A Final Thought: Of gnomes and things
By Mitch Allen
In case you haven’t noticed, it’s taken spring a long time to arrive in Northeast Ohio, as if the sun’s annual coaxing of hostas, clematis and Solomon’s seal out of the cold ground has been unusually difficult, like trying to rouse a teenager out of bed.
According to Northeast Ohio horticulturist Michelle Riley, CLT, the flora really are sleeping in a bit late this season, but not as late as it seems.
“Last year, we were about two weeks ahead of normal and this year we’re about two weeks behind,” she told me.
“As a result, it can feel like spring this year is a full month behind. It’s all about soil temperature.”
That seems about right. On April 30 last year I took a photo of my blooming clematis to send to my father-in-law who had helped me transplant them.
Then this year, I took a photo of the same plants on the same date—April 30.
You can see both photos below and judge for yourself.
I don’t recall how or when I got into gardening. I think it happened as slowly as the rising crocus. My golf clubs and fishing rods were brought out with less and less regularity until I could no longer even find them, slowly replaced by spades, hoes, bags of peat moss and a squeaky wheelbarrow.
“Gardening comes to us later in life because of our declining testosterone,” a former fishing buddy told me.
“Speak for yourself,” I replied.
My wife and I enjoy gardening together. She prefers flowers while I prefer other garden features, such as rocks, trellises, statuary, arbors, pots, bird baths, sculptures, benches, bird feeders, and pretty much anything moss-covered.
“The line between ‘beautiful’ and ‘tacky’ is really, really thin,” she reminds me, “and we’re one gnome away from crossing that line.”
Hey, don’t be hatin’ on gnomes.
When my wife does her annual planting, she lifts each plant to her face and speaks to it gently before placing it into the loamy earth.
“Everyone needs a little encouragement,” she explains.
I used to think that was crazy, but, somehow—now that my Big Bertha oversized driver has been replaced by a shovel—I think it’s really sweet.
For Mother’s Day last week, I gave my wife a day in the garden. She planted while I served as her sous chef—cleaning out pots, delivering potting soil to her, clearing away the empty plastic flats and containers that gathered at her feet.
And holding the umbrella.
That’s right, not even the spring rains will stop us from meeting our looming Memorial Day mulch-spreading deadline.
“I’m out of plants,” she says. “We need to go back to the nursery.”
She sees my eyes light up.
“No,” she says. “No more gnomes.”