Garden therapy

My first canna lily, a Christmas present ©careerusinterruptus

I grew up in the northern hemisphere. In spring a robin lay blue eggs in the Douglas fir by the garage, in summer we played under the sprinkler, in autumn we raked elm and oak leaves, in winter we tobogganed down the street and had all-in neighbourhood snowball fights.

Now I live in the sub-tropics. Palm trees waft, gekkoes scamper, you can grow tomatoes all year round, and if the temperature drops below 23C the kids moan that they’re “freezing”. Summer is hot and very humid (73% today!), and winter means you might wear a jumper part of the day.

This creates some challenging issues in the garden. Winter is dry and while summers are supposed to be wet, they’re not, really, any more. Frost is never a thing; drought and bugs are always a thing. Turn your back for five minutes and this can happen.

sweet potatoes, beans, and compost-sprouted squash going nuts in the veggie patch last year ©careerusinterruptus

Gardens here are all about water conservation and soil improvement. Since the previous caretakers did nothing but apply tree-bark mulch, our beds consist of deep, fine dust on a layer of clay. Compost is my best tool.

Alas, I recently killed the compost. (Free tip: if someone leaves the lid off so rain gets into the chicken feed, do NOT tip all 15kgs of spoiled grain into the compost at once. People, the smell. Oh, dear god, the SMELL.) It has to go. So I’m scraping back the dust before before using a pickaxe to hack into the clay in the empty beds, then burying ruined compost, one small barrow-full at a time.

It reeks, you see. Have I already mentioned that? Soon as I open the little hatch, flies begin arriving from neighbouring suburbs. Soon children also appear, t-shirts pulled up over their faces, demanding to know what died before fleeing inside, followed by the sound of windows slamming. Then, holding my breath, I trundle round to the trench, where the barrow is hastily dumped and the contents deeply buried. I only do a bit each day because the noxious miasma lingers.

I’m annoyed with myself for the goof – 15kgs of grain at once! What was I thinking! – and not really enjoying working in the middle of summer, but I’m also kind of excited. The rotten compost is forcing me to progress a couple of ideas I’ve had simmering for years.

This bed used to have a Tibouchina, until some silky-oak seedlings strangled it. Sadly they were too close to the house so they had to go. Meanwhile, my young avocado tree needs a new home. Transplanted here, it will shade the house without growing so tall as to be dangerous. And as it can’t be moved in summer, I have three more months to dig manure, straw, and compost into this bed and prepare a good, rich soil.

garden bed against a wall, empty apart from more compost-sprouted squash and melons ©careerusinterruptus

This bed faces east. In summer it gets eight hours of morning sun. I want a full-height trellis for a deciduous, native climber to protect those rooms in summer while letting them warm up in winter. The last breeder we bought a chook from gave me some arrowroot (Canna edulis, I think), which is not only excellent chook forage, it’s also tall and attractive – just what I didn’t know I needed. It’s just a matter of enriching the soil and planting it out with some other forage plants to create a shade-giving, chook-feeding oasis.

another empty garden bed, up against a house ©careerusinterruptus

(Chook forage is so appealing. I threw a couple handfuls of the spoiled grain into this bed and it sprouted into … I dunno what. There were some sunflowery kind of things and one of those stalks has an ear of corn. The chooks couldn’t care less. Seems they only want to forage my plants. Nevertheless, I cling to my dream: their beds, and my beds.)

a raised bed, lined with old pool cover, with random assorted grain plants ©careerusinterruptus

There. Doesn’t that all sound lovely and real? It’s strategic, you know. Luring the kids outdoors is a bonus, but really it’s about making myself get out there when all I want to do is hide from the world. Hunching over a screen, under a fan, when I’m not actually writing, does me no favours, especially when inside is still a shitfest. Shovelling stanky rotten compost is better. (Nothing more grounding than the smell of stanky rotten compost, lemme tellya.)

Getting an eyeful of green and sun, looking at things further than three metres away, big-muscle movements, listening to the chooks’ commentary, dirt under my fingernails, putting time and effort into the future, though? That’s good for all of me: head, heart, and body. Highly recommend.

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