Things that Sound Dirty but Aren't #11

Pertaining to Gardening...

·       You’ve got to get down on your knees and get dirty

·       Put it in the hole and watch it grow!

·       Trim your shrubs for faster growth

·       Some animal has nibbled on my bulbs

Garden Variety Wonder

Foolishly, I had volunteered to edit the Garden Society’s newsletter, and the chair of the board of directors of this august organization was coming over to inspect our garden.

The stern looking old broad - EXCUSE ME! - charming matron arrived promptly at the appointed hour.

“Good morning, ma’am!” I said. “Welcome to our garden! I cut you some fresh flowers to celebrate the occasion.”

“Thank you Mr. Crawford. Those are dandelions, not flowers,” the old battle-axe said. “May we begin our tour please?”

“Dandelions?! The kids and I thought they were flowers. Rats! I’ve been fertilizing and, uh, weeding them all spring.”

“No, Mr. Crawford, they are not flowers, and please stop holding them under my chin.”

“You like butter! Never mind. OK, here is our yard. In front here we’ve got Hostages, Doozies and this is Dogbone.”

“Hostas, Daisies and Dogwood, Mr. Crawford. I’m not entirely sure your garden knowledge will be sufficient to edit our journal. By the way - what’s that on your chest?”

“Oh! Ha! Ha! That’s a Venus Fly Trap stuck to my nipple. The kids and I were fooling around, and boy, that stuff sure is sticky!” I said.

“I see. Tell me about this brown patch.”

“Oh that? Well, I was squirting weed-killer along the edges here when this wind gust came up and, well... That stuff sure works doesn’t it?” I said, cheerfully.

“Now take a look at these low-growing flowers,” I said. “They have a uniform stem and a rather bizarre flower structure. Quite colourful though.”

“Those are Nerf gun darts that your son has obviously stuck in the ground, Mr. Crawford.”

“How do you know they are not some sort of flowering mushroom?” I asked.

“I have grandchildren, Mr. Crawford. Any idiot knows that N100 darts are not compatible with the N400 gun lying over there, so your son has obviously done something creative in the garden while waiting for his Dad to buy the correct ammunition.”

“Well, OK then. Sheesh. Now over here we have the Happy Patch.”

“Oh dear.”

“We planted a bunch of those little packets from the garden store on that dirt pile over there. We love the result. See where the carrots are, right next to the pansies and onions and weeds and lilacs? Yeah. So that kinda worked but we might try something different next year.”

Mrs. Outhouse or whatever her name was went over to the pile and closely examined one of the growing things.

“I can’t believe it. This is a Blue Rose! Mr. Crawford, are you aware that scientists have been trying to create a blue rose for centuries, and you’ve got several growing on your dirt pile here?”

“Oh yeah, we have lots of them. There’s more by the cucumbers in the flowerbed over yonder. They’re a real pain. They take over everything in the garden. I might get the weed-killer on them if they keep growing like that,” I said.

“No! Mr. Crawford this is a triumph! You have grown something the world has desired for millennia! You are going to be a very famous man when the world hears about this! I am in awe, sir!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever… So, does editing the newsletter pay anything? The kids and I could use some more seeds…”

Growing Pains

I’ve been meaning to log some of the old growth weeds out in the side yard, and being male I welcome any excuse to fire up the chain saw.

I also haven’t seen the kids for a few days, and their machetes are missing, so I figure I better go have a look.

Which brings me to the actual topic of today’s column – “Failure to Thrive,” or “Gardening” as some people call it.

All weed evidence to the contrary, I find myself growing rather fond of the pastime. I’m also rather fond of my kidneys and the intriguing mole between my toes too mind you, but this is different somehow. I can actually see a long term relationship growing here (ha!) and I have some control over it, so I enjoy it. I have not yet been able to grow another kidney.

I’m also not at the stage where I know the Latin names for everything (well, anything) yet. The people who can do that (Obnoxium insufferabilia) have also been known to snort pure, uncut Miracle-Gro up their noses, so you have to be careful about who you garden with.

I just think its fun planting stuff and tending it, and by “tending” I mean “squirting water onto its general region.”

For some reason, my wife believes watering constitutes ‘Yard Work’ so I am not about to disabuse her of this notion any time soon. Watering is what I do. Gentlemen take note.

Watering is also good in that I get to practice my aerial gunnery on flying moths and other insects, who rarely know what hits them as I dive out of the sun, water guns blazing, engine shrieking as my Battle of Britain Squirtfire claims yet another victory!

Yes. Well…

There have been other moments of joy scattered amongst my many hours of bewilderment out there.

For example, the other day I was once again staring down at the Alien Infestation thing (Buttuglia thinkitsaweeden) and noticed for the first time that it was actually kind of pretty.

