William Wallace

  The last place we rented was old and pre-loved, it had character, probably in need of a good scrub down. It was dark and in some rooms, a little musty. The carpet was threadbare. There was dust in compounded layers. It smelled like old ladies. In winter it was bitterly cold. What endeared us to the house was also sometimes what frustrated us. However! It did have a GLORIOUSLY neglected garden. 

 


 This would soon become the garden to get these little hands dirty. It provided a small but important purpose and fed a long-niggling inkling to garden.

In this house we had a 12 month lease and some cagey landlords. It soon became clear that they obviously had grand plans for the property - 
 1. Renovate, 2. Sell for gazillions. 

 I foolishly hoped, that that their plan might have been a little more 'restore'; a little less 'renovate'....And that, at the very least, the garden we invested in would be, in some small way maintained (along with it's marvelous tenants). 
* For the melodramatic version of these events, check out the earlier blog post 'Multiple Choice'

Nearly two years down the track and I found myself driving past the old place. An enormous auction sign squarely in the middle of the front garden. I wondered in, no-one in sight and the side gate open. 

I'm not sure why I was surprised at the state of the backyard. In place of a vegie jungle, teapot walk, towering corn stalks, ferny corners, raised bed, and overhanging apple trees was - lawn. It looked disappointingly small and BLAND. All that was needed, I scoffed to myself, was a $10,000 barbeque, maybe a 'feature wall' and the ugliness would be truly complete! 

Everything that made the garden an interesting space was gone. All the squirrelling away done by the old couple who gardened here before us for 50 odd years was raized to the ground - along with anything we might have added in our short time there. 










I reasoned soon enough - this was clearly pointless sentimentality taking hold. It didn't last long. A rectangle of lawn can, of course, be a beautiful thing, to some beholders' eyes. And it was no longer our space. Good luck to the gazillionare who would live here and gaze lovingly over their 200 square metres of kikuyu each morning. sigh.





The last thing I noticed before I left was a small but defiant little plant having pushed it's way through the choking green carpet like a photosynthetic william wallace. It was....cripes, I'm tearing up at the thought of it... a little potato plant. A leftover warrior surviving and thriving despite the annihilation of the garden. I laughed at the sight of it. What a lovely farewell treat.


Take that, landlord lawn lovers!

Breaking Up

Well brothers and sisters, last week we finally received THE LETTER: Notice to Vacate. By registered post no less.  We have been given a final date to exit the premises due to the house being renovated and sold. 

And unexpectedly, since getting this letter, all the uncertainty, the guilt and neglect has waned.  Having a real-life end time feels better. I actually don't feel so bad. I  can realise the value of having rented a garden we've been allowed to dig up and re-fashion to our hearts' content. 

There is purpose again! The style and function of a good sturdy POT has moved up in my opinion. There are itches in my fingers and thumbs to start weeding again. Last summer's gloves, crusted with dry dirt and home to 2 tiny spiders may make yet make a comeback in the back garden.

There are 6 short weeks before we must vacate. I now find myself scanning the front and back yards for plants I put in that might survive a dig-up and re-planting into pots. 

There's been sunshine and afternoons at home on the occasional weekend lately which draws me out back to take a good look at what's still kicking and what's keeled over. 

And then there's the garlic. Organic. Heirloom. Grown by Dad. garlic. Perhaps the only thing I regret planting (now that I won't be here long enough to eat it) is the garlic. The seeds (garlic bulbs) went into the ground in April. I was looking forward to harvesting them in Oct-Nov and sending a few bulbs back to the Head Farmer to get his expert review on my first ever garlic harvest. That probably won't happen now. I've considered lobbying the landlord into letting me come back in November to pillage whatever's left of my tiny crop, if he hasn't built a 2 storey block of units on top of it by then. 

The other suprisingly glorious thing about receiving The Letter is that now there is... (I'm about to use a word I don't dig much) ... closure. Like a relationship gone to seed, all that edginess and bad feeling finally gives way and new choices arise. That wholesome dirt, the million wild worms,  those maniacally self-seeding tomatos, the garlic plants I may not get back, they're alright to let go. 

I get a good feeling about wherever we move to next, knowing the garden might be completely different to the  one I've been shacking up with this past year. And that will be ok with me. 

Multiple Choice

A few weeks ago we were informed that our house's owner is putting it up for sale. 
This has resulted in a complete abandonment of the garden on my behalf, as I've mooned about thinking about the fruitlessness of it all (in all senses of the word).  Cue:

mel·o·dra·ma

   

[mel-uh-drah-muh, -dram-uh]  Show IPA

–noun

1.

a dramatic form that does not observe the laws of cause andeffect and that exaggerates emotion and emphasizes plot or action at the expense of characterization.   

So what with all the morose reflection (and new cynical positioning on ALL property owners) I've barely had time to consider that A. the house may take months to sell; B. that the process of confirming the sale takes 2 or so months; or C. that the new owner may prefer us to stay living in the house.  There is NO TIME to spend on such fickle thoughts. I have pity and doom to admininster!


In light of all the uncertainty, I am circling around it all like a dog scratching the dirt for an old bone. (Ed: Whatever was wrong with the simple but reliable 'dog with a bone' analagy? What's wrong with a bit of brevity?) 
I know myself enough to realise I am not much of a fatalist. It doesn't matter how many times I utter the old soother "everything will work itself out" I still struggle with not being in control of my own immediate future. So the action I've ended up taking is the equal and exact opposite: inaction.


The garden has started looking like a couple of bongers live here. The grass is wild.  What's living has gone to seed. The weeds picked out 3 weeks ago have given up being dead and just started to grow again wherever they were dumped. I venture as far as the back step, trying not to look. Whatever is in pots, I want to surround myself with. I try not to gaze ahead, but rather, turn my back on the hasbeen vegie wonderland. 


So here I sit at the crossroads of a mighty multiple choice decision: 


A. Let it go like a poor man's permaculture,  be done with what's done, collect my potted plants and start the heinous, yet hopeful search for a house and garden somewhere else?


B. Believe in the vaguely comforting promise of fate and all the favours it might owe me by continuing on with the garden loving in present state, disregarding what may or may not happen?


C. Refuse to move at any stage in the process, build a garden jungle, and squat til the police have to mandhandle me out the door in nothing but my wellingtons?






cripes, its lucky I don't have any real problems.