“…and you’ll need to prepare the bed.”
“I’m sorry; I zoned for a second thinking about the ex–Mrs. Frasier Crane. Long story. Anyway, what’d you say?”
“Clean it out. Yank everything up and transfer any plant you think might come back and you want to save. Then till down six inches and break up any root-balls.”
“Whoa, wait, I can’t just dump new dirt on top?”
“No need. What you have is perfect. But you will have to get rid of all the superfluous bits so you can start fresh.”
Yeah.
That’s pretty much the story of my life.
Only with more earthworm killing.
I NEVER PROMISED YOU A ROSE GARDEN
A string of idyllic late-May days pass, all in the low seventies with practically nonexistent humidity. Do I work on clearing the planter bed on those days? Of course not. As is my way, I wait until the last possible moment to address the task, at a time when the sun is fifteen feet overhead and so blazing hot that it’s turning my shovel into molten metal. As I work, I find myself practically blinded because of all the sweat pouring into my eyes.
What I really don’t understand is how these pathetic little shoots have such deep and strong roots. I curse each and every coneflower and butterfly bush as I huff and yank and hurl masses of dirty tendrils into the woods.
Thanks for being a dick, lavender hyssop!
I thought you were cool, bergamot!
How about I give YOU a black eye, Susan?
I’m especially angry when I recall exactly how much I paid for each plant, too.
Maybe I should have just put twenty dollars in the toilet instead, purple lovegrass!
As satisfying as it is to hurl these feckless specimens, I find I have to put Maisy and Libby inside, because each time I successfully chuck a recalcitrant root-ball into the woods, one of my ever-helpful best friends retrieves it.
Argh.
The last time I worked this hard outdoors was when I was a volunteer gardener for the city of Chicago back in 2010. What seemed like an excellent idea on paper went totally sideways in execution. I’d signed up to help an underprivileged neighborhood tend their community plot. The neighborhood association needed volunteers, because no one who lived there actually wanted to help, which should have been my first clue that this was a bad idea.
Ninety percent of my volunteer gardening time was spent picking up empty beer bottles, cigarette butts, and Doritos wrappers, although I did crack up the day I retrieved and reconstructed a whole handful of report card shards from the basil plants. One C, three Ds and an F? Yeah, I’d hide those grades from my parents, too, kid.
The most glorious part of the entire community garden was the chain-link fence separating the garden from the alley. What would have been a sad vista of a downscale Chicago alley was made incredibly beautiful by all the morning glories. The spectacular vines and flowers hid the fence and obscured the view with a mass of greens so dense and thick that the chain link looked like a huge bush that spanned from one side of the triple lot to the other.
Imagine my disappointment when the volunteer coordinator asked me to tear down all the morning glories. Apparently since they were a native plant not specifically cultivated by the garden’s designer, they had to go. I didn’t agree, but it wasn’t my place to argue. (But, oh, how I wanted to!)
So I found myself ripping out some of the most lush, densest flora I’d ever seen, on a ninety-five-degree day in the middle of the city of Chicago. Sweat was running down the crack of my ass and pooling in my ears as I grappled with twined vines that had no intention of going down without a fight. I tried to comfort myself by pretending I was President Bush clearing brush at the ranch, and that helped for a while.
Of course, the most interesting part of the day was when I stumbled over a homeless guy sleeping under a particularly leafy outcropping of moonflowers. I’m not sure which of us screamed louder. I wasn’t expecting to find a person in the bushes, much as he wasn’t expecting to be stepped on by a fat chick wearing Crocs.
Others came running to find out the source of all the hollering. One of the male volunteers demanded that the homeless man leave, but as he was in the middle of having the world’s longest pee, his exodus took longer than expected. While the volunteer shouted, the homeless guy kind of spun around and there was a bit of a backsplash situation, dovetailing nicely into another round of screaming.
This was the exact moment that I ended my tenure as a volunteer gardener.
Two points to make here: I’m as hot now as I was that day, and I can’t believe none of my stupid morning glories grew last year.
