Detachment

June 10, 2025 — Pat Bertram

As you can probably tell from my lack of posts for the past couple of months, I’m losing my emotional involvement with my yard. Usually spring offers plenty of gardening photo opportunities, but lately I tend to just look and pass on by rather than document the beauties I see. Oh, I’m still doing the yard work, still waiting to see what blooms, still taking some pictures, but I’m doing so at a degree or two of separation. I’m not exactly sure why I started losing my enthusiasm. Perhaps because of the difficulty of keeping things green and blooming in this dry and sometimes harsh environment. Perhaps of a general feeling of detachment from life and a sense of the passing years. Perhaps because of . . . who knows.

Oddly, even though it hasn’t been that hot compared to previous springs — we’re just now getting up into the 90s — and even though I’ve been keeping up with the watering, the sun is so intense that the grass is already burning and flowering plants are wilting. I feel as if I should care, but I don’t, not really. Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to care. It does take a lot out of a person to plant flowers and greenery and tend them only to watch them struggle.

In a way, it’s not that big of a deal. I can replant grass and flowers and other vegetation. Or I can plant something else in the place of plants that don’t make it. For example, I had one large swath of grass left from the original sod I’d put in, but half of it died over the winter. (Which is odd in itself since all the rest died in the summer heat.) I couldn’t decide whether to replant the grass come fall or plant something else. In the end, I planted wildflowers instead of leaving the dead grass, and if I decide I want the grass, well, autumn (the best time to plant grass around here) is still a long way away. For another example, half of my ice plant that has spread so rapidly over the years also died in the winter, but I was able to replant.

So, not a big deal, but still . . .

I make it sound as if my garden is failing, but the truth is, it was prettier this spring than ever before.

Plenty of flowers planted themselves, such as the red poppies, and the larkspur. Other plants spread nicely. And some not so nicely. (I try to stay away from flowers that take over, but that’s not always easy to control since what should grow here doesn’t always and what shouldn’t sometimes does.)

This is always a rather unpretty time of year, which adds to my disinterest. The summer flowers haven’t yet budded. The larkspur is finished flowering but hasn’t yet gone to seed, so it makes the garden look rather drab. Once the larkspur and other self-planted annuals are finished, I can then replant so that August and September will be nice, but now it’s just a matter of keeping the yard — and me — going.

It’s funny — I waited all winter for this and now?

I’ve been sitting here thinking, wondering about that “and now?” and I have no response to that.

I have a hunch that once we settle into summer, I’ll be okay. Hot, but okay. There’s been just way too many weather changes lately to suit my poor aging mind and body — cloudiness and humidity and sprinkles of rain followed rapidly by sun and heat and then a repeat of the cycle.

At least I will have plenty of work to do outside to keep me occupied. In fact, I better close this off and go mow the grass.

Wishing you well.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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What I Am Doing

May 21, 2024 — Pat Bertram

Obviously, what I am doing right now is working on this blog post, but beyond this moment, I am sure you can guess what I am doing — working on my yard! And beyond that, I am sure you can guess what else I am doing — recuperating from all the work. I never realize how old I am until I start aching, and then, it’s hard to believe I was ever foolish enough to think that just because I could do some physical work, I wasn’t that elderly. (As an interesting aside, interesting to me, that is, elderly used to mean not yet old, whereas now it means old, frail old, decrepit old.)

In previous years, I would post photos of my yard, specific images that showed the few flowers that were blooming, and let you extrapolate from that how gorgeous my yard was. Or was not, which I often had to admit. This year, however, my yard truly is stunning.

The grass I planted last fall looks great. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that come summer and the enormous heat, the grass will survive. To that extent, I am trying not to water even when the grass looks dry and faded, hoping the roots will dig down deep enough that it will survive the heat blast.

Even though I thought I’d harvested all the larkspur seeds last year, enough blew around that any weedy area became a larkspur field this year.

No matter where the larkspur are, even invading a poppy field, they bring joy to all who see them.

Finally, after all these years, my raised garden is not only built, but filled with dirt. And plants! Flowers and vegetables mixed together in harmony. At least, that’s the hope.

The wild roses are doing well.

I have always loved the look of red and yellow bushes mixed together, but my yellow and red bushes got separated. I’ve been trying to buy yellow roses to plant among the red, but never found any. I have come to believe that the yellow is an aberration. One of my red bushes ended up with a stem of yellow flowers. I also found some yellow flowers on a red branch. And in one case, the red rose had yellow petals, too.

And that’s not all! The columbine I planted last year survived the winter and are now thriving.

