Nicole Scurlock
Once a year, I tend to the flower beds in front of our house. I experience a burst of seasonal motivation which propels me outside and into the dirt with gardening gloves, a small trowel, a cushioned knee pad, and an industrial-sized trash bag. I spend one or two days eradicating every speck of invasive green I find.
I tamp down the mole hills and generously poison the ground around the tufts of live-forevers that sprout each year on either side of themountainous hedges in front of our patio. I’ve never actually planted any flowers in the flowerbeds. The live-forevers came with the house. Nevertheless, when I am finished tending, I stand proud and accomplished with a touch of sun on my nose and cheeks, surveying my work with two competing thoughts: 1) No weeds will dare grow here after all of my efforts, and 2) If the weeds do grow in, I’ll just pop out every week or so to pluck them up. Neither of these things is true.
Still, I feel very hopeful and outdoorsy, and I talk my husband into a trip to the local home improvement store to purchase fresh mulch, new hummingbird feeders, and maybe an attractive new flower bed border. It’s the only time of the year both my husband and I are excited to visit the home improvement store. We breeze past the plants and flowers, preoccupied with the sights of DIY firepits and matching patio furniture, and we share visions of hosting family and friends for barbecues and cornhole tournaments. We are going to have a yard that functions. We are going to cultivate curb appeal. We are going to whip our property into shape.
An annual reverie.
Something about this year feels different. As the temperatures warm and the clocks spring forward, I’m thinking less about an entire-yard makeover and more about making a small, purposeful addition. I feel energized to breathe new life into my flower beds. Never mind the feeders and the border; a pop of color among the live-forevers would be nice to drive up to at the end of each day. I imagine returning from the home improvement store with my arms full of flowers. Or more practically, one perennial plant. Something leafy and vibrant. Something hardy and resilient. Something that will withstand the direct sunlight. The storms. The rabbits.
Browsing online nurseries, I feel a bit like I’m adopting a pet. Which sort of plant fits my lifestyle? Which sort of plant will thrive despite my hands-off approach to gardening?
Honestly, I don’t have the best track record with plants. The indoor ivy my father gave me for my birthday: dead. The spider plant my daughter brought home from school: dead. The hanging flowers on the back porch: dead. I need a self-sufficient plant. The cat of plants. Maybe I’ll have better luck with growing something outdoors. Sun, soil, and water come with the territory.
A cautious optimism has taken root. I’ll wait to see what blooms.
Nicole Scurlock lives in Greenfield with her husband and housecat. Their 20-year-old daughter attends
Purdue University. Nicole enjoys reading and baking in her spare time.
