Playing in the Dirt

Early spring gives the gardener license to savor an atavistic, earthbound ritual that may have been lost to many who toil in cubicles and rarely soil their hands. Gloves or no gloves, soiling one's hands is the name of the game when the time comes to remove winter blankets and awaken sleeping gardens. Timing is critical, for an early reveille can coax drowsing perennials into a flush of growth that will be nipped by the next cold snap or stressed by drought if rains are infrequent and the hose is not yet in place.

The patient gardener is rewarded by soil that welcomes attention. My springtime ritual begins with gentle removal of dead stalks and the leaves that collected around the bases of plants. Celebration (and sometimes mourning) attends the visit to each perennial clump. An open winter such as the one we just experienced takes its toll, so I approach the earliest garden visits with a measure of trepidation. Curiously, some stalwarts have succumbed (or are sleeping in longer than usual) while new plantings such as Stachys grandiflora 'Superba,' Achillea 'Nana compacta,' and a collection of late-season bargain mums leap into action with vigor and apparent enthusiasm.

Once cleared of debris, the gardens are ready for serious grooming: tackling the dandelions that escaped notice last fall, potting up seedlings that may be more welcome elsewhere, lifting the rambling rose that has been inextricably bound with grass. I work around the rose for awhile, gazing back at the hummock-from-hell while pondering its fate. Acknowledging equal measures of guilt and remorse, I consign the rose to the burn pile. The treacherously thorny plant had rambled well beyond my comfort zone and failed to pay the rent with blooms worthy of the work involved to keep it within bounds. I'll chalk up the loss to experience and drape the split-rail fence with a kinder, gentler vine.

I inhale the perfume of freshly-turned earth and marvel at its tilth--the wonderful texture of crumbled chocolate cake that rewards years of mulching and composting. (I take more pride in the occasional remark about the quality of our amended soil than in all of the compliments about flowers and garden layout.)

Garden outlines have blurred over the winter and, since I am not a fan of edging materials, I set about redefining the soft curves of the entry garden with a sharp spade. Frugal with soil, I kneel to thump every savory morsel from the grass clumps. Now the fun begins in earnest. In a routine I've streamlined over the years, I place two wheelbarrows just-so behind an old trailer brimming with leaf compost. My husband assembled a screening device with hardware cloth stretched over a frame that fits over one of the wheelbarrows. Shoveling the rich brown compost onto the screen, I use an old, lightweight hoe to separate artifacts (cones, snack wrappers, mechanical flotsam, small toys, etc.) from gourmet soil dressing and then toss the debris into the second wheelbarrow. Returning to the freshly-groomed garden with a full wheelbarrow, I spread a soft spring blanket over the earth. I take time to gently fluff compost around each plant, sculpting with a hand fork and taking care not to smother the awakening youngsters. The result is simply stunning: more promise and order than I shall see again anytime soon, but I am satisfied and very, very stiff.

A friend states that rain on Easter Sunday means that we shall have rain for the following seven Sundays. Sure enough, we have a gentle shower during the night. I imagine the pampered perennials drinking in the rain and stretching their toes. I doze off dreaming about repeating the sensual rite of spring in the next garden.