The death knell is ringing. Tomorrow is the day the guillotine comes for the generic shrubbery.
I can hear the plants shouting that I did not photograph them on their best day. The Japanese maple especially—it’s pretty glorious with leaves. It will find a new home at my neighbor’s house, where they can enjoy the view with regularity. The hydrangeas and camellias will be transplanted to my new perennial bed, visible from the back windows of our house, but the sea grass and cryptomeria are goners. How can I bond with a plant that doesn’t even need me to fertilize it?
I’m not sure what these are. Some type of tea olive maybe? These have been fertilized and have never seemed to thrive as long as we have lived here. My guess would be super poor soil beneath them, but that’s pretty much the theme for this yard. The word on the street is that the builders harvested the top soil and sold it off as they were prepping to build.
Fascists? Perhaps.
So tomorrow our wonderful landscapers begin the project. And this is the part that I am most happy {and thankful} to be handing over to someone else.
You see, one of the main reasons for starting this project with landscapers has to do with a certain face I saw on a certain man. Not my husband, mind you {although he has been known to make the occasional face that can clearly communicate his level of disdain} but instead a very kind and recently immigrated landscaper who was hired to transplant the camellias/hydrangeas/peonies from the other house. I watched as he dug in the hydrangeas here, and the face was clear: LADY YOU ARE CRAZY.
Oh, it was not easy.
And this was a strong guy. A guy who landscapes for a living. A guy who does not balk at the depth of hole required for some not-too-big hydrangeas.
This was a face with a clear message: some things are going to be hired out.
See ya later, builder grade blah.