Cottage pinks that were planted years ago decided to bloom profusely.

The ice plant is forming a carpet of shimmering beauty.

And petunias. What can I say? Petunias always do well here.

It’s funny, but despite the way the yard looks, I still don’t really know what I am doing. I’ve been told that there is an expiration date for that claim, but it certainly hasn’t arrived yet. The beauty of gardening (in addition to the beauty the eyes can see) is that plants that do well thrive and those that don’t, don’t. Any mistakes simply disappear, so what’s left looks as if it comes from heart of a master gardener even though I am strictly a trial-and-error dilettante.

I am learning, however, to take what comes. Last year, one garden area shone with the golden aura of wallflowers. This year, wallflowers are decidedly absent. Some plants that were supposed to be perennials turned out to be biennials. Some wildflower seeds that should have come up this spring never showed even a touch of green. The tulips that started out so hopefully ended up giving up before spring got underway.

I am going to try to take it easy physically for a couple of weeks so that when the larkspur go to seed, I will have the energy to pull up the plants to harvest the seeds and see what plants that wall of blooms is hiding. And then . . .

But “then” isn’t here yet.

Meantime, I am enjoying the surprises I find every day.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Blog Update

June 27, 2023 — Pat Bertram

If you haven’t received a notification about a new blog from me in a while, it’s not because of an issue with your email. It’s that I haven’t done an update recently. I have no real excuse, just laziness, I suppose, though truly, I’ve been anything but lazy. Now that the rains have passed, the days are brighter, and the temperatures are drifting closer to the 100˚ mark, I’ve been able to set aside the Seasonal Affective Disorder that had me dragging for several weeks and enjoy working in my yard again.

The larkspur that had so intimidated me went to seed, and I’ve been spending hours every day harvesting the seeds and pulling up the dead stems.

So instead of this:

I now have this:

The cleaned-up garden is not as dramatic perhaps, but lovely nevertheless.

I’m spending way too much time babying my lawn, but I have a hunch that will always be an ongoing process. I’d give it up, but I do so love the green. And besides, what else would I do? I’m already reading more than I want, and although I’m still playing games on the computer, I’ve cut way back. A few weeks ago when I lost the internet for a week, it got me out of the habit of spending hours and hours on the computer. Now I do other things, like paint-by-number or watch movies, both rather mindless activities. And, as I said, I spend a lot of time outside.

I wonder at times if I have too much invested in my yard, not just money but emotions and work and thought, but when I’m not dealing with S.A.D., I do find gardening worthwhile. So many pretty things to see!

Daisies.

Trumpet vines.

Daylilies.

Hollyhocks.

Madagascar periwinkle.

Blanket flower.

If things go as planned, I should have flowers of some sort from now until the first frost and perhaps even beyond. I’m becoming rather fond of fall bloomers — the foliage is pretty in the summer, and then when other flowers have died out, the chrysanthemums and New England asters take over.

I’ve done all the planting I’m going to do this year, so now my time will be spent weeding, cleaning up all the detritus from nearby trees that has blown into my yard, as well and continuing to expand my garden. There’s still rather a large swath that has never been touched, so I have to dig up all the weeds and other unsightly vegetation so I can plant . . . hmm. Maybe more wildflowers.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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S.A.D. Times

June 15, 2023 — Pat Bertram

I’m not having all that much fun with gardening this year, at least not so far. It’s too muggy, too buggy, too . . . everything. Normally, this is the sort of spring I like — cool, occasional rain, cloudy days — but this year, because of the rain, the gardening work is overwhelming. Plants that are used to hotter, drier days, are growing out of control. Weeds are growing thickly. And mosquitoes are voracious.

This is the first year that my mosquito repellent clothes aren’t working. I decided to make use of this cool, fairly dry day to work outside, and now I’m covered in mosquito bites in places that are normally covered by those clothes.

Well, now you get a hint of why I haven’t been keeping up with this blog. I don’t like to make a habit of complaining, and I’ve been having a hard time finding delight in much of anything. I have a hunch I have a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder. I usually have to deal with S.A.D. in winter; having to cope with it in a spring is a first for me, but also understandable. With storms passing us by so frequently (even if we don’t get rain, we still get the clouds), the days are darker than are healthy for my mental state.

There is a change coming — after all, summer will be here in six days, and it won’t be long before I’m complaining about the heat. Also, the larkspur are finally going to seed, so I’ll be able to pull them up to expose the plants — both ornamental and weedy — that have been hidden thus far. It should help me feel less claustrophobic. Although I normally enjoy the larkspur, they grew so densely and so tall they formed an intimidating wall along my pathways.

