Confessions of a Flower Fumbler
I’ve always loved flowers…well, loved looking at them, at least. Growing them? That’s been more of a long, slow comedy—equal parts enthusiasm, trial-and-error, and a surprising amount of stubborn weeds. My gardening story is less “Master Gardener” and more “Oops, I probably should have mulched.” But here’s how my love affair with flowers has bloomed (and occasionally flopped) over the years.
As a small child, I watched my mom plant hundreds of annuals around the back of our house. The bright colors and glorious riot of shapes lit up that corner of the yard. Behind the garage, a long bed of marigolds perfumed the morning air. Even now, one whiff of marigolds takes me right back. (Yes, I know some people think they stink, but I LOVE that scent!)
When I was a tween, I remember crouching in the family garden, weeding away while my mom perched on the split rail fence and kept me company. One afternoon, a butterfly landed on my arm—a little reward, perhaps, for my dirt-stained knees.
My grandma had flowers everywhere. She often asked me to weed between the tulips that edged her rock garden. I thought it was a complete waste of time—the ground was like cement, and I could only snap off the green tops without touching the roots. I knew those weeds would be back before the week was out. Still, I loved sneaking over to the chive patch in the corner of her garden bed. I’d pluck a few, nibble, and feel very “grown-up.” Then there was the rhubarb: Lori and I would grab stalks and gnaw away, puckering and laughing. We didn’t actually eat it—it was more like a dare to see who could handle the sour longest.
College and my early apartment years brought houseplants, but no flowers. I kept things alive (mostly), but nothing that gave me that riot of color I remembered from my mom’s garden.
When Tom and I bought our first house in Sun Prairie, though, I was determined. Out back, I rototilled a giant kidney-shaped bed, again and again, until it looked like I knew what I was doing. Then I optimistically scattered a box of seeds called “Monet’s Garden.” Plants did sprout, yes…but so did weeds. Lots of weeds. I couldn’t tell what was worth saving and what needed pulling. Still, I pressed on, spending hours weeding and fussing. The next spring, the perennials returned—along with a small army of weeds. Mulching never even crossed my mind.
That bed became my crash course in what happens when you start a perennial garden from seed instead of sturdy little plants. (Lesson learned…well, sort of.)
For the past 23 years, I’ve worked on the gardens at my current home. In the early years, I was unstoppable. Every spring seemed to bring a brand-new perennial bed somewhere in the yard. I think I kept this up for at least the first seven years. Nothing thrilled me more than wandering through greenhouses or digging and swapping chunks of Siberian iris, Joe Pye weed, and Stella d’Oro daylilies with friends.
But now? The hardest phase has arrived. My job is no longer planting and expanding—it’s staying on top of weeds, spreading mulch, and just keeping everything alive and in check. It sounds so simple, but somehow the gardens have gotten away from me in a way they never did when I was doing twice the work.
And really, gardening mirrors life that way. The fun part is the planting—the fresh start, the burst of energy, the vision of what could be. The harder part is the tending: showing up day after day, pulling the weeds before they take over, and finding joy in the messy middle. It’s not glamorous, but it’s where the real growth happens.
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