Man About the House

My life as keeper of the green(-ish)

Alan Liere   /  Correspondent

Were my parents still alive, I am fairly certain they would not totally approve of the way I am. They did, after all, spend a collective 100 years of their lives showing me how to maintain a yard and garden, and so far this summer, I have done neither. As a matter of fact, for the past five years, my green thumb has become somewhat yellowish around the edges and if I don't mend my ways, I'm likely to lose the nail.

Actually, to say my parents "maintained" a yard is akin to saying Tiger Woods maintains his golf game. My parents' yards were trimmed and toned, manicured and massaged. They dominated the local yard-growing scene for five decades. When I was growing up, I was sure they kept the most perfect yards in Spokane (my own forced labor contributing significantly), and that evaluation did not change in the least when I took on a mortgage and crabgrass of my own. How could it change with a mother so zealous she once "painted" green-dyed water on a doggy-caused yellow spot on her back lawn?

For my parents, there was much joy in the creation of a perfect yard and garden. The end result justified the work and the expense. My father looked forward to getting home from a fishing trip so he could dig in the garden. He carried around pictures of his pumpkins. When I honestly analyzed my motivation, I was forced to admit I dug in the garden to keep my father's approval. Also to gather fishing worms.

I carried around pictures of my dog.

My parents loved their perfect grounds so much they refused to keep a dog. Worse yet, they refused to allow me to keep a dog. Today, I am pretty certain life is not worth much without a big dog, even if he does nothing more than lick my face now and then and sprawl in the driveway on a hot day. I used to dig up the inevitable circles of dead grass and replace them with new sod. Now, I merely wait for them to grow back.

As long as I'm confessing my landscaping weaknesses, you might as well know my raspberries do not look good at all this year. Many of the new canes died before leafing out, and the ones that remain do not have many blooms. Also, the blackberries are looking sort of puny, the gooseberry has caterpillars, the rhubarb died (who has ever heard of such a thing?), and with the exception of the pie cherry, the other four trees in my "orchard" will probably not collectively produce enough fruit for a single pie. I didn't spray them this year, and neither did I prune. I did, however, have a wonderful spring trip through Hells Canyon on a jet boat, visit my daughter and her family in Billings, and shoot several rounds of sporting clays.

I planted a garden, but already I'm pessimistic about its productivity, as I'll be gone quite a bit in late summer. I'm sure I'll come home to a prolific weed patch, which will require a thorough weeding and rototilling to loosen up the soil. As things stand right now, I have suspended weed spraying, fertilizing, and resodding doggy-induced dead spots in my lawn. I haven't, however, abandoned my roots entirely. Most certainly, Mom and Dad are already restless in their graves. I don't think I could stand the guilt of not weeding the garden when it needs it.