The Garden Revived

I cleaned out the birdbath and swished fresh water into its large cavity, then watched as bright yellow goldfinches and plump robins visited and splashed about, settling into the plum tree to scatter the droplets from their feathers. I hauled out the little cement child on a dolphin and put it back in place. Took out the turtle and set it under one of the benches. And the snail water sprinkler took its place under the Japanese lantern, where it belongs.

I gathered the three large yoghurt containers full of crushed egg shells and began to sprinkle them in a circle to encompass the area where I recalled, or could just see the tops of the hostas breaking through the garden soil. That precaution works handily to ensure that garden slugs don't munch their way through the lush hosta leaves throughout the summer months. Plantain lilies, hostas, in all their glorious variety, one of my favourite plants.

I launched myself once again into the dreary task of pulling determined glass blades and roots out of the garden borders, invasive nuisances from the lawn behind us. We'd years ago placed a plastic barrier beside the fence, but its usefulness degraded over the passing of the years. They insert themselves among the clematis, the iris, the lilies, the peonies, those craftily assertive green blades: behind the lilac, the burning bush, the purple smoke tree, defying my feeble attempts at eradication.

Button and Riley hear someone approaching up the side path toward the garden gate and raise the alarm. It's my husband, escorting Michaela into the garden. She has decided to call on me. He leaves me in her care, as she earnestly enquires as she so often does, whether she can help me with the gardening. She watches my ministering to the grass blades, observes my exasperation and commiserates. She plans to plant her own garden soon. Her mother has divided little plots, one each for her, her two sisters and another for her brother.

Michaela follows me up the rock garden, for I've offered to show her some spring colour. The bergena are flowering, alongside yellow fritallery, and red parrot tulips. All around the stepping stones, I tell her, is an interesting flock. She looks at me, puzzled. Guess what they're called, I challenge her. Hens'n Chicks! I say, and she laughs. Well, look at that really large one, it's a mother-plant, the hen, and see all those tiny plants around her, they're the chicks! Let me know if you'd like some for your garden...

And speaking of interesting plants, look at these getting ready to bloom. Here are the little flower heads, nodding downward, ready to turn purple and spotted. They're snake-head fritalleries. Michaela nods somberly, she has told me countless times how interested she is in just about anything and everything and she trails after me as I name other plants for her: ligularia, pulmonaria, and Michaella, it's also called lung-wort!

Peculiar, fascinating names, she says, and when I tell her the green mounds we're standing next to are called bleeding hearts, she looks puzzled and asks why such an odd name. Here, I tell her, and lift the immature spray of flowerets; when they mature they assume the shape of hearts, they're red, hence the name. She watches as I place a low wire fence around a bed of astilbe to keep them separate in their sprawling habit from the coreopsis and echinacea nearby.

She hands me the tomato cages that I've rescued from behind the apple tree, one by one, as I install them over the Jacob's Ladder, and Michaela laughs, showing me how she makes a Jacob's Ladder herself, with the string she's holding.