I planted a peony bush on Sunday. I’m a sucker for peonies—something about the rich, densely layered thickness of their blooms. People tell me that peonies must be coddled and coaxed into blooming, but I’m hoping this one will soak up the sun in our side yard, take a cue from the oversized, exuberantly blooming rhododendron, and burst forth with a little color, if not this year than next.
For a few weeks there, I was suffering from an intense case of keeping up with the Joneses. Our neighbors, who don’t seem to do anything other than work on their condo and their yard, created a nicely designed little patch of garden on their side of the house. I felt like a slacker. They have actual porch furniture and we have two plastic Adirondack chairs and a metal Simpsons drink tray. I love the Homer table but you should see the looks they shoot at us when they think we’re not looking. In our own time, though, we’ve somehow turned what were weedy patches of crabgrass into two halfway decent gardens. I’d tell you what I planted other than the peony, but I threw away the little ID tags (what? I made sure they needed direct sun, I planted them in direct sun and now all I need is for them to evade death. Names are for people who have green thumbs). This weekend is reunion (!!!) but maybe we’ll get around to mulching next weekend. Then I’ll post some pictures.