Lately I've been feeling like Edward Scissorhands, only with a shovel for hands instead of scissors. And, of course, there's a gender difference. Plus, I'm considerably less cute than Johnny Depp. Oh, and I'm old enough to be his mother.

But other than that, exactly like Edward Scissorhands.

Last night I finally finished what I thought was my final gardening project for the year. Over the last few weeks I cleared out a very messy area behind the pond. A few years ago I planted three hydrangeas there, confident that they'd take over and totally smack down the assorted weeds.

Instead, the assorted weeds (including ferns and goldenrod) totally put a beatdown on those poor hydrangea. So I decided to dig out everything around them and seed it to grass so the poor shrubs would have a chance. Once I did that, the rest of the area behind the pond looked even more unkempt.

So I dug that out and bought another five hydrangea on sale for half price and planted them. Oh, and I put in a burning bush in the middle of it all.

If you ever want to get garden purists to snark at you, just mention that you've bought a burning bush. It's considered a gardening clich� but I adore those bright red leaves.

Once it reaches full size it will be an enormous, flashy contrast to the white pom poms of the hydrangeas and the dark green of the forest behind it. Go ahead. Judge me. I can take it.

Oh, and let me add here that it's one of the few reliable Zone 3 shrubs. It's easy to snark when you live in Zone 5 and the whole nursery is your oyster. It's a whole other pile of compost when you're trying to find things that flourish in Zone 3.

So, as I was saying, there I was last night just kind of basking in the beauty of the newly reclaimed area, the lovely weed free soil, the pretty white pom poms of the hydrangea. I turned to the spousal unit and said, "It's so wonderful to be done for the year."

"Yeah, it is," he agreed. "Where did you plant the daffodils?"

"Daffodils?" I thought. "WHAT DAFFODILS?" He must have seen the confusion on my face.

"You know, the bucket of daffodils you lifted when you built that wall in front of the daffodil meadow. There must have been, what, seven or eight hundred daffodils in there, right?"

D'OH.

I looked at the freshly turned soil in front of the hydrangeas. I quickly figured that it would be relatively simple to dig a trench in front of them in that soil, throw in some compost and bone meal, and the daffodils could be planted in, oh, say, three hours. Easy peasy.

"I really hate it when people throw daffodils in trenches, you know?" said the spousal unit. "You see that a lot in front of people's houses. It's so uncreative."

D'OH.

And so it was that I found myself, shovel in hand, for at least five hours digging a lovely serpentine bed in the general vicinity of the hydrangeas, mixing in compost and bone meal, and laboriously planting more daffodils than I want to think about. I had Mr. It's So Uncreative come out with me after supper and fill in the bed over the daffodils.

Tonight in the dusk I surveyed the area. I'll have to get some bee mix on it (a special meadow blend with an assortment of grass and clover) this week so that it doesn't run back to weeds on me. And then I'll be done.

Really.

I mean it.

In other news, my azalea buds continue to swell. I have decided that every time there's a frost warning I'm going to construct little plastic shelters over these shrubs. I am determined to see them flower.

And if I can't make them flower?

Well, that's what compost piles are for. I'm getting far too old and grumpy to spend my time on plants that don't give any pay back.

I hope those azaleas realize they're living on borrowed time.

--Marn