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Tired Garden, Tired Gardener
By Sue Lyn, on September 30th, 2005
At this time of year, I hardly recognize my garden. The neat rows I laid out in my vegetable garden with pegs and string are gone, obliterated by the growth of squash vines and tomatoes. The plants that were carefully placed with what seemed plenty of breathing room in springtime are now tumbling on top of one another in crazy disorder. The daisy-like purple coneflowers have turned into stiff and spiky black seed heads that look like plant life from another solar system. Even my birds are changing. The lemon-bright goldfinches of summer are morphing into their dull olive brown winter colors. I catch glimpses of these newly drab birds at my feeder and think, what are they?
I the gardener am almost unrecognizable as well. Whereas in April I was eager to leap into my garden with spade and trowel, now I give even important tasks short shrift. Although I know I’ll pay for it next spring, weeding gets only a lick and a promise these days. For weeks now, I’ve been averting my eyes from the jungle-like mess of my front flowerbeds. I bat the overgrown helianthus aside from my path as I walk around the garage, thinking I really must get around to trimming them one of these days. Even tomatoes aren’t being brought inside with the kind of fervent anticipation they once received.
In my defense, the late summer was hot and extremely dry this year, adding to the malaise I often feel in late September. It’s hard to get enthused about running out with my weeding and transplanting tools when the ground is hardened like cement. Weeks of wrestling daily with a garden hose have sapped my morale. After a certain point, no matter how much watering one does, it becomes nothing more than life support. My shrubs and perennials look like chronically ill denizens of a nursing ward, rather than the vigorous and lush plantings of only two months ago. I’m starting to think the merciful thing may be to pull the plug in some cases and put these tired plants out of their misery.
But somehow this fall when I began to castigate myself for laziness and lack of discipline, I felt differently than in most years. Maybe it’s the natural consequence of the brilliant sunny day I’m enjoying this afternoon, but I’ve started to think that this is just nature’s way of preparing both the plants and the gardener for winter. The rain slows, the leaves die back and the plants begin to go dormant so they’ll survive the cold of winter when all moisture is locked away in ice. Something similar is happening to me. The browning edges of my tomato vines are preparing me for the heartless moment when I’ll rip them out and discard them, leaving the garden empty and ready for another year’s planting. I’m detaching myself from the garden gradually, day by day, and actually looking forward to the rest that I’ll have with the coming of frost.
I think this is what we mean when we Easterners say we like the change of seasons. We like all the changes, even the ones that take warmth and open air away from us. I know that residents of sunny San Diego and Florida can understand why we grow tired of winter and long for the return of green in spring. I don’t think they understand as well that one can grow tired of summer, too. The abundance and warmth that are so welcome in May and June eventually become tiresome as well. We look forward to the crisp clean air of fall, to pulling our sweaters out on that first nippy morning, and to the crunch of leaves underfoot. And eventually, to the pleasures of being cozy, of sitting by a fire with a glass of wine and a book, listening to sleet on the windowpanes.
And planning for next spring.
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