The Whole Nine Yards

And so while I wait for Charlotte to have 30 minutes in a row free to enjoy a glass of wine and simultaneously enlighten me about what I need to do to get my kitchen transformation to become more than a twinkle in my eye, I attempt to transform the outside of my house. As in the shrubbery.

I say this like they do on Monty Python's Flying Circus. As in " A shrub-bah-ree!"

My yard nearly 14 years ago when Lars and I bought the house, was actually one of the selling points. OK it's an odd shape, triangular, with 300 feet of sidewalk to contend with (which Lars was never thrilled with) but the sellers, who before they were the sellers were the owners for 43 years, had had the yard beautifully landscape designed and planted.

As I'd look out my front door and down the steps to the yard, I could smell the two boxwoods that flanked the walk at its entry, sitting in rock formations surrounded by daffodils and tulips. I love the smell of boxwoods. To me they smell like coffee. It is one of the prevailing opinions on boxwoods. The other is that they smell like cat pee. I think it is a matter of perspective. I like the glass half full with coffee as opposed to half empty with cat pee.

Along the right side of the yard were holly trees and evergreen shrubs that grew tall and lush and were artfully planted to entirely obscure the hideous chain link fence separating the property from that of the neighbor. Good thing. The neighbor also parked a full sized RV in the yard and ran an underground dog kennel/breeding mill for yappy little cat-sized dogs who crapped on every square inch of the yard. And the owners, bless their hearts, left the turds to fester and smolder in the noon day sun, often sending a tantalizing aroma of half-baked feces wafting toward my open windows. The shrubs did an admirable job of concealing the Addams Family estate from view, if not entirely from smell.

There were also mature azaleas and rhododendron planted on all sides of the house, that bloomed at different times as spring progressed and provided gorgeous color throughout the season. Fragrant lilac and spice verbena competed with the scent of crap next door. A large flowering bush in the corner of the yard was the hot spot for the burgeoning avian social scene. Day lillies and irises and hydrangea and peonies filled beds around the property. Lily of the Valley and vinca grew beneath everything, including a weird orange flowered fruit-bearing bush we never could identify.

Lars and I added to the greenery by hedging in the yard with Chinese Elm hedges. We also planted English Hedge Roses at the point of the triangle. Gorgeous.

But that was all a very long time ago.

The boxwoods suffered and died after two winters with 30+ feet of snow. Scott replaced them with two lovely replacement shrubs last year, which promptly died in the wicked drought a few weeks later.

The bush that the birds loved was the first to be choked by the neighbor's ill-fated attempt at landscaping, which resulted in Morning Glory, rampant, predatory, killer Morning Glory attacking my plants and choking them in their sleep. A few years later, when Lars had left, I planted a Pink Smoke tree. It was tiny but I was patient. I put a little wire fence around it and when my brother came to mow my lawn, I'd left him a note warning him that it was there. Not to mow over it. I'd even drawn a diagram. He chucked the fence aside and mowed it down. That and the hostas I'd planted along the sides of the porch steps.

The rhododendron, also choked by the Morning Glory, began to die in large dry, rotting sections. Scott and I systematically removed the dead parts leaving a spindly little flowerless tree that drew attention to the air conditioning unit instead of concealing it.

The Chinese Elm hedges were now more like trees. They grow several feet in a week. I bought my first saw and hedge trimmer with my first post-divorce-settlement pay check. But still, they are out of control sections at a time. I cut a section, a section whose size is determined by the battery strength of the trimmer and my arm strength only, and by the time I've finished the entire project, it needs to be started again. At once.

And now that my home's interior is showroom perfect, except for the kitchen and bath, (OK, maybe "showroom" is an exaggeration!) it is my yard that screams of neglect.

I put on my gardening clogs and step out to survey the damage. Or rather, with an eye toward the glass being half full with coffee, to seize the opportunities that lie before me and my clippers and shovel.