“Hey, check out all the bulbs I just
planted,” said no one ever.
What'd be the point? You spend hours
hunched over, on your knees, stabbing at the obdurate earth in an
increasingly wild, spiteful, and unproductive manner, stuffing the
ungrateful bulbs into their new home, only to step back and face the
demoralizing realization that you have apparently accomplished
nothing at all. There is no evidence to vouch for your toil. Most of
gardening offers at least some small visual or aesthetic reward for a
day's labor and pain. But with bulbs, the stupid things are buried,
invisible, and forgotten as soon as you pop your spine into some
semblance of a hominid and stagger off in search of ibuprofen.
Here, by way of example, take a look at
Fencebroke's newest bed, along the sidewalk in our front yard:
 |
| Imagine it like this, but better. And maybe I buried treasure, too. |
A lot of work went into this. Removing
sod, fighting tree roots, laying compost, choosing, arranging, and
planting plants. But with every step, there was clear visual
affirmation that the place was changing as a result of my moving
around and doing things—little psychological high-fives when I
stood back and looked. Bare dirt: high-five!
The dark stain of good compost: chest bump! The
composition of plants: <catcall> looking good, baby!
The plants sunk and watered, a
landscape improved: vuvuzelas!
Bulbs
planted: waa-waaa …
Trust
me, they're there. Lots of fragrant Narcissus, Muscari, and
Hyacinth. They'll be
beautiful. Maybe. Who knows. Check back in Spring and we'll see how
many weren't dug up by squirrels; or lost to rot; or skewered by my
own shovel when I forget that I planted bulbs there because
there's no way to tell!
<sigh> here's
to a job well done.
