Gardening Contained

We had a little orchid mishap on our way home from Vegas a couple of weekends ago. The motorhome took a bump just a little too fast and the landing was a bit too much for the pot containing one of my orchids. Of course this meant I was given free rein to run right over to a local garden center to replace the pot. Yippee...cough, ack....I meant, too bad, so sad.

The culprit that started the whole thing, Cymbidium, Eastern Promise. (Promise of inciting riots if you ask me!)

I charged...umm, I mean, I meandered very calmly and sedately on over to Lowes with the specific purpose of purchasing a single replacement pot...and, of course, the potting medium needed to repot a Cymbidium and, well, I needed orchid food as I have been using a generic houseplant food for quite awhile now....and of course, if I'm repotting one then I really need to repot the other as you want them to match, don't you? And since I was getting new pots, I should definitely get the platters for the pots to sit in to catch the water because EVERYONE knows that orchids need humidity so if I just put some of those cute, little river pebbles that Martha suggested in the platters and then set the pots on top and let the water pool, my orchids would be much healthier and happier. But why in the world would I buy a tiny little bag of designer rocks when I could go outside to the landscaping area and get a huge bag for half the price?

And this, my friends, is where it all, shall we say, hit the fan. (Honey, if you're reading this, close the page and walk away from the computer. You know darn well you love fresh herbs as much as I do and some sacrifice has to be made to have them. Plus, I promise I will not buy one more plant for a whole year....well, with the exception of another strawberry plant because who can have just one for godssakes?)

And so, the doors leading out to the garden area slid open, and so did my resolve. The sight of all of those plants just begging, BEGGING, to be planted almost brought me to my knees. The POTENTIAL of each and everyone one of them called out to me, seducing me with visions of lush, vibrant gardens bursting with life. Oh, the fun, the absolute joy, of designing and planting! Zen gardens, formal gardens, country gardens, water-wise gardens, cactus gardens. It all swirled and danced before my eyes. And the scent!Oh people! The glorious smell of blooming flowers, fresh dirt, tantalizing herbs and living, breathing greenness drew me in and seduced me like the infamous siren's song of sailors lore. Yep, I was a shipwreck waiting to happen.

Disaster was, indeed, on the horizon as I ran out among the plants, breathing deeply and stroking velvety leaves. Citrus trees and jasmine and hibiscus and, heck, they even had a PLUMERIA! A plumeria, people! (I still don't know how I passed that one up!) But it was as I was pondering whether I should go for the trumpet vine to entice the hummingbirds or the gorgeous pale pink hybrid tearose that I can never pass up that the buzz-kill hit. Hello, I live in a motorhome! Not only that, we pick up and move every 3 months so planting an extensive garden was absolutely not going to happen. Oh, the humanity! I wanted to fall to my knees and weep! The desire to walk out, get in my car and drive back to my little house in Montana was never so strong.

And, then, a miracle happened! As quickly as the buzz was killed, the inspiration came....YES! A container garden! Nothing fancy, just a few...small...containers. Everyone needs some fresh herbs and veges in their lives and we, of motorhome persuasion, are no different, right?

So, I put the rosebush down, picked it back up, put it back down, argued with myself, put it in my cart, pushed it around, took it back and put it down then walked away from it and only looked back twice...sigh... then headed home with my new, more compact additions.

And the funny thing is, even without holes to dig and dirt to turn and elaborate gardens to plan, I still found that lovely place I go to when I garden. That place where time stands still and the commotion of the world around you quiets and it's just you, in a garden, with a plant smiling up at you and the deep rich smell of dirt filling your senses and the promise of what will be staring back at you.

So the moral of the story? I guess you don't need a large plot of dirt to be a gardener, that the little things in life are just as meaningful, that a rosemary plant can be a great substitute for a plumeria......who the heck am I kidding?! I swear if I wouldn't get arrested for digging up the golf course green at the country club next door, I'd be over there with my shovel and breaker bar at first light and I'd have that labyrinth I've been dying to try put in before you could say "floribunda"!

To all of you magicians of gardening contained, I salute you!