Nearly ten years ago, I chose my house in large part because of the property.
Ever since then, I've waged ceaseless war: against the deer, against the weeds, against the constantly encroaching native euonymous, against the ajuga and moss taking over the grass, against the wisteria relentlessly pulling down the gutters, against the deer, against the moles and voles and groundhogs, against the rocks, against the deer. Even the glorious mountain of roses cascading over the terrace wall: just too. darn. BIG.
Sometime last year it occurred to me that the point of a garden is supposed to be joy. And that I had somehow lost that.
Now I have a plan.
This is The Year of the Shrub. Sturdy, shade-loving, deer-resistant shrubs. I'm buying them cheap and planting them well, but once planted giving them absolutely no support other than water. I'm watching who survives. Any that prove themselves fit for survival: I'll buy more next year. Many, many more.
I'm a mother, intermittent gardener, part time educator, travel enthusiast, and relentless planner. I used to be a technological Luddite and photo-phobic, but I'm working on overcoming both these weaknesses.
