I was out in the yard weeding the other day, mar-veling at how lush the pesky wood sorrel had gotten when so many of the plants I did want to thrive were looking bedraggled.
The geraniums I'd planted in front of some shrubbery wore a few pitiful blooms, not the blaze of scarlet I'd envisioned.
A noticeable gap had appeared where some critter had uprooted one of the flowers, giving the garden the look of a first-grader missing a front tooth.
The leaves of my black-eyed Susan bore the unsightly black blotches of septoria leaf spot, a disease I'd been warned about in my master gardening class.
Darn, I'd meant to clean up those sickly leaves last fall. Now they were back to taunt me for my negligence. The hydrangeas, as usual, had stubs of stalks where their flower heads were supposed to be. I'm not sure I saw a single bloom this year, but I saw a whole lot of well-fed deer in my yard.
I sighed in frustration. See, this was the year I swore I was going to keep ahead of the weeds.
This was the year I was going to divide my perennials, deadhead my daisies regularly and spray my hostas and hydrangeas faithfully with deer repellent.
This was the year my garden was going to be great. Except it isn't.
Oh, sure, there were a few heady moments. Everything looked sweet in spring, when the bleeding heart was in bloom and the forget-me-nots and lamium formed a happy pink-and-blue tangle.
A new clematis that had been a sorry-looking stick when I rescued it and planted it far too late last fall survived the odds and clambered over my deck railing. And my potted plants and hanging baskets are still putting on an unusually lavish show.
Still, I'd hoped for so much better. I had sworn up and down that I'd be more attentive this year, that I'd spend more time in the garden and less on Facebook.
I pictured perfectly manicured beds, bountiful blooms and admiring looks from passers-by. But then reality got in the way, as it always does. I got lazy. It got hot. My commitment waned.
Every spring, when I wander through the garden centre, my mind fast-forwards to a glorious midsummer with all the misplaced hope of a baseball fan who dreams of the playoffs as soon as the pitchers and catchers report for spring training.
I'm certain that some new plant is going to transform my garden, just as I'm sure the first-round draft pick is going to rescue the team.
And even though things never quite turn out as I hope, I always spend the gardening off-season shaking off my disappointment and promising to start fresh in the spring.
Because there's always next year.
