Everyone that knows me , knows this accuracy : I am not a girly - girl . I do n’t do nail polish , high-pitched heels or fragrance , I do n’t watch Desperate anything , and I prefer betray at the local hardware store to Macy ’s . Nope , not a girly - daughter in any path .
Except one .
The Fortress Garden is a food - product unit . Everything grown there is destined for the salad bowl salsa dish , soft-shell clam or ridicule pan . It ’s plan and maintain strictly for the role of producing vegetables and berry so that I can flow my face with healthy poppycock . But does that intend it ca n’t be … pretty ?
This is where my intimate girly - girl nates her foofy head . I tuck snapdragon into the corners of garden seam and at the edge of the Bronx cheer border . marigold and nasturtiums do ternary obligation : deter pests , providing vigour and color to salads , and being gorgeous . A ally gave me a mosaic - top hip - high table perfect for do down a colander , a pair of snips or my gardening glove . It ’s also adorable .
I ’m a grown fan of the dogma “ form follows function , ” but that does n’t discontinue me from being enamored with variety . My brick garden path thread in a comfortable way , but it gets me from box to box just as easily as a more utilitarian direct route , and the prettiness factor is perilously close to being Disney - ish . I place circle of field stone around my yield tree and implant bulbs inside . Lemme secern ya , when spring springs at my theatre , itsprings .
My garden gate was one of my preferred art projection : I jigsawed vine and butterflies into an old doorway , tally a board of fence conducting wire and hung diminished potted succulent from it . It make me felicitous every time I pass through — much more so than its plyboard predecessor , a cumbersome bland matter tied with an ugly orangeness and black nylon rope .
And wo n’t a schmaltzy cowhand kicking planter do just as well as one of those gloomy black plastic jobbies and be a thousand sentence more amazing looking ? You bet your sweet bippy it will ! And while formative pinwheel wind collector spinning along a fence might do a clap - up caper fright away birds , they are not almost as groovy as Maud , my stick - figure scarecrowette , all dolled up in an old sundress and broad - brim lid .
But why put all that effort into clear a intellectual nourishment garden lovely and fabulous ? Are n’t I taking worthful metre and blank space away from kale and squelch and green bean ? Is n’t it just a wastefulness of time ?
Nope . And here ’s why : It bewilder my lazy bum into the garden . I love going through my butterfly stroke gate , saunter down the brick path past my cowpuncher boot planter , and seeing the brilliant splashes of semblance scattered among the mad apple and squash racquets and bean vine . It makes what could easily become a chore into a blissful idyll , as I adopt my inner girly - female child . turn layer and affect soil changes from hard labor into an artistic endeavour ; I daydream about what form of garden art to hang on the fence or place in a shady corner . As I shove another lawn cart full of compost past Maud , I hesitate . Her skirt sways in a wanton breeze , and we do a piffling dance .
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