That’s what I get for making a tongue-in-cheek comment about being in zone 7B or 8A depending on whether I want to pre-chill my tulip bulbs in the About Me box on my sidebar. Turns out that my 7B has become 8B.

Really? 8B? This is exactly how I felt in the Nordstrom’s lingerie department after my first professional bra fitting when I discovered that I’d been wearing the wrong cup size for my entire life. No wonder my heucheras have been spilling over the sides of the pots!

And when did this new categorization actually occur? Sure, the USDA just updated the info but it had to have taken some time to do all of the research and Photoshop the new maps. So exactly how many seasons have I been making wrong zone assumptions? And, more importantly, is this going to make me a better gardener in 2012 now that I’m working with accurate information? Or will it just make my heucheras more comfortable?

You sure are a persuasive bunch. I’ve been so touched by your kind comments to my previous post cajoling me to keep blogging—even if some of you were just being polite, like your mothers taught you.

Apparently my approach to blogging is as flawed as my approach to gardening. I go and get these ideas in my head about how things should be in a perfect world and forget that sometimes a beautiful thing “just happens” along the way, such as having readers who care. And when it does I should probably just go with it.

It’s kind of like the variegated columbine I planted a couple of years ago. I worried and fretted and stewed over finding just the perfect spot for it in the garden. Then I forgot to water it, and it died. Story of my life.

What I didn’t realize was that the columbine had scattered a zillion seeds. When I noticed them sprouting, I didn’t expect much. But I let them grow—mostly because I didn’t have any better ideas for that bare spot.

The first year, the little columbines grew slowly and didn’t bloom at all. But the foliage was pretty and slug-proof(!) and sprang back quickly after winter. So I let them grow for another season.

This year, they’re huge and blooming profusely. Nevermind that for a perfect world, they’re planted too close together and entirely without rhyme or reason and are too tall for that spot.

And nevermind the little voice in my head that’s already scheming to dig them up and move them to “a better spot,” to tweak and edit and make that little part of the garden perfect, as I attempt to do with so much of my life. To that little voice, I say: Sit down and shut up. Sometimes happy accidents happen. And when they do, go with it.

And so it is with blogging. Apparently, somewhere along the way, I scattered some seeds among you that I didn’t realize were growing. Thank you for all of your previous comments letting me know.

So I’ll be sticking around this spot for a while longer. Even if this goes down in history as the gloomiest Pacific Northwest summer ever, surely I can come up with something worthwhile to say about something or other. Besides, I prefer flower photos with raindrops anyway.

I’ve been considering it for a while, and the exceptionally glum Pacific Northwest spring just seems like another sign that it’s time to go.

Writing this blog over the past couple of years has shown me that maybe I know a little more about gardening than I realized, even though some part of me may always be a sorry gardener. And I’m almost okay with that now … as long as my lettuces are planted on a grid.

Thanks for reading, whether you’ve followed me from the start or are one of the many nice people I’ve crossed paths with around the garden blogosphere.

Happy gardening!

Kelly

Well, this blogging year is off to an impressive start. My first post of 2011 not only misquoted the Sesame Street song but also had a typo.

Then I accidentally deleted what was supposed to be yesterday’s nice little play-on-words post about winter savory and how, with the holidays behind us and the tree down and the decorations put away, I can finally savor the winter lull and work in earnest on a couple of projects that need my attention, with no tempting distractions until the earliest spring bulbs wake the garden for another year.

There was also a bit about the hilarity of Mr. Sorry and I wrestling the Christmas tree to the floor this year, given that I only have one good arm and he has a crick in his neck that causes him to walk around like a rooster. I think I also pointed out that when you live halfway across the country from your families, you have no one to call for help if you’re both in traction when your formerly fresh tree has been up since the day after Thanksgiving and is sparking from the heat of the lights. I may also have said that the tree was literally covered with dust. Or maybe I decided not to mention that in case it reflected poorly upon my housekeeping skills.

Anyway, maybe it was all for the best that post never saw the light of day because I really needed a photo of my winter savory to tie it all together. And even though I cranked my sore elbow around in inhumane positions, I couldn’t get a decent shot of the savory to save my life. So, instead, I offer you this photo of marjoram with the winter savory there under the snow, and you’ll just have to use your imagination.

… is not like the other one?

So much for any resolutions about not being a sorry gardener this year.

Lindy’s sniffing them to see if they’re lettuce. She loves lettuce.

I’m still in a hard sprint to get all of my plants in the ground before the onslaught of months-long Pacific Northwest rains. I’m making excellent progress, but not quite fast enough. Isn’t that always the case, though?

Today I put in a 10-hour gardening day and realized at some point that I was counting aloud to myself, like sheep, as I put each daylily division in the ground: one hundred one, one hundred two, one hundred three ….

When I had to turn on the porch lights so I could see and heard myself muttering, “I’ll give up my spade when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers,” I figured I’d better hang it up for the night.

One more day of partial sun—if I’m not too stiff and sore to roll out of bed in the morning.

