A Gardenful of Introductions

Greetings, friends!

You might be wondering who I am and what my intentions are for this blog.
Allow me to satiate your curiosity: my name is Tilly and I am new to the world of gardening.

Well, mostly new. You see I was raised around gardens. From a young age I can recall playing in the dirt, pulling the petals off of wilting tulips, drinking up the lilacs that bloomed by my bedroom window, or affectionately throwing worms at my mom. In fact, I have more memories of being outside in the garden than anything else. I loved to spend leisurely afternoons hiding amongst the cedars, pretending I was sequestered in a forest somewhere. I greatly anticipated the arrival of new blooms on each of the rose bushes, or plucking ripe strawberries by the shed. And I remember fondly that my friend next door and I would swoon over peonies, then we would cringe in disgust when we'd find them swarming with ants!

My love of the outdoors was born out my experiences in the garden, as amateurish and unplanned as it may have been, it was ours and I loved it.

 
Over the years my parents' garden became a veritable jungle. A pond was dug, and at times plantings were designed around it. Then the grand old pine had to come down and our woodland garden was suddenly thrust into full sunlight. Some plants vanished, some fried, while others grew out of control. The bare, exposed bed didn't remain that way, it afforded my parents a level of creativity previously unavailable to them, like a blank canvas primed for experimentation. My mother, when let loose in a nursery, is a lot like a kid in a candy shop. She often buys plants for the sheer love of them, like dianthus, even if she has nowhere to plant them or already owns the same variety thrice over. Oftentimes only half of what she would buy would make it into the beds, the other half would dry up and sizzle in their peat pots. And somehow, despite any direct effort, the garden grew. And grew. And grows ever still.

I remember as a child assuming that shoving every square inch of garden bed with plant life was considered the norm. I felt exposed anywhere that didn't have towering cedars and thick lush crops of daylilies or thrashing, encroaching rose bushes that would prick my skin when passing through the broken garden gate. I developed a kind of phobia of open spaces, and when I moved into my first place with my partner, I ended up with a bare grass lot where nothing would thrive. I felt naked. I hated it. I then had to endure a similar torture when living in a condo, where all I could afford space wise was a singular large planter that I'd continuously stuff with annuals that would die, one after another. I wasn't lucky enough to live in a unit that got much sunlight, so container gardening brought only brief glimpses of joy. It was an endlessly painful struggle to have the desire for a full traditional garden but have no way to see it fulfilled. Which is why I'm here now. 

My husband and I, like many of our generation, had a strong desire for home ownership. I wanted a detached, private lot, not only for the garden's sake but also for my own sanity. I grew up living that lifestyle and when I left it behind I realized just how important it still is to me to have my own backyard. In the fall of 2019 we lucked out and (somehow) our offer on a mid century cape cod with a deep, treed lot, was accepted. I remember stepping into the backyard and instantly feeling a connection to it. In fact, there wasn't anything in particular about the house itself that stood out to me, it was the backyard that piqued my interest. I felt like it was calling to me, like it needed me, probably because it actually did.

Both the house and yard were painfully neglected by the previous owner. I inherited the remnants of what I'm told was once a beautiful English garden, but what I got were beds smothered in ivy that was two feet deep. The first year was a hurdle to remove as much of the tangled weeds as possible. We removed a dozen utility grade bags filled to the brim with ivy and goutweed. Underneath it all I found sea shells, chunks of marble and glass, partial garden ornaments, full garden ornaments, and perhaps most shockingly of all a very large rock waterfall feature in the back corner. That was fall, followed by a long winter spent wondering at what awaited me, what reward would follow our laborious efforts. When spring finally came, much to my delight, I discovered siberian squill, muscari, lilac, a cherry tree, some hellebore, and wild tulips. I also found sad and struggling plants that longed to breathe again, like the flowerless viburnum and the rose bush that repeatedly got chewed up and destroyed by squirrels.

But light is at the end of the tunnel. It has been two years and three springs now, I have seen the viburnum bloom as it should, and it smells heavenly and sweeter than lilac. I have also seen the rose bush bloom, plucked the cherries from the tree, discovered a peach tree (and ate that, too), and planted many of my own plants. The garden is growing but I have a long road ahead of me which is why I'm choosing to write this blog. I want somewhere to chronicle the progress, to share my struggles and hopefully inspire other beginner gardeners in their own journey. I realize there's not much to glean from a novice's experiences, at least not to a more seasoned gardener, but for those only dipping their toes into the wonderful world of gardening, whether that's in their own yard, in a container garden on a private balcony, or in a rented community lot, I hope that I can reach someone, encourage and educate them through my own trials and tribulations. 

I hope you find a little piece of inspiration here.