While I attempt to pry out a particularly stubborn root system, Loki comes over to water a corner of the planter bed, which I notice only when a few drops of overspray hit me in the back of the leg. And that’s when I realize I’ve hacked yet another earthworm in half.
God help these roses if they don’t thrive here.
The roses have landed!
Or been planted. Same diff.
Because the roses in my cutting garden are brand-new, they don’t require as much maintenance as the other bushes, with all their dense canes and old wood. The roses Laurie selected are incredible, and I’m madly in love with how she placed them—they’re in groups of reds, whites, pinks, and oranges, all arranged by gradient of color. I keep telling her all Analyze This–style, “You, you’re very good.”
Laurie suggested it would be best if Mike’s team sprayed the roses for me, because I don’t have access to the same kind of treatments used by professionals.
(I suspect Laurie fears my making potions I found on the Internet and accidentally exploding my garage.)
(I suspect Laurie is right.)
Although I’m doing light pruning per Martha’s dictates in her book Gardening 101, my main priority is managing the Japanese beetles.
By “managing” I mean killing those bastards dead in their tracks.
Although I’m neither Buddhist nor Taoist, I’m predisposed to respect all forms of life. Whenever possible, I opt to discourage pests, rather than destroy. I’m perpetually lifting spiders onto squares of cardboard and squiring them out the door. When we lived in the city, I’d control unwanted visitors (of the four-legged variety) with ultrasonic rodent repellent. The four months I spent as a pescatarian were among my best days, not only because I felt healthier, but because I felt good about not contributing to the factory-farmed animals’ cycle of suffering. And if I ever had to hunt my own food? I’d go full-on vegetarian faster than you can say “Tofurky.”
However, my compassion does not extend to Japanese beetles. These shiny little demons serve no purpose other than to feast on my roses. They’re so destructive precisely because they have no natural predators in the Midwest…save for me.
I started off using various beetle sprays, but they aren’t terribly effectual. I mean, they’ll kill whatever bug they hit, but there’s no residual effect. I can spray now and eradicate all the bugs on the bushes, but pesticide does nothing to stop the ones that fly in an hour later.
Laurie was so sick of seeing coppery-green swarms on her buds that she cut all her bushes down to six inches, as they feed on petals and not leaves. Their reign of terror is only about two months, and by cutting back her roses now in June, she’ll have spectacular blooms in early fall.
I, however, am not about to be bested by a bug.
After listening to an archived portion of Martha’s radio show, I learned that the most effective way to off the bugs is to knock them into a jar of soapy water, so I started to do that.
At first, I’d walk around the roses all tentatively, wearing gloves and batting the beetles into the foamy mixture with the tips of my pruning shears. But at this point? I’m flicking them onto the ground with my fingers and then smashing them with my foot. I hate my sense of satisfaction when I hear them crunch beneath the sole of my gardening clog. I wonder if there’s not something intrinsically wrong with the rush of
happiness I feel with every bug I eradicate.
The last time Laurie and I met for coffee, I noticed she had a small black dot on her cheek, which I assumed was mascara. Nope. Apparently it was a bit of beetle that had splattered when she crushed them between her fingers. I’m not the only cold-blooded one when it comes to the Japanese Menace.
I try to do my killing and subsequent watering first thing in the morning, so the plants are protected all day. I learned long ago that midday watering, especially when it’s really hot, can burn plants. Because I pretty much just rolled out of bed, I’m wearing a short nightgown and a pair of cutoff sweats. I look like an idiot, and I’m thankful for the thick tree growth between me and my neighbors.
Today’s a bad, bad day for the roses. I’ve never seen the beetles so clustered. There’s one fledgling blossom that’s so infested that none of the coral petals are even visible. All I can see is a writhing mass of coppery-green, and something primal in me takes over. With one deft movement, I snip off the entire cane and stomp the bejesus out of it while telling the beetles, “I’m not afraid to destroy something beautiful if it means you die as well.”
