Someday I’ll have a driveway with blooming trees

I’ve always dreamed of having a driveway lined with blooming trees—and I still do, even though I have the trees.

A couple of years ago, I bought five—yes, five—bareroot prairie fire crabapple trees. I’m a sucker for dark foliage, and I loved the intense magenta blooms. And, as a bonus, the cultivar was developed at the University of Illinois—Mr. Sorry’s alma mater. He didn’t find that nearly as endearing as I did, however. He was more concerned with where the hell I was going to plant five trees and when because they were wilting.

But for once in my gardening life, I had a plan. So I was quite pleased with myself to tell him that I was going to plant them along the sunny side of the driveway. He looked at me. “You mean where the utilities are buried?”

Since I rarely have Plan A, I certainly didn’t have Plan B. The other side of the driveway was too shady—frankly, the “sunny” side of the driveway was probably too shady, too. But it was my dream, damn it. So I heeled the trees into the compost pile to think about it for a while. After several practice plantings, here’s where they ended up.

One of the trees died somewhere along the way. I forget why. Plant mortality is pretty high here, and I tend not to shed tears anymore.

One of the trees is planted in the secret garden, which sounds so much more romantic than “over by the compost pile.” Well, I think I actually planted it. Maybe it’s still just heeled in.

One of the trees is planted on the rocky hill so we can enjoy it from the kitchen window. It’s a very bendy tree that leans forward with the slope of the hill, even though Mr. Sorry gently trussed it up with some old garden hose and rope. The soil is so rocky on the hill that planting that one tree required the exertion of planting two, so I’m never moving it. Ever. And I’m pretty sure I busted the septic pipe that runs down to the drainfield, because that tree has grown like a weed and mysteriously never needs water in the summer.

Another of the trees is planted at the corner of the house, so we can enjoy its lovely blooms when we walk into the master bedroom … when we’re going to bed … at night … when it’s dark. Mr. Sorry worries that it’s too close to the house. I tell him it’s not. But it probably is. I was thinking about moving it anyway, because a ninebark would look better there.

And the last of the trees is planted in the flowerbed along the front walk. It’s one of my few beds with full sun and one of my few beds without rocks—where the digging is easy when you’re tired from planting five trees. It’s also the first tree you see when you pull into the drive, and its top is bent over at a 90-degree angle. I don’t think it’s seeking the sun, either. I think it’s just defective. The one in the compost pile has a lovely shape, though.