Bing Maps Image (c) NAVTEQ, Pictometry Bird's Eye, MDA Geospatial, and Microsoft Corporation

The other night, while Mr. Sorry was waiting around for me to quit reading garden blogs, give him my come-hither look, and say, “Let’s go to the bedroom, big boy,” he amused himself by zooming in on aerial views of our house on Bing Maps. “Look!” he said. “There are your buckets in the yard.”

I figured he was just yanking my chain because my buckets get on his nerves. I use them for weeding and transplanting and just about everything else they invented a wheelbarrow for. I have a wheelbarrow, but I prefer buckets. And, sure enough, there they were scattered around the yard—on my permanent aerial record.

Isn't the zoom detail amazing?

The screenshot above doesn’t do justice to the amazing zoom detail—especially if you know what you’re looking at. I know from the green cushion on the chaise lounge on the back patio that I must’ve been sitting in the sun that day. From a different angle, I could zoom in and see our white dog, Spike, in his favorite spot on the back porch.

The Kousa dogwoods in full bloom guarantee that the shots were taken in May. But it must’ve been a couple of years ago, based on various clues like the vehicles in the driveway and the dead pine in the back yard that fell the winter of 2008. Also, I vaguely recall helicopters accosting the neighborhood on a warm, sunny day a few years ago. At the time, I assumed it was just a drug bust.

It’s surprising that the garden’s strengths and weaknesses at ground level are also apparent from the air. The lovely dark foliage of the Diablo Ninebark and Royal Burgundy Cherry pop against the green, just as I intended. But that poor Prairiefire Crabapple standing alone on the hill with nothing to anchor it to the other beds looks silly, high or low. Damn, I swore I wasn’t going to move that thing. But now that I know it’s an aerial embarrassment, I may have to rethink that.

I may have to rethink some other things, too. Occasionally, I’m topless in that chaise lounge with the green cushion that you can zoom right in on. And one of my great pleasures in life is squatting in the yard to pee when I’m too filthy to go inside. And when Mr. Sorry waves at the planes as they fly over, I always roll my eyes like he’s a dork and say, “You know they can’t possibly see you.” I may have to rethink that, too.

2. Empty the pots. Dig a hole “right there” if a plant has been parked in the same spot for an entire season. No questions asked.

3. Banish the buckets and trash bags. Before I unearth a transplant, decide where to move it and … wait for it … dig the new hole.

4. Plan my garden projects a little more and wing them a little less. But don’t take the fun out of it.

5. End my gardening day sooner, before I collapse in a quivering heap of exhaustion and Mr. Sorry has to drag me into the house by my ankles.

6. Enjoy my favorite places in the garden more and fret about those other spots less—except the really ugly ones. Fix those.

7. Redesign the beds along the front walk and outside the kitchen window for the fifth year in a row. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky.

8. Build some raised beds and grow some veggies. But do not order every seed under the sun and get in over my head … at least not the first year.

9. Accept that I will never be taller or know the names of all of my daylilies.

10. Embrace working from home this spring and summer as I continue to build my new path. It’s going to be an interesting year.

Merritt's Beauty Hydrangea

“Next in line. Can I help you ma’am?”

“Yes, I have a few hydrangeas I’d like to return.”

“That’s quite a cart full, ma’am.”

“Yeah, I’ll be back with the irises and daylilies later.”

“And the reason for return, ma’am?”

“Well, I’ve tried them in the driveway for a few years, and it turns out that I don’t like hydrangeas as much as I thought I did—especially pink ones. I really quite detest pink ones. So you can take back this Merritt’s Beauty and this Stella and this Sharona and this Pretty Maiden. And this Oregon Pride was supposed to be purple but it sure looks dark pink to me.”

“So reason for return: wrong color.”

“Well, the color of this White Moth is fine, but it’s way too big for me—definitely won’t fit in that spot under the dogwoods.”

“So reason for return: wrong size.”

“And I accidentally bought this Snow Queen thinking it was Snowflake. I swear, those oakleaf hydrangeas all look the same unless you count the sepals—and, really, who counts the sepals?”

“So reason for return: wrong variety.”

“And this Seemanii evergreen climber seemed like such a good idea, but it looks like plastic topiary.”

“So reason for return: customer changed mind … a lot. Do you have your receipt, ma’am?”

“No. But I remember exactly how much I paid. This Sargentii was on sale for $15 and I didn’t understand why no one had bought it, but now I do. It’s ugly.”

“Yes, ma’am, but you still need a receipt.”

“Well, I don’t have one. But see? That’s your nursery tag cutting into the wood there—exactly where you left it in 2004.”

“2004? Oh. I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have a 30-day return policy.”

“30 days? That’s hardly enough time for the cardboard box to disintegrate under the pots.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s our policy.”

“Well, I’m a bit dismayed. After all, I’m a very good customer.”

“Yes, ma’am. We love customers like you. Have a happy New Year now. Next in line.”