The Package Deal: Compromise in Gardening

He stood in the backyard eyeing the pile of sod. Large chunks of perfect grass lay mounded in a heap, my garden beds wider and longer than they had been at breakfast. Sensing his irritation, I turned to face him. "I'm planning on using the extra grass to patch all the places the dogs dug up. Plus, I can use it to repair the mess by the drainpipe." His shoulders relaxed as he watched me load the grass into the wheelbarrow and head for the lawn.

My husband never wanted a garden. He would be happy with one dog, a couple of bushes, a tomato plant, a few trees, and a large unbroken swath of grass. He never realized the wild twenty year old he married so long ago would morph into a passionate organic gardener intent on ripping up his lawn to plant hundreds of flowers and shrubs he'd never heard of. We discuss the lawn repair project quietly as the dogs, all four of them, ignore us to sniff and bark. I have a plan, I assure him, but these words are seldom comforting. I always have a plan, which is part of the problem. How messy will it be, how much sod will disappear, and what will it cost?

In November I made both beds wider, leaving a narrower curving path between them. I extended the bed to the right. This picture was taken in spring 2012.

I do not expect him or need him to help me fix the lawn. A long commute paired with even longer office hours leaves him little time to pursue his own interests and hobbies. There are no To Do lists or projects for him to work on. His free time is his own, I remind him. "Do what makes you happy" is a constant refrain and gardening doesn't make him happy. The lawn is quickly and effortlessly repaired, holes patched, clay soil amended. He looks over the finished project and his relief is palpable. Bunny fencing encircles the newly laid grass to keep out the dogs and he smiles. Neat in his work clothes, I have already shed mine. Heels, skirt, and a sweater are exchanged for oversized grey pants, a stained hoodie and  mismatched socks. Mud cakes the bottom of my red garden clogs and my sweatshirt is covered with dirt.

The change was subtle and the curves are less voluptuous than I would prefer but you have to work with what you've got. This was taken on Thanksgiving 2012.

The garden may be mine but the property is ours and as much as I need a garden to nurture and enjoy, he is sated by the cool expanse of our small lawn. A weekly mowing and he's done. I like the lawn, I tell him. It gives the dogs room to play and is a soothing frame to the color in the borders. He thanks me and is off. Asking a gardener not to garden is like asking a sports fan to ignore the game. My garden is my heart not a battle to be won and we compromise out of love for the other. I return to the garden to think and dream.

Both sides of the garden feature grass paths leading from the gate to the small lawn and surrounding perennial beds. This was also taken in spring 2012.

I am a package deal, I joke with a friend. I come with a garden and dogs. But ultimately, we are all package deals. My husband's package includes a lawn and no expectation to become a gardener. On summer nights we eat outside and he comments on the garden, listening to me chat about the wildlife I've seen or my challenges with growth and design. He understands my energetic nature and knows I have spent the day outside, immersed in the profound singularity of gardening alone.