The Sorry Gardener

I’m not exactly certain how many crocuses I planted, but only six survived in my garden this year. Make that seven.

I planted a bag of 20 dark purple crocuses under the ninebark—that would be the Diablo ninebark. Also known as “squirrel territory.” I distinctly remember planting them. It was notable because it was in a month resembling fall. Not a single survivor.

I also remember planting the rare blush-colored crocus that I splurged on from a bulb catalog despite the price and there being only six in a bag. Those six bulbs caused me considerable guilt as they passed the months of winter in the laundry room and began to sprout through the bag. So I distinctly remember planting them in February in a prominent spot to guarantee I’d get to enjoy them. And I distinctly remember thinking of a better prominent spot. But I distinctly forgot where that spot was.

That same day, I also planted 20 yellow crocuses under the American cranberry. I poked my finger deep into the mulch and stuck in the little bulbs. I watched and waited, expecting a bunch of little soldiers to appear, but only six survived. I carefully scooped them up and moved them to a more prominent spot.

But there’s a lavender crocus that blooms every year, without fail, right in the middle of the yard—proving the Darwin theory. It’s a leftover from before the remodel, and it not only survived the bulldozers, but each spring it emerges boldly in the yard and braves 12 rampant dog feet—16 when Willy the neighbor dog visits. I go about my life, the lavender crocus blooms, I marvel for a moment at the wonder of nature, I send Ma Bell a picture to assure her in the darkest January hour that spring is coming, then the lavender crocus eventually gets squished, and it comes back the next year. Now that’s a crocus.