The joy -- and pain -- of mature plantings
When you look at many a real estate listing, one of the pluses listed is often "mature shrubbery" or "mature trees" or something else like that. Boy, am I starting to understand why it's a selling point.
M and I are doing major yard work this fall so our yard will kick ass next spring. He and his dad pretty much replanted our front lawn, and the landscaper we use replanted the side yard. Last weekend, I planted three shrubs up against our new fence to help camouflage a gaping hole under one of the panels caused by the stepping process.
Planting is one thing. After you do it, you've got to keep everything as wet as possible. M has been running around like a nut with the sprinklers, watering the bushes and new lawn. Our reward is that the grass is filling in nicely, and the shrubs we dropped almost $100 on (The Gardeners' Spot on Granite Street rules all that is holy) seem happy in their new home.
And now for the pain: Today, a tree surgeon is coming to give us an estimate on what it would take to chop down our birch tree, which is, to quote Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, deader than fried chicken. I am very sad, but I've come to a state of acceptance about it. It looks like the middle of winter out there. And losing the birch will open up our front yard. Still, that tree was one of OUR selling points on buying the house. Sadness.
M and I are doing major yard work this fall so our yard will kick ass next spring. He and his dad pretty much replanted our front lawn, and the landscaper we use replanted the side yard. Last weekend, I planted three shrubs up against our new fence to help camouflage a gaping hole under one of the panels caused by the stepping process.
Planting is one thing. After you do it, you've got to keep everything as wet as possible. M has been running around like a nut with the sprinklers, watering the bushes and new lawn. Our reward is that the grass is filling in nicely, and the shrubs we dropped almost $100 on (The Gardeners' Spot on Granite Street rules all that is holy) seem happy in their new home.
And now for the pain: Today, a tree surgeon is coming to give us an estimate on what it would take to chop down our birch tree, which is, to quote Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, deader than fried chicken. I am very sad, but I've come to a state of acceptance about it. It looks like the middle of winter out there. And losing the birch will open up our front yard. Still, that tree was one of OUR selling points on buying the house. Sadness.
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