Which Hazel?

That one! Right there—the Witch Hazel. Like ten thousand eyelashes mascara'd with sunshine. Smells like lemons and inspiration. You can't miss it. It's the brightest thing in February. Come on, stick your face in. Huff some Hazel, you'll feel better, trust me. 

The Good Woodchip Fairy

I think his name was actually Doug. But, yeah, the Good Woodchip Fairy is forever how Doug shall be known in the mythos of Fencebroke. For he rattled in like a diesel-powered sprite from nowhere on an otherwise humdrum afternoon, summoned by nothing more than an ancient ocarina and an e-mail. At the reins of his magical hydraulic truck, he beep-beep-beeped back into the driveway and unleashed a blessed tide of shredded pine and cedar to quell the infernal lawn I have neither the wits nor will to fight any longer.

Hey, this stuff smells pretty good, too. All hail Doug!

Whether or not Doug approves of his role in the local pantheon I cannot say, though he seemed, at heart, a good-natured imp. A more pressing question posed by his visitation is the matter of his opposite. Is there, to balance the gardening universe yin-yanglike—a Bad Woodchip Fairy out there somewhere? Cackling over a fire-belching woodchipper in search of … well, I can't say for certain to what ends an evil Doug would employ such arbitrary malevolence, but whatever it is, I bet it's chilling.

Just in case, we shall erect a small shrine to Doug, the Good Woodchip Fairy, consisting of an upright pickle fork—his preferred tool for disseminating the medium of his enchantment—draped in Carhartt garb. To this effigy, we will place small offerings of pine needles and Monster energy drinks in order to stay in his favor and discourage the frightening prospect of his Other.

It is a small price to pay. Especially since this sea of woodchips was, inexplicably, free of charge.

And then—BROCCOLI!

Two 'c's in broccoli, thank you

Like a groggy late-sleeper rolling out of bed straight into guilty zumba; like a truant worker sneaking in then clacking loudly on the keyboard to convince the office he was here all along; like a purple-sprouting flash mob that forgot to coordinate watches; it's broccoli time. Apparently. Late January is now broccoli time. Or so my weirdo garden would have you believe.

But why not broccoli? Who am I to question this midwinter chorus of cruciferous glee? Broccoli gotta be broccoli, y'know? Never mind that I've planted this same variety three times at all different times of year and never once gotten anything but sullen, barren stalks. Broccoli is, I guess, like a teenager—capricious, stubborn, lazy, but capable of amazing things if they would only look up from their stupid phone and put their mind to it. Also susceptible to aphids in warm weather. Is that a teenager thing? God, I hope my daughter never grows up.

We still haven't tasted it, but at this point the flavor is almost beside the point. It's fresh broccoli in January, which is like … I don't know, a foot massage at the dentist's. Only, you know, not creepy.

(*Bonus question for this post— the word “broccoli” appears in this entry almost ten times: can anyone guess how many times I correctly spelled “broccoli” on the first attempt while typing?)

Bring Forth the Hot Dogs!

 Oh sing in me, deep fires of the Earth.

<Low cackling>

Make your home in Fencebroke, within the new cauldron I have—er, the cauldron my wife has assembled for thee.

<Dragging of firepit across the lawn>

Come forth and feed upon my humble offering.

<Crumpling of newspaper and pizza coupons>

Crackle and roar into this garden. Unleash timeless inferno and blaze!

<Repeated striking of matches>

… Inferno and blaze—

<Cursing>

Inferno and—

<Rummaging in drawer. Flicking of lighter>

Ha! Inferno and blaze!

<Weak smoldering>

Good enough! Bring forth the hot dogs! Mmmwahahaaaa!

Anyone? Hey, could someone bring forth the hot dogs? They're right there, in the fridge.

<Slumping of shoulders>

Fine, never mind, I'll get them myself.

<Muttering under breath >

…

POLISH DOGS!!! MWAHAHA—hey, what happened to the timeless inferno … ?

