Incomer Musings

By Louise Froggett

There is something about spring with all the wonderful flowers beginning to bloom that gives me the illusion of competence. I should know better by now, this illusion has been dogging me for decades.

It all started at Thrifty’s with cheerful primula sitting out in front of the store. Pink, yellow, fuchsia, orange…all those marvelous colours, just waiting for a purpose. I began to think of the plant in my den; a gift from friends when we moved into the apartment over two years ago, it now looks pale and sad and in need of help. Brilliant idea!! I would remove two of the five plants in the pot (the ones that look the worst), and insert a couple of primula in their place. Wow, great idea my brain says! Sigh.

After lunch, I gathered all my “gardening” tools, one old pair of snipping things and a spoon from the kitchen drawer. And newspaper spread on the counter to contain the mess. Well, let’s just say it didn’t go according to plan. First, I trimmed away all the branches of the plants I was going to remove…into the compost bin. Then, I deftly stabbed the spoon into the dirt to lift the remainder of the plants out of the pot. I stabbed again. Nothing. The dirt is nice and soft, but riddled with roots, all tangled into a ball. I can do this!

Well, apparently I couldn’t. I spent an hour, trying to make my brilliant plan work. There was dirt on the newspaper, under the newspaper, all over the floor, on the kitchen wall and stuck to the underside of the cabinets. My grey sweater had dirt bits all the way up to the elbows and I could feel some on the inside of the sleeves too. There were root pieces in my slippers; there was stuff in my hair. What a mess, what a disaster. I am an idiot!

So, in the end, I sacrificed five plants to the compost bin and eventually managed to plant two primula in a too-big pot. I should have just bought a big pot with primula already planted. Pink, yellow, fuchsia, orange…it would have been lovely. And I wouldn’t have had to hose down my kitchen after wasting half an afternoon in screaming frustration.

I hope, next year, someone will remind me of this when the spring fever of gardening competence wafts over me once again.