One thing that has pleased me is that my wildflower garden is really taking off. Some of the perennials that never came up finally did, and many of the annuals seeded themselves and are filling in the area with color.

I also found an unusual stray, this dwarf evening primrose.

It was in the batch of wildflowers I planted a couple of years ago, but this is the first one I ever saw.

And then there was this unusual plant that popped up in one of my garden areas.

It took a long time to trace it — most plant identifier apps didn’t know what it was. But I think I finally discovered its name: bitter candytuft. It’s from the mustard family, which makes sense — all the wild mustard weeds seem to like it in this area.

As it turns out, it’s a good thing I got some work done earlier — I can hear the thunder of an approaching rainstorm, and the morning is growing darker. Yep. S.A.D. times.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Spring of Excess

May 31, 2023 — Pat Bertram

This spring seems a season of excess. There are way too many bad air days due to wildfire smoke migrating down from Canada, and there is an invasion of miller months because they aren’t migrating. (They are being slowed down by the smoke.) There are hundreds of the moths in my yard, dozens in my garage and basement, but luckily only a few in the house itself. I try to tolerate them because they are pollinators (and because they are pollinators, they are a protected species in Colorado), but I can’t find it in myself to like them, especially not in such vast numbers. Not only do they spook me when they come flying at me out of nowhere, but they are such messy critters, leaving their effluvia on windows, curtains, and anywhere else they happen to land.

There is also an excess of mosquitoes. To me, even a single mosquito is too much, but this year there are clouds of them. Normally, I am fairly safe in the heat of the early afternoon, since they are most active in the early morning and evening, but a short foray outside a couple of days ago netted me over a dozen bites. Luckily, my gardening clothes are mosquito-repellent, so as long as I am careful to wear those clothes when I am outside, I am fine.

I’m not sure why this year is different, but there is an excess of stuff (for lack of a better word) falling from trees. I do know the neighbor’s locust trees are raining flowers (miniscule greenish things that don’t resemble flowers at all), but I don’t know what the slim green things from my other neighbor’s tree are. Perhaps seeds. I don’t remember seeing them before, but this morning they are everywhere. Where’s a good wind when you need it? Oops. I shouldn’t say that — we’ve had way too much wind this spring (my hanging plants spend more time on the ground, safe from the winds, than they do hanging), so a calm morning is welcome.

We’ve had a lot of rain this spring, not an excess, exactly, but enough to make flowers and weeds grow profusely. I would have thought that I’d be appreciative of the floral largess, but to be honest, I find it a bit overwhelming. The larkspur, which is usually about knee-high, is almost as tall as I am. It’s growing thickly, especially where the grass died, making it impossible for me to access the garden bed and the plants that are buried in the larkspur forest.

I am the only one who is less than impressed with the growth. Butterflies love it.

Bees love it.

And visitors are awed. But not me. Oh, I do appreciate the beauty, but I find it unsettling. It’s . . . too much.

It’s not just the larkspur that grew more than expected. The lilac bushes doubled in size, and seeds are wildly sprouting. Normally, I have little luck with seeds, so I tend to plant more than is called for in the hope that some will take hold. Well, the zinnia seeds I planted must have had an extraordinary germination rate or they like the weather or something, because almost all of them managed to sprout. So I’ve been thinning the zinnia bed and transplanting the seedlings elsewhere in my yard; although I’ve moved half the seedlings, the bed is still too thickly planted. I have never had such a problem before, but then, I’ve never lived through a season such as this one, either.

On an amusing note, this fecundity has created an almost magical soil. I wanted to see if my neighbor wanted any of my ice plant.

I pinched off a flower to show her. Afterward, instead of tossing the sample away, I stuck in in the ground, and it’s growing. For all I know, if things continue the way they are, the plant could take over the yard.

It won’t be long before summer is here, forcing all my plants and flowers — and me! — to struggle with heat and aridity, but for now, I’m continuing to be overwhelmed by this spring of excess.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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What a Difference a Month Makes

May 19, 2023 — Pat Bertram

Sometimes, in life, a month — or even a year — seems to bring no changes; it’s only in retrospect that we can look back and see the difference in our lives. In gardening, however, a month can bring dramatic changes. For example, in this photo, taken a month ago, spring is just making itself known. The lighter green along the right side of the path are larkspur that planted themselves where the grass died last year. The grass I planted (the blue seed) to start replacing some of the grass that died, hasn’t begun to sprout. The greengage plum (the tree in the foreground) is still dormant, and the lilacs (the bushes to the right of the path) are just beginning to green up.

