Bushel Basket

There is a bushel basket out back by the potting shed (the floor of which will break through one of these days). The basket is filled with chrysanthemums that should not be. It – the basket – was stored in the garage (really more of a large shed with a leaky roof and peeling paint; there is a theme here), in the dark all winter. It had been planted with chrysanthemums from Walmart for the fall, inexpensive annuals meant only for a season. Across from the basket (the bottom of which is sure to give way if it is lifted) stand three pots of more annual chrysanthemums that were stored in the shed, and on the other side of a small wall is a large square planter filled with even more. The shed has filtered light that comes through plastic-covered windows at either end, so the yellowed leaves that shot forth in the early spring had some reason for being, but not much. The basket’s residents had none.

I think perhaps Mother Nature is extending some kindness toward me this year. The dog ate my summer annuals, you see. She took us to the veterinarian and spent well over $200 on vaccinations, leaving the budget bereft of plant money. I can’t blame her. She needs to protect herself from the unkindness that nature can extend to her, although she does, in fact, not like doing so. She would rather have had my brightly colored annuals available for tromping down if she pleased.

On the other hand, there are the roses that held such promise weeks ago. Now they don’t and I am not sure what I did – or did not – do to them. Their rose garden is old and should be stable, but perhaps it wants to follow in the footsteps of the garage and the shed. The blossoms try, but then wither on the branch, barely able to display the petals and colors they want to offer up so naturally. I trim them off sorrowfully and ask Mother Nature how she can be so cruel here while so kind to the bushel basket.

She is also kind to the hostas and ferns that have grown to gigantic proportions already this year. Their abundance is startling. I have done nothing to deserve them, or perhaps doing nothing is what they needed. They will stand while the garage may fall, and then they can move forward to take over the former home of the lawn mower, enemy of the grass that wants to grow beside them.

The buttercup (“Ranunculus”) flourishes throughout, attempting to destroy whatever good there is in the garden – choking, spreading, anchoring itself tightly in soil where it is not wanted. If I let it be, it may knit together the floorboards of the potting shed and become a friend to me. I am doubtful. Buttercups must have some use, other than determining whether or not one likes butter. I want to like them; they, however, give me scant chance.

I have meandered. I had little reason to begin. The bushel basket struck me with its greenery and bade me set fingers to keys to announce its success to the world. The rest merely marched onto the page to accompany her, as they do outside. She is the key to the garden this summer, the image I will bear in mind as I face whatever tasks are demanded of me. I applaud her stalwart demeanor, her determination while in the dilapidated garage and her energy in holding up the shed.

She is a bushel basket filled with nourishment of a different sort. I am willing to be fed.