 I'd like to tell you that I love to garden.
Truthfully, I do love my garden, and I love my husband who does all of the lifting and moving of plants for me. I especially love to paint my garden, and anyone else's when it comes to it. I can live without all that weeding and pruning. We had a teaser here in Boston about two weeks ago. It was warm, and sunny, and spring was in the air. I was saved from committing the costly error of starting my garden too early (waaaay too early as I was told) by Maggie Oldfield. Maggie owns a gem of a gardening center and nursery here in my town, and when I drove over there two Sundays ago, she preached. As in Preached. Referencing the last full moon in May, Maggie gave me The Look and told me to wait until May 21st before handing over any monies to her and putting any annuals in the ground. Fine. Then the rains came- you know the ones, the rains that never showed up in April. Poetically speaking, they are the good rains, the "soft" rain that we need desperately. The rain took the edge off of my desire to grab a cup of coffee and start pointing to John where to put what. The rains continue. When I can't plant my garden, I can and do paint one. It's rather the same thing; I start with a prepared bed, in this case a gessoed canvas. I pick and choose what to plant/paint and where to put it, and decide how many, and so on. In the photo above, I've stacked a finished garden on top of the new one I'm planting/painting below it. I'm thinking it's time to add some flowering branches from our crabapple tree next. After all, I have time to kill. (I hope Maggie sees this...just to remind her that I am here, waiting patiently) Are we there yet, Maggie? Margaret
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