Rosie's Northern Garden

I finally started in on my garden yesterday, despite a lingering virus and a migraine that hit this morning. Actually, I owe this little fit of inspiration to my friend Rosie, who mailed me a few of her Iris plants. Rosie's a dear friend who's

Iris

This woman knows more about plants than anyone else I've ever met. "So," she asked one day, during a phone conversation (she's in Baltimore, MD and I'm in Boston, MA). "Did you get a box in the mail?"

I had. Inside was a plastic bag with some plants trailing off to tuberous roots. I had no idea what they were, although the shape was vaguely familiar. I could just hear her rolling her eyes: "They're Iris, for Christ's sake!" she roared. "Now, they don't like being too wet, so don't use potting soil when you plant them. Use something called 'Lawn and Garden' soil. They won't bloom this year, but they should next year and eventually you'll have so many Iris you won't know what to do with them." Then she added the coup: "If one of them comes up purple, it's the one from my mother's garden. Those plants are over 100 years old."

100 years old? Don't use potting soil? Man, there were some weights on my shoulders now. First I had to figure out when I could get to a garden shop to get the right damn soil - all I had was potting soil - then I had to find the time to plant them into pots. My garden, I explained, was not ready yet. I hadn't had much of one last year so most of the area was overgrown with grass and weeds. I couldn't plant anything, much less an Iris that had just traveled 500 miles and was probably pretty pissed off about it, too.

Well, I was going to do that this weekend, after spending all week applying barely moist paper towels to the drying roots. I didn't want to drown them, since Rosie said they didn't like much water. Oh my god, she almost took my head off when I asked If I could leave them in a glass of water until I could get to a garden shop. So, damp paper towels it was. They seemed to handle this graciously, and remained green and relatively firm.

Then - disaster. Or, more accurately, a virus. I spent Saturday in bed, just getting up long enough to stumble around like a drunk before dropping into bed again. Okay, I said to myself: Sunday. Hop in that car, drive to Pemberton Gardens and come home with the soil to make those 100 year old Iris happy.

Then I woke up Sunday with a migraine that was about ready to take the top of my head off. In my mind's eye I saw Rosie's Iris languishing without soil or water and then painfully dying, leaving me with the guilt trip of my life. Then, I finally said to myself, "the hell with this. I'll dig up some soil in the side garden and plunk them down there. If they live, great, if not, well, I tried."

Hmmmm. Easier said than done. The area I had chosen had not been worked in any recent memory. I stuck my spade in the dirt and practically had to stand on top of it to get it to go down. When I finally pulled up the shovel it was burdened with a network of inter-connected roots tough enough to braid into rope. Damn. So, migraine and all, I hacked, bashed, pulled and cursed for about an hour. You want tough? Take a look at some of these things! I took pictures of them after I'd finally wrestled them out of the ground:

Embedded roots

See that stick? That was part of the root. Yes, I was uprooting a baby tree. And then there was this baby:

More roots

Man, those root fibers did not want to leave home! But, I finally succeeded, at least as far as I felt like going that afternoon. I had enough room in the newly denuded garden space for three of the five Iris plants Rosie had sent me. In they went, lined up like little soldiers. I looked over at the other two and marched them right over to my condo neighbor and co-owner and gave them to him. He's a dedicated gardener and has done a lot more with his side of the property than I have with mine, garden-wise.

You know, I looked at those little plants, all nice and happy in their new home, all nice and watered, and felt great. I'd accomplished something of consequence. The before and afters were really obvious:

Before:

Side Yard2

Side Yard

Now, here's what that same side yard looks like without the weeds and scrub, and with the Iris!

Planted Iris

Not bad for an afternoon of hacking, slashing and cutting. Good exercise!

Now, I've decided to call this part of the garden Rosie's Northern Garden. The more I think about it, the more I realize that part of the garden is just like her: tough and unyielding. She'll fight you every step of the way, no matter what. She's stubborn as a mule. It keeps her going, lets her do battle with the blindness and still come out on top, no matter how beaten up she gets in the process. No, you will not pull me out! No! No! No!

And me? I'm the patient gardener. I tug, pull, and heave, all with great love, and then plant a flower where there was once just a dark hole full of weeds and knotted roots.