OFF THE WAGON


Even the strongest among us fail.  Merely being able to recognize a weakness gives one very little power to overcome it.  Even those who have walked this path before can succumb to sweet temptation over and over again.


All those promises I've made to myself to bolster self control, all those private pep talks to curb an unhealthy, unreasonable fixation, all those post-frenzy moments of clarity when it becomes crystal clear what I have done - yet again.  All undone (as usual) when I was at my most vulnerable; snow still piled high on my gardens, spring fever raging in my blood.


Hello.  My name is Jocelyn, and I am a garden-aholic.


This weakness - this dangerous tendency of mine - is hereditary.  It affects all the females in my family to some degree.  And, because we women tend to spend a lot of time in each others' company, not only does the actual genetic weakness exert its influence on us, but hanging out with other addicts reinforces a bad behavior.  They warn you about that sort of thing.  It's what's called a double whammy.


To make matters worse we have all managed to marry enablers - guys who are easily talked into cultivating another stretch of ground for a perennial bed here, and a strawberry patch there, here some asparagus, there some raspberries, here a bush, there an apple tree ... e-i-e-i-o.  They can even been sold on the idea of hauling massive rocks into the yard and inserting them into a hillside for esthetic appeal - even if they're not sure what that is.  Trust me, I know.


On the surface there doesn't seem to be a big problem.  I mean, what's another flower bed?  It can easily be rationalized as 'curb appeal' or 'doing our bit for the bees'.  An addiction dressed in environmentally friendly clothing can fool a lot of people, but while these don't seem to be so bad to the casual outside observer, living on the inside with the day-to-day consequences of weeding and watering every waking moment is another story.


It can tear families apart ... or indoctrinate the next generation into the family failing; it can go either way.  Just ask my own children about their childhoods of conscripted slave labour spent out in the potato patch.


I confess all this to show you how my life has been a rocky path of self-inflicted gardens.  But I also want you to understand that I have gained at least a small modicum of insight into my struggle.  I do comprehend the magnitude of my weakness, and I know I am helpless to battle it alone.  There are twelve step recovery programs out there for everything and if I ever find one for gardening I hope I have the strength of character to join.  Until then I am on my own.


Over the years I've had my ups and downs.  Sometimes I've been able to hold the line on reasonable expectations - you know, making sure that the tilled square footage/available manpower ratio is in balance.  And, other times, a friend will be giving away loads of perennials and I say 'yes!' to everything only to come to my senses when I get back home and remember that every square inch of my flower beds is already full.


My willpower ebbs and flows on me; I'm never stronger that at the end of a hot summer day, having weeded all morning, picked beans all afternoon, and made pickles after supper.  And I'm at my weakest in front of gardening bulb display in early March ... as the VISA bill will attest to when it comes next month.


It was the old case of one plant is one too many, a thousand is not enough.  If I could have just walked on by I might have been okay, but I had made a premeditated decision to buy a few begonias ... which derailed my self control and led to a question of 'which ones?' which grew to 'how many?' which in turn spiralled downward to 'how many of each?'.  In no time at all, with ringing in my ears, my eyes glazed over, and my pulse elevated and erratic I piled a large bag of gladioli into the cart to keep the begonia company and topped them all off with seed packets of sunflowers, cosmos, marigolds and zinnias.  As I furtively stowed this contraband in my car for the trip home I knew I had fallen off the wagon yet again.  I have my stash hidden down in the basement for the time being while I try to figure where on earth I'm going to put them.


I know this is just me rationalizing my failings here, but it could be worse, right?  I am helping out the bees, after all!  And it does make the yard look pretty.  Now that the kids are gone I'm only hurting myself, right?


I'll move on to promising myself it will never happen again the day I plant 45 gladioli in a flower garden that doesn't even exist yet.