This is simultaneously the most badass and sociopathic thing I’ve ever said.
I’m in the middle of my ministrations when I hear what sounds like a truck backing up. I’m curious as to what’s happening, so I cut through the woods for a peek, careful that the driver doesn’t see me or my pajamas. I pick my way through the brush while I’m assaulted by a million tiny branches. I’m hidden behind a line of buckthorn when I can finally see who’s here.
Oh, yay! The city’s fixing our sidewalk!
Last week there was a knock at our door, and it was a guy from the streets department telling me they’d soon be repairing the sidewalk in front of our house. Last summer, a tree root had caused the edge of a square of sidewalk to rise up about an inch, meaning every time I walked to the mailbox, I’d trip over the uneven spot. However, sidewalks are city property, so there wasn’t anything we could do about it, right? Besides, this little blip was nothing compared to the sidewalks on Altgeld, where the cracks were big enough to swallow a Labrador. One inch? Pfft. May as well be one millimeter. My solution has been to simply ignore the blip…and make Fletch bring in the mail.
However, because I moved to an area with high property taxes and low crime, a sidewalk blip is a call to action. Someone complained about the blip, so the city immediately dispatched a work order. When the streets guy told us this, I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or insulted. “Oh, you don’t like my sidewalk? Yeah? WELL, MAYBE I DON’T LIKE YOUR FACE.”
That night, the little blip made me think about the massive blips in the old neighborhood, and I fell down the Google rabbit hole (again). I wound up reading an article about Altgeld Street. The story involved one of my neighbors, whom I specifically remember because she sneered at us for being renters, like somehow we brought down her property value. Yeah, we were the problem, with our neatly clipped lawn and sparkling windows, and not the expressway that was literally across the street, or the gang members who used our block as a highway-adjacent drug drop.
Anyway, according to the Chicago Tribune, this neighbor has spent the past six years fighting IDOT (the Illinois Department of Transportation) because of the vacant lot across from our row of houses. The lot was meant to be a buffer between homes and the Kennedy Expressway, but what it turned into was an enormous garbage dump full of dirty diapers, hypodermic needles, and old futons, in addition to being a haven for the homeless. The neighbor has been apoplectic over IDOT’s lack of responsiveness.
Listen, this sucks and I’m sorry, lady. Don’t forget, I lived there, too. I suffered as well.
But the thing is, this area was a trash repository long before she bought her place or I rented mine, and will likely be that way long after she moves away. Does she think she was the first one to drag a city garbage bin down the street, picking up beer bottles and empty Whopper wrappers?
Sorry, honey, not even close.
We’d originally hoped to buy that little row house, but we eventually moved instead, because there was no stemming that tide. The neighborhood was broken and no amount of effort would restore it.
What I realized in living there coincides with my struggle with the Japanese beetles and, truly, sums up another principle in Martha’s Tao: Choose your battles—fight those you can win and avoid those you can’t.
With diligence and a jar of sudsy water, I can conquer these stupid bugs. But I could never have stopped the onslaught of expressway trash blowing onto my tiny Altgeld lawn, so I eventually left. I am now grateful to live in a town that cares enough to fix minuscule problems before I lose a tooth when picking up the mail.
All is well and I am happy.
I wend my way back through the woods to the cutting garden. Note to self: Next time I want a walk in the woods, for whatever reason, I need to wear actual pants and not loosey-goosey cutoffs. I felt a weird little pinch a few minutes ago from where I do believe a small branch tried to get fresh with me.
I give all the plants a healthy watering, starting with the cutting garden. I like to keep the pressure high, because a steady pinpoint stream knocks off the beetles I missed on my jar mission.
I move on to the hanging baskets on the fences and I give all the pots on the patio a thorough hosing, too. I use the hand that’s not holding the hose to try to adjust my underwear—I must have taken too large a stride while walking through the woods, because I’ve given myself a bit of a wedgie.
Stupid old ratty underwear.
