SWEETENING CHEMO WITH LAVENDER

It’s time to prune back the lavender, which barely is surviving a month of hail storms in Colorado.  Our poor city has been besieged first by fires in the early summer and now a deluge of rain in the latter part of the season.  These storms have wrecked havoc and our little town of Manitou Springs has endured the worst, with severe flooding that damaged property and took precious human lives.  So my little complaint about what pea-sized hail has done to my garden needs to be kept in perspective. 

I spent most of the day pruning plants terribly damaged by the latest hail storm, the worst we’ve experienced so far this summer.   So many plants were completely shredded and there was nothing to do but cut them down to the ground.  My hope in doing so is that the plant’s energy will be directed to the root system now instead of trying to heal damaged stems and leaves.  These poor plants really need some relief, so I’ve given them permission to rest and hopefully they’ll all come back even stronger next spring.

I started this blog because I saw a connection between tending a garden and caring for loved ones with cancer.  So I can’t help but relate the injury caused by hail storms with the destruction cancer wrecks on a body.  Today I played surgeon, cutting back the damaged stems of lilies, rose bushes, hydrangeas and spireas, all in an attempt to prevent these lovely plants from developing diseases that will make them even sicker after a storm.  I think of my best friend who underwent surgery just last week to remove a cancerous tumor.  How her surgeon cut out the unwelcomed growth so that she, too, will get well.  The cancer is in her lymph nodes.  Chemo will take care of that but what a thing to endure.  She wilted a bit this past week, realizing the magnitude of her disease.  She bowed her head just as my daisies bowed their head in the aftermath of this latest storm.  But I know my garden and I know my friend and I know that strength runs through her just as it does through the stalks of my Darwinian plants.  Chemo is never easy – it is a terrible cure – but it is a cure.  Although I’ll walk with my dear, dear friend on this journey I know I cannot possibly know what it is like for her to go through the cure.   Anymore than I can really know what it has been like for Genny.

And so today I also cut and then hung my lavender to dry in a cool, dark room in the basement.  I hope it retains its scent even though the buds are damaged from the hail storms.  This winter, I’ll make little sachets for my friend.  And with the dried buds I'll make some lovely smelling, homemade lavender soap.  I’ll offer these simple gifts from my garden to her.  Because it’s all I know to do right now.

PIONEER WOMAN

If you are going to garden in Colorado, you better channel your inner pioneer spirit.  The arid climate, drought, wind, and heavy clay soil are challenging enough to make you rethink becoming an amateur farmer.  We gardeners do our best to trick Mother Nature by tunneling in drip systems, adding mulch to retain moisture, and mixing in organic matter to improve the soil.  Then we pinch leaves, add fish emulsion, and finally, say some prayers that our little darlings will bloom or produce fruit.  And sometimes, we get a spectacular return on our financial and emotional investment. 

So let me tell you about my niece Christie who lives in northern Colorado, about 130 miles from me.  Gardening in the northern part of the state is just as challenging as elsewhere, but that hasn’t stopped Christie.  She takes after her ancestors and has a true green thumb -- over the last couple of years, she has become quite the gardener.   Gardening is not just an interest we share with one another – it’s a passion.   Just a few weeks ago, Christie texted me the pictures below of rhubarb, raspberries and pumpkins growing in her backyard.  Spectacular return on her emotional investment, right?  Look how cute and proud she is as she displays the leaves on her rhubarb plant.  I was just as excited as she to see how well her plants were faring in the heat of northern Colorado.

And so when Christie texted me pictures of the damage from a hailstorm that hit her garden this past Saturday, I felt her pain. Her entire garden was destroyed.  And her little boy, Mason, cried when he saw what the aftermath of the storm did to the round green pumpkins, which he had anxiously been looking forward to harvesting in the autumn.  All the vegtables looked like they had been used for target practice.

Twenty-four hours later, a less intense hailstorm moved to southern Colorado.  Dad was over for dinner that day, and the old soldier-farmer and I stood together looking through the patio door, knowing there was nothing to do but surrender and watch.  The beautiful white snowball hydrangeas were shredded a bit and I lost most of the tomato plants.  The beans also took a beating.  Just an hour before the hail hit, I harvested the peas so at least we got to enjoy some of the fruits of my labor.  Unlike Christie's, my garden for the most part survived.

I leave off today’s blog with a reminder to Christie and to me that pioneer blood runs deep in our veins.  Christie’s great-great Grandmother, Mabel Bennett, crossed the plains of Colorado in a covered wagon when she was just an infant.  I was fortunate enough to know Mabel really well, as she lived into old age.  Mabel was my favorite grandmother and she, along with my dad, influenced my early love of gardening.  Mabel had the most spectacular patch of brown earth in her backyard planted with colorful flowers and flavored vegetables.  I fondly remember her tall hollyhocks which I still struggle to grow in my garden.  Mabel even had a greenhouse and a potting shed (an envy of mine).  During her long years of gardening in Colorado, my great-grandmother no doubt weathered many droughts and hail storms and even early snows.  But she never gave up gardening.  So Christie and I will just pull deep within ourselves – because we are, after all, made from pioneer stock.  For now, we cut back those perennials damaged from the hail, and look toward the early autumn when bulb planting begins.  And maybe this fall, I'll visit our local cemetary and plant a few bulbs as a thank you to Mabel for passing on her strong, determined spirit.