Naturally, the garden was lush, overflowing with massive peonies, poppies, 4ft tall columbines, and the first of the roses.
Don't believe me about the columbines? They were a self-seeded batch of "black" Barlows and they've never been that tall before. Don't know what got into them this year.
It was so beautiful and so depressing, I came home very blue -- the kind of blue where you either have to sit down and place a major order with a plant nursery, or you have to eat a lot of ice cream. Since we have no money and no ice cream, I was up a crik, as they say.
What I have right here, in my new house, is chicken scratch compared to what I had at my old house. And I know that that garden is 9 years old, that it's evolved pretty extensively, that it was made at a time in my life when I had lots of disposable income and no children to keep me from doing what I wanted to do, at least from a gardening perspective.
This is a hastily cut bouquet of Abraham Darby (middle top), Mary Rose (left) and Sydonie (2 right bottom). Sydonie is one of the ones I couldn't take a cutting from last fall and I'd so like to take one now, but am not sure I have room for it -- it gets about 5 feet tall with branches that arch over and make it about 6 feet wide. So pretty, all covered with blooms. The bud is Comte du Chambord, which is finally looking excellent after 9 years of sulking. Naturally, it outdoes itself the year I move.
I have been moping all day, missing my garden and all the little maintenance tasks that I so liked doing -- pruning and dividing and deadheading and otherwise fussing over everything. I think I just need to get started here, do something to give myself a feeling of hope that this garden can be at least as enjoyable as my old one. It will never be the same, and I probably need to find a way to just let that go, but it's hard when you've poured so much sweat into a place.
I need to just take hold.
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