<Raining raining rainrainraining for four more months>

Timeless inferno! Can I pencil you in for early June? Wonderful. And so, let the feast of a thousand cold hot dogs begin!

<Sifting through ashes>

Dangit, where's that pizza coupon?

Abduction

… Is the only possible explanation. Extraterrestrial, supernatural, parahorticultural—something freaky is afoot at Fencebroke.

Ebony Pearl is missing. She's a—was—a beautiful, unusual Rhododendron with dark, sultry leaves formerly planted about a foot from our front door. Then she vanished. Overnight. In her place, there is … nothing. No severed stem, no leaves, no hole in the ground where once her roots held tight. There is no evidence of a struggle. She was not dug up, cut down, ripped from the ground, or stricken in place. She was not in poor health, did not give any indication of dissatisfaction, malaise, or impending doom. She did not, as far as I can tell, even die. She's just not there.

It is as though she never were there. Like I had merely forgotten to plant something in that conspicuous 3x3 foot space I walk past on the way to my car every morning. Like the last year and a half's worth of fond gazes in her direction were nothing more than a recurring dream or drawn-out deja vu. Already her memory fades.

Did I imagine the whole thing? Did I ever have a rhody called 'Ebony Pearl'? Or is this yawning void in my garden indicative of some deeper, deleterious force at work in the fabric of my own being?

Probably not, but, you know … wow. What if?

And if she was, in fact, abducted—then by what hand? What agent's idiom could possibly include the surgical excision of rare plants from beneath a gardener's watchful eye. And to what end? Aliens probing for horticultural arcana in Fencebroke's borders? The astronomically improbable manifestation of quantum uncertainty on a macro scale right between the witch hazel and heather? Government experimentation in targeted teleportation run amok? Jealous neighbors? Rats?

Yeah, maybe just rats. They probably gnawed off the trunk just below the soil line and hauled off Ms. Pearl kicking and screaming into the night. Okay, fine, but 1.) How? 2.) Why? And 3.) What the hell, rats?

I'm getting kind of worked up about this Ebony Pearl thing. In my time as a gardener, I've killed lots of plants through neglect, ignorance, misfortune, and spite, but I've never yet lost one to … this. Whatever this is. I feel powerless, exposed, and confused. Not to mention paranoid. Didn't there used to be a plant there? How about there? Whatever happened to that cool Nandina I planted last year?

What if it happens again?

What if they come back for me?

That's it, I'm getting security cameras.

The (dis)satisfaction of a job well done

“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.

The Hive

bzzzzZZZZZZZ—

—Ahem! Attention! The following proclamation comes directly from the inner sanctum of Her Majesty Queen Aurea, supreme ruler of the Sod Pile Hive and proud mother to all faithful yellowjackets of Blue Fence Land:

Let it henceforth be known that on this day, the 20^th of August 2015, all lands bound by the Blue Fence have been seized by and claimed for the indomitable Sod Pile Hive and H.M. Queen Aurea's golden banner.

After months of unprovoked aggression on the part of Blue Fence Land's human occupants towards the Sod Pile Hive—which atrocities include, but are not limited to: nightly chemical attacks; baited traps; torrents of water; disparaging, foul language; and the irritating, meddlesome cultivation of ornamental plants known as “gardening” in lands infringing upon the Sod Pile Hive's peaceful, industrious claim—the courageous workers and warriors of our proud hive have at long last driven the offending primates to madness, to tears, and to retreat.

No longer shall we suffer the lumbering apes' sprinklers, lawnmowers, and other machines of war. No more shall our brave drones go about their honorable tasks under the shadow of irresistible, deadly traps, whose clear walls display the corpses of their brothers in barbaric glee. No longer shall the mere buzzing of our wings in flight serve to incite the wrath of our overlords. No more shall we be swatted at! No more shall we be trifled with! No more shall our hive live in fear!

For today, Victory is ours!

BZZZZZZ!