The Alien Infestation is an odd looking plant with tentacles and scales and it is really quite hideous. It looks like what might burst out of your chest after you’ve been impregnated by something obviously not of this world.

Every time I approach it with malice aforethought, my wife intercepts me and assures me that it is, in fact, a plant and not some disgusting Weed From Beyond.

She then replaces my hat (removed for a good Scratch and Ponder), steers me gently towards the overgrown side yard, and watches me mutter my way towards the day’s weed harvest.

Then there were some seeds the kids and I planted. We bought little envelopes (Packetphotoshoppia notactualsizeums yourresultsmayvaryens), actually read the instructions on the side, and did as we were told for a change.

The little pots were watered daily for many, many, many weeks.

We finally decided growthing or spurting or whatever was not going to happen, so we tilled the little cups of soil and seeds into the dirt beside one of the pathways in the yard. Where of course a single plant emerged, looking rather feisty, branches on hips, as if to say “Why didn’t you plant me here in the first place, Bozo?”

Lately though, despite all of my attention to this plant, it is thriving. Which I find quite annoying since I haven’t a clue what I am doing to produce such a result.

Now that I think about it, this perpetual state of cluelessness is reminding me too much of my real job. I may have to change occupations.

Toil in the Soil

My gardening expertise began when we originally did our landscaping. I followed our contractor around for at least ten minutes, so you can be assured I know what I’m talking about. You can still see where they placed the paddles on my chest after we got his invoice too.

First, gardening is all about dirt. Not the great, shameless gossip you get from legislative reporters – real dirt.

Soil they call it - consisting of equal parts sand, mud, Pete, rocks, sticks, Gravol, and a nutritious organic material called dumbpost or fencepost. Something like that. Soylent Green maybe.

Anyway you need lots of soil. Spread it around to a depth of several hectolitres where you want to grow things, and simply wait for the built in weeds to German Ate (I have no idea what that means either).

Turns out, you can grow almost anything in dirt, especially here in the Okanagan. That is because we are in a certain ‘zone’, zones being imaginary, laughable boundary areas that are supposed to indicate what should grow where you are. The problem is, because the maps are so tiny in the garden book, you are actually attempting to grow things from Arizona (zone 1) in the Arctic (zone 20) you moron.

For example, walk around our place and you’ll see we have Hostages, Clamatoes, Hystericals, Spyro Gyras, Chrysler Anthems (all zone 18 I believe), Irishes, HideRangers, Orcas, Doozy’s, Peonists (zone 2.5), dog poop (oops)(zone everywhere), and Purple Saliva and Sweet Pee (twilight zone/full sun zone). I don’t know what those little yellow ones are called.

The city park next to us kindly supplies us with a near limitless supply of weeds too. We have Gultch, Knapsack, Bully, Yellow Annoyance, Pansy Rageworth, Spotted Pain, Canada GooseWhistle, Angry Kneecap, City Council and many others.

So you can see there is a lot going on in a garden.

You may have guessed by now that we have a rather large yard. Our original plan was to have a lovely garden that we could admire between naps while lounging on our front porch. As such, we acquired plants that, we were told, were ‘low maintenance’.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha I cry with increasing madness in my eyes. Low maintenance indeed. Let me wipe the spittle from my mouth as I go muttering about the yard, cursing the ‘expert’ staff and all their spawn at garden nursery locations. They are all lying scum.

Children are low maintenance. Large factories are low maintenance. Huge earth moving machines are low maintenance. Gardens? I beg to differ.

Oh sure – the staff at gardening centres appear to be polite and friendly. They are in fact sadistic, evil warts. In their world, seeds always sprout, weeds never appear, water falls from the sky, and little garden faeries ruin their knees, backs and trousers pulling up the weeds that grow like, well, weeds.

And another thing. Beware of plants that are ‘Native to the Okanagan’.

I have renamed our wild rose bushes because of this. They are now called Expensive, Prickly, Enormous, Invasive, Suckering Monsters With Hideous Berry-like Things That We Actually Paid Good Money For When You Can Get Them For Free Right There Outside The Fence.

I call them Dammits for short. The flowers are nice though.

Lastly, don’t eat Oregon Grapes (hint: they are not in fact grapes - yet another bit of amusing irony foisted upon the masses by ‘garden centres’). These pseudo-grapes taste like hell and you cannot use them to make wine either. (Not good tasting wine anyway. If you like a good Sour Bitter Outhouse Armpit vintage be my guest, or attend my next home-made wine party).

Oregon Grapes do, however, make a satisfyingly messy paste the children enjoy smearing over the furniture.

Natives often used this paste to permanently dye their clothing, we discovered.

My wife is now scouring Home Depot for Oregon Grape-coloured paint to match our permanently stained, Oregon Grape-coloured furniture.

I am outside, pulling weeds.