As I was carrying the recycling out this evening, a woman walking down the sidewalk slowed down and said, "I just want to thank you for having such a lovely garden. It gives me so much pleasure." And then she smiled and kept walking before I could do more than stutter a brief thank you.
Of course I immediately felt terrifically guilty for having taken credit for any part of the garden, as I inherited everything. The past two owners were such enthusiastic gardeners, planting up a such storm that I've spent the past two months, since I moved in, mainly admiring things and trying to figure out what on earth my contribution can be.
I've never inherited an already-planted garden before, much less a heavily planted one. My very first garden started out as a small piece of blighted land behind a Washington DC row-house that was filled roughly a 1/2 foot deep with chicken bones! Apparently, the former tenants had spent many an evening sitting on the back steps, eating take-out from the local KFC and merrily tossing the waste into the yard.
Needless to say, the rat population was enormous and knew no fear.
I had to have a friend come in that yard with me, armed with a broom and a flashlight, to keep the rats back as I frantically dug my first fall bulbs in. And it took forever, because naturally I'd ordered hundreds of them in my beginner's enthusiasm.
So far I haven't seen any rats in Providence, although all the squirrel families leaping about make me wonder how safe the new batch of bulbs I've ordered will be (again, I've ordered far too many of them to be remotely sensible, but like most gardeners, I'm not an entirely sensible person.)
My new next door neighbor, who came springing out of her house to help me pull down a vine that was suffocating the street parking signs, told me the best way to make friends in this neighborhood is to have plant lots of flowers in the front yard. I guess she was right. It's rather thrilling to think I'll be planting this upcoming load of bulbs not just for myself, but for an audience of strangers. A love shared is a love enlarged.
Of course I immediately felt terrifically guilty for having taken credit for any part of the garden, as I inherited everything. The past two owners were such enthusiastic gardeners, planting up a such storm that I've spent the past two months, since I moved in, mainly admiring things and trying to figure out what on earth my contribution can be.
I've never inherited an already-planted garden before, much less a heavily planted one. My very first garden started out as a small piece of blighted land behind a Washington DC row-house that was filled roughly a 1/2 foot deep with chicken bones! Apparently, the former tenants had spent many an evening sitting on the back steps, eating take-out from the local KFC and merrily tossing the waste into the yard.
Needless to say, the rat population was enormous and knew no fear.
I had to have a friend come in that yard with me, armed with a broom and a flashlight, to keep the rats back as I frantically dug my first fall bulbs in. And it took forever, because naturally I'd ordered hundreds of them in my beginner's enthusiasm.
So far I haven't seen any rats in Providence, although all the squirrel families leaping about make me wonder how safe the new batch of bulbs I've ordered will be (again, I've ordered far too many of them to be remotely sensible, but like most gardeners, I'm not an entirely sensible person.)
My new next door neighbor, who came springing out of her house to help me pull down a vine that was suffocating the street parking signs, told me the best way to make friends in this neighborhood is to have plant lots of flowers in the front yard. I guess she was right. It's rather thrilling to think I'll be planting this upcoming load of bulbs not just for myself, but for an audience of strangers. A love shared is a love enlarged.