A month later, things are completely different. As you can see from the following photo, many of the grass seeds took hold, and grass has greened up nicely. The tree has leafed out. The lilacs grew more in the past month than they have the past couple of years. And the larkspur have pretty much invaded not just along the path where the grass died, but the whole rest of the garden, too. I had to wade through the larkspur to find some of the plants I put in last fall, such as lilies and chrysanthemums, and clear a space around them to give them room to grow.

This is a sideview of the garden. Look at all those larkspur! To think that all that came from the half dozen or so plants I transplanted from my neighbor’s yard (with his permission, of course). I thought they were a low-growing flower, because that’s how they grew in his unkempt yard, but apparently, when given a bit of care, larkspur grow to monstrous heights. Some of these stalks are shoulder height. And such a lovely sight.

In another month, things will be different again. The larkspur will be gone — after they go to seed I pull up the dead stalks, leaving plenty of room in the garden for the perennials to grow. If there are big spaces left behind in the garden, I plant other annual seeds, such as zinnias. And since I will be able to get to the dead grass, I’ll start clearing the way for replanting the grass this fall. Or I might even plant some zinnias there, too. Since I have not yet learned how to take a photo of something that will happen in the future, obviously, I can’t show you what the area will look like then, but I imagine, at least for a while, it will look very similar to the way it looked a month ago.

And then a month after that, it will all be different again. Because when it comes to gardening, a month makes a huge difference.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Looking Good!

May 4, 2023 — Pat Bertram

Except for throwing out a few wildflower seeds between snowfalls this winter, I didn’t do anything for my garden. I wanted to see what of the perennials would come up again and what annuals would reseed themselves so that I wouldn’t plant over something I wanted. Not as many flowers as I expected came up again this year. In fact, as you can see, one of the areas in the bottom lefthand corner remains a blank slate. Oddly, that was one of the areas where the larkspur came up last year, but the larkspur garden moved a bit to the right. That wild growth along the path is where the grass died last year, and now I have a larkspur jungle. It should be gorgeous when the flowers bloom in another week or two, but seeing all those larkspurs was a bit of a surprise, to say the least.

I am grateful that the greensward to the right of the path is still doing well. Some people have mental health animals — I have a mental health lawn. I often stand at the back window and drink in the green. It makes me feel good, so it’s worth the effort to try to keep a lawn going.

Some of the grass that came back from near death last year is forming clumps and going to seed. Not attractive at all! It was just one of those flukes, I think. We had days of rain last week, which made the grass grow rapidly, and the ground was too wet to mow, so I got to see what would happen if I didn’t mow. Luckily, I enjoy mowing.

A nice surprise were the Siberian wallflowers. They were in a small package of wildflower seeds I’d planted three years ago, and not a single flower has ever bloomed. Well, this year, I have dozens of plants that are just coming into maturity. They are supposed to reseed themselves, which would be nice — I wouldn’t mind a swath of these cheerful little flowers.

The lilacs I planted when I first got here are growing fast now, and the blossoms are fully mature. Last year, I did get a lilac bunch or two, but they were scraggly.

It’s too soon to tell how anything else is doing. Well, the weeds, of course are doing well, and it won’t be long before I am unable to keep up with them. But for now, things are looking good!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Theory of Gardening

March 10, 2023 — Pat Bertram

I did some work out in the yard yesterday. The weather was nice — sunny and still, but cool enough that I needed to wear a coat — and I felt like being outside for a while. Mostly I clipped the dead stalks from the perennial plants, ready for the new growth come spring. I don’t know if that was the right thing to do, but my theory of gardening is that since I don’t really know how to do anything, to do something. (The obverse is also true. If I don’t know how to do something, I do anything, just so that it feels as if I am making progress.)

I must admit, although the yard is still winter bland, it looks much nicer without all the dead stalks and shrubbery. I think it will also be good for my peace of mind not knowing exactly where things are so that I don’t worry if the growth this year isn’t as good as I hope it will be. I did see a whole lot of larkspur seedlings, so with any luck, in a couple of months, I’ll be enjoying a swath of purple blooms.

I’ve been wondering if I’ll feel like doing the necessary work this year since I’ve grown lazy over the winter, but if today is any indication, there won’t be a problem. I enjoyed doing something physical for a change, not just reading and playing games on the computer as I usually do. There will probably be a continued issue with my knees this gardening season, but I have knee braces to help with that problem. Admittedly, it would be smart of me to use my knees as a barometer of when to quit working for the day, but I tend not to heed such indicators but plow through whatever job needs to be done.

