to loosen up the humus rich, moist earth; I breathe in the earthy aroma of healthy soil. This is the perfect place for bulbs to send up their green leaves and for colorful blossoms to herald a new growing season. I plant the last one in the large drift of closely spaced tulips, shovel the remaining dirt over the deep holes, and water the ground thoroughly. My hands are caked with soil after discarding my gloves halfway through the project; my face is streaked with mud and sweat, but I keep working, digging, plopping bulbs in their holes, backfilling and watering.
Across the lane, a squirrel in a tree launches into animated chatter. I assume it's about the anticipation of digging the disturbed soil where I just finished planting some over-priced specialty bulbs. Squinting my eyes towards the clamor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the chatterbox, I drop my shovel, run to the toolbox, rummage through a pile of tools until I find wire cutters. I grab a roll of one-inch gauge chicken wire set aside for another project. Cutting the chicken wire to size and placing it over the newly planted bed, I hear the squirrel continue its excited chatter; yet another one joins in the chorus.
Two squirrels appear in my paranoid imagination, plotting their assault on the freshly planted bulbs. Looking at the chicken wire haphazardly placed over the soft, loose soil, I doubt this will discourage any self-respecting, intelligent rodent for long. In case the bushy-tailed creatures are cagey enough to remove the wire deterrent, I haul in large rocks, placing them over the top of the wire. Throwing compost over the bed to hide it, I anticipate I'll remember to remove the rodent deterrent before the bulbs break ground this winter, at the moment I feel the bulbs are safe from bandits.
Only 999 bulbs left to plant.
Debra Teachout-Teashon
Photographed in author's garden.
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