I'm convinced it was more than happenstance that my first gardening venture, in which my mother told me to pull out all the clover, ended with Mom stuttering through a shocked, "Don't you know what clover is?" when I proudly handed her my armful of what turned out to be irises.
My thumb is green. My plants? Not so much.
But two Master Gardeners visited this week, and the garden is hopeful.
I snuck this picture of my mother-in-law moving the large...erm...bushicus pricklipus from the middle of the garden to the more visually pleasing corner:
And then Karen came by Thursday, said, "Oh, she moved the ____________________ [insert real name, which escapes my mind because I do not remember first and last names unless I'm yelling them daily]! Oh, wonderful! Oh, I just want to come garden Saturday!"
So she did. She called it therapy. Or she did, until the six older children joined her. Then she stopped calling it that.
Ethan and I still need to edge and mulch it, but the garden is full. Bedded down for winter are irises, lilies, acuba, daffodils, tulips, phlox, columbine, and a baby maple that's staying warm until we decide where to put it. And those bushicus pricklipus.
Or is it pricklipi?