Here’s one of the ways that my situational, yet oddly pathological cheapness manifests itself. Whereas I’m a perpetual check grabber when it comes to meals out with friends, and a new designer purse still makes my heart sing (and wallet open), I can almost never pull the trigger on the most basic of purchases, like pajamas, socks, or underwear.
I love seeing how long I can go without having to pay for anything new. I’m always all, “But I just bought a new pair of underpants four years ago!” On any given day, I’m walking around in the saddest, most rump-sprung, spray-tan-stained skivvies in the entire universe. I may upgrade to business class when possible, yet I still have to inspect each pair of socks for holes before I travel so I’m not embarrassed in front of the TSA. Fletch says folding my laundry gives him secondhand shame, and he’ll occasionally sneak the most offensive items into the trash. He actually got a little shouty when he discovered I was wearing a workout shirt whose left-side seam was comprised entirely of safety pins.
I readjust my sweat-shorts again with my left hand. The elastic on these smallclothes must be busted, because I’m seriously uncomfortable. I hustle to finish my watering and I head directly to the shower. I’m due for lunch with the girls in the city in an hour and a half, and I wasted too much time standing in the woods spying on the streets crew. Better make this quick.
I run the shower to warm it and I step out of the offending underwear. Huh. This pair isn’t so bad. They’re neither worn so thin as to be pornographic, nor are the holes egregious. Shoot, the elastic hasn’t even begun to separate from the leg holes! These are practically my Sunday best!
I wriggle under the warm water, still bothered by the odd pinching, so I lather up the washcloth and begin to scrub, and then…ow.
What is that?
Is that something?
I glance down.
Wait, no.
No.
Nooooo.
That is all wrong.
That’s a…
…OH, SWEET JESUS IN HEAVEN, I’M GOING TO DIE!
“I have been violated.”
Three pairs of eyes at the community table at Lula’s cut over to me because that’s the last thing anyone expected me to reply when asked, “What’s been going on?”
“Is this about the sidewalk?” Tracey asks.
“Is someone on the Internet wrong again?” Stacey adds.
“Oh, no,” I exclaim. “The sidewalk i
s great. I’m glad people complained about it. The new sidewalk is outstanding. I’m all about the sidewalk. I’m talking about violation.”
“Do you need to spell it to tell us?” Gina inquires before taking a sip of her iced tea–lemonade.
We’re interrupted by our regular waiter before I can continue. Gina and I ask for our usual breakfast burritos, only she always gets hers without avocado. Our waiter, bless his heart, tells us about his avocado allergy every single time. There’s not much guaranteed in this world, save for the tides rising, the sun setting, and a skinny-jeans-clad hipster in Logan Square sharing stories of guacamole-based gastric distress.
Once our orders are placed, Stacey leans in and says, “Define ‘violation.’ You tweeted that you were violated when the girl at LaGuardia was wearing acid-washed jeans and a sports bra. That kind of violated?”
“No, not aesthetic violation. This is serious. I’m talking about personal violation. My person was violated.” I shudder before parsing out each syllable. “Vi-yo-lay-shun. I was…I was…”
I have to take a deep breath before I can continue. The horror of what happened is almost too much for me to contemplate and I have to steady myself.
“I was…accosted by an arachnid.”
I wait for them to gasp and clutch their chests, simultaneously reaching for my hand while daubing away their tears with a napkin.
“Yeah, I don’t know what that means,” Stacey replies.
I huff, “I’m touched by your compassion. Truly. Maybe you should work a suicide crisis hotline, because clearly you are gifted.”
Stacey goes, “Uh-huh. Still don’t know what that means.”
I try to compose myself. “Okay, there I was, minding my own business in my cutoff sweats, which are great to wear for gardening because they’re loose and breezy and my downstairs lady-theater doesn’t get sweaty.”
“Kudos on finding a way to be descriptive without actually saying v-a-g-i-n-a,” Tracey tells me.
The Tao of Martha: My Year of LIVING Page 9
