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The
Accidental Gardener
Fiona Hardy never claimed to be a gardener .. |
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Moving from my parents’ leafy suburban home to a unit with a
cramped courtyard was a relief. Having witnessed my parents
spend weekends digging, watering, weeding and generally not
having time to pander to my every childhood whim, I was
initially pleased to not have a garden to tend to, just some
barren squares of dirt and inoffensive weeds for partner and I
to rip out occasionally.
But after a while I itched to grow something myself. We first
started a herb garden in the narrow patch of soil facing our
flat—chives, basil, coriander and mint. The coriander went
first, spindly brown arms thrown wide in a dramatic death pose.
The mint quickly followed, perhaps too distraught with the loss
of its brethren to cling to life any more. The basil held on
desperately a while longer, but eventually succumbed. The chives
were brave in the face of this herbocide, but their day came
also, following the neglect we imposed as a result of our
neighbour nicking all the fresh growth for his fried eggs.
After that disaster, it was a while before we tried again.
Eventually, we had another go, creating a vegetable patch in the
courtyard. We went to a hardware store and picked up a trowel,
gloves, fertiliser, and little packets of seeds; we cut back the
plants from our neighbour’s yard that had become a lush green
carpet and proceeded to create fantasies about a thriving food
source.
The only problem was that cramped courtyards put you at a severe
disadvantage from bug attacks. I’m not fearful of insects as a
general rule, but when trapped in an overgrown, fenced-in area
with only one escape route, I feel like a cheerleader in a
horror movie underground parking lot. Once, I was bringing in
the washing and was chased to the door by a black-and-white
spider the size of my fist, so bizarre and freakish that I
believe it has yet to be identified by any entomological
journal. It raced across the flywire and, as I slammed the door
shut, it reached one thin leg out for the handle. I only just
managed to reach and twist the lock at the last second; who
knows what would have happened if it had beaten me to it. So
really, my partner did the gardening while I stood bravely by
waving around a spray bottle full of water, ready to defend any
subsequent attacks upon my person by the spider.
Much to our delight, bean shoots sprung from the dirt and I
became lost in thoughts of how we would make so much food from
our fifty centimetre by two metre vegetable patch that I would
even make a profit and, eventually, win some kind of
humanitarian award for giving the excess to charity. However,
this venture was not to be. Summer hit with full force and
despite our amateur attempts, the patch became nothing but a
small area of dried soil, mocked by the thriving jungle living
on the other side of the courtyard and all the creatures that
dwelt within.
On the verge of giving up, I have discovered something—if if I
try and grow something, I can’t. But if I don’t, I will.
There is a bird of paradise plant that grows in front of my
flat. It is a towering burst of colour, lovely enough to attract
comments from visitors. How do I sustain such beauty? My entire
interaction with this plant is to accidentally hit it with my
car every day when I park.
There is a pot of catgrass on the windowsill in the kitchen. I
kicked it over twice before it even made it home, perched it on
the windowsill and immediately gave up on any care. It is of
course thriving, creeping up the window and all over, happily
bringing my cat hours of drooling fun when he gets a leaf to rub
his head on. How do I get it to succeed? All I’ve ever done is
accidentally splash it with dishwater while cleaning up after
dinner. And there you have it—bountiful growth.
Once, in a particularly bad reflection of our cleaning skills, a
tiny shoot appeared in the plug of our bath and kept growing. I
thought it was amusing at first, if not fairly embarrassing,
until word came that my in-laws were coming to visit. Frightened
of being known as the woman who can’t even keep the inside of
their son’s home free of weeds, I moved it to the garden,
pulling it gently out and planting it in our yard with
tenderness and care, which of course led to its demise.
So my future isn’t in gardening. I love it, and I love to try.
But I think I’m better off—and so are the plants—if I just
continue on my merry way around them, doing nothing but watching
them grow without me. |
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