John corners me as I come into the kitchen this morning. “Here’s your long black. Are you OK if we revisit the garden redevelopment ideas?” This was the third time he raised it this week, and to be honest, his OCD was starting to wear thin!
We were planning a vegetable patch, but his military approach to the task had me wondering about Aldi’s vegetable aisles. His ideas run expansively over several pages and include:
• Soil analysis and additives, to counter acid or alkaline soils;
• the location for a three-bin compost facility;
• fencing to keep cats, blackbirds and possibly invading Tasmanian Tigers out;
• drainage considerations and the possibility of raised beds, maybe self-watering wicking beds;
• water access – consider the tap near the back verandah, and
• morning shade from nearby trees – to prune heavily, or remove?
And he was still on page one! John was warming to his subject: I note telltale spittle at the corners of his mouth and his excitable page fiddling. “Don’t just stand there. What do you think of the plans, so far?”
He overlooks the imposition of his non-stop blather of the past fifteen minutes. I hesitate, then start to talk about my research into wicking beds. ”Google says we’ll need to ensure that …” but alas, poor me: his soliloquies are set to challenge even Hamlet!
“What about the white cabbage moth? They’re butterflies actually, but nonetheless, they’ll ravage our brassicas. Sweet corn will be a treat in late summer – fresh cobs, drizzled with butter, rock salt and ground pepper. Mum used to grow acres of the stuff. Will we have enough room to put onions in? We use so many of them. Successive plantings will be the go. What about a green manure crop for soil conditioning?”
I calculate his eye is focussing about halfway down page two, and he is now onto Bunnings and a wicking bed shopping list. “2400mm x 200mm x 50mm sleepers: we’ll need nine for each bed. Bunnings have them for $19 each. Bugle batons, 100mm and 75mm, about thirty of each. They also sell the plastic liners and the plumbing fittings.”
I drift back into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine. I need another long black. I can hear him mumbling to himself on the verandah. When I reemerge, he is out in the yard and is stepping out potential space for the wicking beds. He has a tape measure, a small hammer and several wooden pegs. “I reckon we will have room for four of the beds. What do you think?”
“Those trees will have to go. It’s eleven, and their shade will be over the beds for at least another hour.”
“Yep, whatever you think’s a fair thing, John!” I take another noisy slurp of my coffee and idly scratch my ear.
“What do you mean by that? I need your input. This is our family’s big project. Me, you and the kids. It will provide them with a life-defining love of gardening.”