What a successful day! It began at 8 o’clock in the morning, and ended in late afternoon. I sat back on my heels and surveyed the garden with satisfaction. Two truckloads of vegetation had been hauled away by my helper, and I wasn’t done, yet!
I had a ‘Eureka!’ moment today.
I’d dreaded the job of eliminating my giant hostas, because they’re still lovely and it’s really hard to part with them, and because cutting those million celery-thick stems to the ground is such a tiresome task!
“Oh, jeez, just get on with it,” I sighed, and lay on my belly to peer under one enormous plant by the arbor. Adjusting my ancient motorcycle goggles (to keep my eyes free from dust, allergens and flailing pruners) I pushed aside leaves, grabbed some stout stalks and began to snip one at a time.
Then, suddenly, while elbowing aside panicked worms, muttering about hand cramps and cussing the pruners, which had to be jerked apart because stringy bits kept jamming the blades— Ding! I had an idea!
Ohboy! I extracted myself and ran into the house and snatched up a big serrated kitchen knife. Crawling back under the 6 x 6-foot monster I put knife-to-stem, right at the dirt line. A little pressure--wow! That blade melted through those stalks. Whoosh! In thirty seconds the entire plant was gone! I’d forgotten how easy it could be.
Never again would I look at hostas in autumn, and groan.
Slash! Guillotined, twelve more huge beauties collapsed snicker-snack! Adam staggered off to the truck with their mountainous remains while I danced around, slicing the air, gleefully chanting, “Hosta la vista, baby!”
“Hmmm,” said I, thoughtfully. “This blade’s terminated the hostas, so why not use it to down my four huge goat’s beard bushes, the helenium daisies, those thick, ripened lily stalks, and all the ostrich fern fronds?” Again, no hay problema.
(As I worked, I was the picture of concentration. Digits can disappear from the hands of inattentive, dreamy operators.)
By the way, a similar tool, tailored for garden work, is offered at nurseries, but I was here, my car wasn’t, and I needed a solution, now. (I used to own a champion serrated garden scimitar years ago, but gremlins made off with it, and I keep forgetting to buy another.)
Next, dozens of daylily fronds and loads of lovely iris blades were given jaunty haircuts using garden scissors. Perhaps four inches remained.
Any non-blooming annual was removed, but I just couldn’t bear to yank most of the still-lovely geraniums. Maybe next week.
As the plump (annual) dusty millers often survive winter in the secret garden, they’ll stay.
Next, the coreopsis was trimmed to three inches high. Their ‘beard-stubble’ helps me remember where they are. In spring I’ll run my hands over the little brown sticks, which will fall away, revealing new life.
I’ll leave the spirea, and all the grasses, until spring. Snow does interesting things to these plants.
The Autumn Joy sedums lining both sides of the Folly’s brick path are a deep rose, now. Their ‘broccoli’ heads will continue to evolve to dark chocolate, and stand out in snow.
A little brown spider has woven an intricate web in one huge steel spider web trellis, now bare of the annual vine that had climbed it. Late afternoon sun-shadow has artfully projected their delicate, thread-thin artistry onto the blue fence.
Cat sits quietly in the sun, blinking.
Even now, with so much gone, the secret garden is still lovely.
Soon nature will have her way, sculpturing fresh, interesting contours, making the familiar somehow alien.
I love winter.