Wednesday, April 29, 2009

I gardened with a National Merit Scholar…and lived to tell about it!

Marriage is an interesting thing. The melding of two families, two sets of ideals, two ways of doing things. And it can heat up in the most interesting of places.

Like the garden.

Our yard has been a source of contention before we even move into our home. I insisted on dividing our lilies from our previous home before we moved. He was appalled. He wanted evergreens to line the sides of our yard. I was indifferent (hey, small yard.)

We have argued over the meaning of the word bush (Bill Clinton isn’t the only one who hedges over words). We’ve snipped about what to put in the mushy, shady areas where the grass just doesn’t grow. (Who doesn’t love a hosta?)

And then we finally put in our raised beds. Or not.

Five days into our project, we’re about two-thirds of the way through our raised bed construction for our veggie planting. Who knew the discussion would turn heated over that?

You see, while I hadn’t picked up a hammer to build a thing - he says that's his terrain - I have a sense on how to build a raised bed. It goes like this: Construct the bed. Then fill it.

My sweet husband – and incredibly intelligent man, I must say – apparently disagrees. He spent a chunk of the weekend ripping out sod, then turning in the pea, which apparently has resettled into a dusty mess that makes my sinuses go wild.

Finally, he built raised bed #1. And, as the sun was going down the other evening, I helped my husband lift all four walls up of what would be a raised bed in his view and put the frame on top of this mess.

Needless to say, it ain’t working.

As a mom, I’m shuddering. The bed walls are tottering a bit on the corners, as the dirt pile does what dirt piles do: spread out. I can see one of my kids falling as a result of it one of these days.

And as a gardener, I’m just waiting for my garden to wash out from under my bed, down the hill into the gutter.

So when this rain clears, we’ll be working to rearrange said bed. And maybe he’ll listen to me when we build the next one about how these things are done.

And, maybe, my very smart husband will stick to what he does best: Grilling what we girls grow.

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