The wind storms of late have added substantially to workloads out here. I’d only just finished with the last of the planting when toppled pots forced me to dig two large holes yesterday to house now homeless dwarf arborvitae.
I resented every minute of it – not least of all because there are two far more worthy five gallon shrubs that I’d relegated to the pot ghetto for the winter that could have used such ministration, but mostly because I don’t like to dig holes in dry earth – and dry it was.
Having to re-charge and re-drain the water lines just to moisten deck pots filled with pansies, silver euonymus and variegated liriope (the holy trinity of maintenance-free winter pot fodder), is tedious in the extreme; and for three weeks I have done so whilst vainly searching the sky for any sign of dark, fattened clouds.
They have promised rain, but lately ‘they’ have been getting their terminology wrong and calling a sprinkle a storm. ‘They’ would be well advised to do a bit of reconnaissance in the Pacific Northwest or the UK, where there are proper nuanced descriptors for nonsense precipitation, such as ‘a smattering’ or ‘a godawful depressing mist.’
But I digress.
The deer have been extra busy lately and there is so much material here it must be saved for another column, or perhaps a tragic memoir. Regardless, it has become clear that fencing is the next big expenditure at Oldmeadow – but how to fence beds on either side of driveways and creeks and much-used pathways without mortgaging our future rest-home years or worse, creating an eyesore in the years leading up to them? Would that we had a few months of warm weather to think about it, but they are hungrier than ever and my neighbor tells me that even my Jack Russell has turned against me (he was seen playing with a fawn in her field two weeks ago). Et tu, Mungo?