I suppose as time goes on and I become even more used to the seasonal gardening changes and chores, I’ll be willing to pace myself a bit. After all, no matter what I do, in the winter, things will always look bleak, and in the spring, they will always look greener by comparison. And no matter how much time I spend on digging weeds and weedy grasses, by the end of summer, they will have won the battle.

The weeds are in abeyance for now, which is nice, so that’s one chore I don’t have to think about yet. I did notice it’s getting dry out there, so I suppose I should break down and water, but despite the warm day today — in the 70s — tomorrow when I have time to water, we’ll be back to winter temperatures. Well, that’s no surprise, it is still winter, after all, and will be for another eleven days.

But whatever the next few days — and weeks — have in store for me, at least today, I did something.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Doing Something Right

June 16, 2022 — Pat Bertram

I’m a bit surprised at myself. Despite the discouragement of a large swathe of grass getting windburned and flowers dying because of the scorching, arid winds we had a couple of days ago, I’m still out there every day, taking care of my garden. Perhaps I’ve lost some of the joy and maybe even a bit of the zeal I had for gardening, but that isn’t stopping me from doing the best I can for my “baby” (as a friend has dubbed my yard).

Today I watered and weeded, but I also cleaned out some of the dying foliage. The larkspur has run its course, which seems odd to me since they are supposed to bloom all summer, though that might just be in cooler climates. Mine larkspur, for sure, don’t like extreme heat (and we’ve had that in abundance). I did try to cut the flowers back, but they didn’t rebloom, so I let them go to seed. Today I removed a lot of the brown stems and am saving the seeds to replant this fall.

A nice thing about these plants is that they are prolific re-seeders and will pop up next year anywhere the seeds land. Since they don’t last long here, I don’t have to worry about their taking over. They provide nice color early, and then when I have to remove the spent stems, it makes room for later bloomers, such as lilies and echinacea.

There have been a few encouraging developments in my yard, which helps to offset some of the discouragement.

The Shasta daisy I planted last year bloomed for the first time.

The petunias that reseeded themselves are flowering. The original flowers were the dark purple color, but I’m fine with the lighter purple petunias, too, and rightly so since these are basically “free” flowers.

And I had a delightful visitor this morning. A green toad.

I’ve seen brown toads around here, but this is the first green one I’ve ever encountered. At first I wondered if it were a frog, being green and all, so I looked it up. Turns out all toads are frogs, but not all frogs are toads, and both frogs and toads are signs of a healthy ecosystem, so despite recent setbacks, having this toad hanging around means I’m doing something right. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Tiptoe Through the Larkspur

May 13, 2022 — Pat Bertram

Admittedly, “tiptoe through the larkspur” doesn’t have the same resonance as “tiptoe through the tulips,” but it has the benefit of being the truth of the day. I’ve tiptoed through my tulips, too, in an effort to pull up weeds, but the tulips are long gone, and the larkspur are here now.

(I just looked up “Tiptoe through the Tulips” and it turns out that the song was originally sung — and sung as the romantic song it was written to be — in 1929. Amazing the things one can learn with just a few keyboard strokes.)

It was a lot easier preparing a bed for seeding when there were no existing plants I wanted to keep. All I had to do was dig up the entire area, with no care to the weeds I was trampling. As careful as I tried to be today, I ended up stomping on some larkspur and one poor lily when I tried to weed at the back of the garden area. Ironically, the more careful I was, the more off-balance I got, and the more plants I trampled.

I need to keep the newly planted areas as moist as possible for the next couple of weeks, and if the seeds don’t sprout, I’ll buy bedding plants. I will buy bedding plants, anyway. I have planters to fill as well as areas that could use some ready-grown plants.

In keeping with the irony of this morning’s “tiptoeing,” the air was utterly still all the time I was out there weeding and digging and hoeing, but as soon as I started to toss the seeds onto the prepared ground, a gust of wind blew through my yard. Who knows where that handful of seeds will end up! Luckily, I have plenty more seeds. If I don’t have much luck this spring, I’ll plant the rest next winter, along with some columbine. I’ve never had luck with columbines, either, but I just learned they are a seed that seems to do well with winter planting. And not only are they perennials, but they reseed themselves. I can always use another plant that can take care of itself. But that’s a project for another day.

Today was about tiptoeing through the larkspur to fill in empty spots and to add more seeds to my wildflower garden. And that I did.

***

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