~miss willmott’s ghost~

October 9th, 2019

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Closing the Year One garden on the anniversary of our house purchase.
Over the last six months, I’ve been (some might say obsessively) tending a half acre of invasively planted land, which had been abandoned for a quarter century.

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The monster bittersweet vine which enveloped and crushed the round porch, for example, inspired the delicate description of the house (by me, poorly convincing A to come see it) as having “potential, and a touch of Grey Gardens”.

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This salted Shroud of Turin t-shirt, one of countless black tees I marked in this manner, earns some first garden bragging rights, I feel.

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Since April I’ve:

planted a tiny black nine bark hedge (Diablo) that will some day provide privacy, tamed a forsythia hedge so overgrown two full trees were hidden inside it,

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put in three trellis to cover the house meters and mapped out eleven garden beds, ridding the weed covered soil of as much bittersweet root as I could manage, then rototilling, edging, laying stone borders,

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and planting foundation shrubs and trees (Oakleaf Hydrangea, Blacklace Elderberry, Smokebush, Chinese Dogwood, Whitespire Birch, Amethyst Witch Hazel),

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plus perennials, grasses, bulbs, thistles (Miss Willmott’s Ghost), vines (Kintzley’s Ghost Honeysuckle, because everything is “devil” “witch” this, and “lacey” “ghost” that).

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And, in the last month—after a summer slightly consumed by pretty weeds—I relented and added two tons (5 cubic yards—stopped counting at 50 wheelbarrows) of organic mulch.

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Now I lay down my spade until the spring snowmelt, and offer a few views from the files. Do you see a woman’s face here too? Miss Willmott perhaps?

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