Gardening doesn’t provide many opportunities for humorous material.  “Funny” has a different meaning in the garden.  “That’s funny — I thought for sure the exotic magnolia that consumed my entire annual budget would survive in this spot”; or “That’s funny – the deer only seem to like the expensive hostas.”  Not, I can assure you, amusing moments. In my monthly column, I’ve tried to make light of my mistakes. Like the forsythia roots that infiltrated our septic pipes and destroyed the system. Or the rocks lining the driveway which have required the assistance of AAA to dislodge vehicles stuck on them. Or shrubs I initially misplaced and tried to transplant, their removal “the emotional equivalent of extracting teeth without the benefit of Novocain”. The consequences of these errors are far from hilarious.

The task of humor, therefore, has fallen to “the Reluctant Gardener” who first introduced himself in 2002 as the husband of a gardener who “comes up with one hundred and one reasons why I should appreciate the opportunity to get muddy.”  Many readers commiserate with the Reluctant Gardener who succumbs to gardening projects because there’s no point in a discussion “we know we cannot win once the wife has made a decision disguised as the question – hon, do you have minute?” He continues to contribute a column whenever the yard really irks him.

The Reluctant Gardener’s complaints are seasonal.  In spring, he wrote of pruning the roses, the cultivated varieties and “their sinister cousins – the wild roses — they slash me at every opportunity they can, and I’m left looking like I just broke up a fight between the neighborhood’s feral cats instead of the benign activity of mowing the lawn.” He claimed that trimming shrubs was easy enough “as long as I complete the entire task without my wife’s supervision so that I only have to hear the accusation that I’ve ‘scalped’ them once,” and confessed, “I don’t mind cutting wood with an axe; it’s when I cut the ornamental grasses that I wish I had a chain saw.”

He also wrote of the aforementioned forsythia and “Other Tough Customers” such as wisteria, arguing that “not even the most punctual reluctant gardener could have kept pace with this vine” when it ripped the arbor apart. And when the Reluctant Gardener “Tackled the Subject of Weeds” he expressed fear of the most noxious  – poison ivy – suggesting that his desert heritage resulted in a systemic rash through “mere eye contact”, and criticized the “weapons” I use to extricate weeds, stating “her tools are innocuous enough – trowel, rake, gloves, clippers. But she gives them vicious names like claw and dead-header. This, of course, is under the guise of that allegedly gentle language she calls garden parlance.”

The Reluctant Gardener announced that in the summer his name changes to “Manuel La Bor”. He predicted, “I haven’t heard of a project involving rocks yet, but I’m certain there’ll be one,” and complained that he can’t create his own schedule: “Today I am going to – (fill in the job) – after I do some general goofing off” because “the grass and apparently the trees, shrubs and lawn furniture wait for no one.” In subsequent summer columns, he opined on “garden projects” describing the restoration of the water garden as wading in “primordial ooze with a stench reminiscent of a pig sty” and explained the process of rebuilding sections of the stonewall, in which he employed the masonry style of the ancient Anasazi instead of New England fields stones, an error resulting from a failure to consult “the nose-to-the-grindstone” for advice. “After days of hauling, jabbing, evaluating, posturing and swearing, my son and I patted ourselves on the backs for our efforts and proudly announced that our mission was complete…obviously, we were wrong,” and the project that should have taken less than a week to complete consumed the next five months.

In the fall with “The Reluctant Gardener Muses on Leaves”, he observed that “there are more on the ground than there ever were in the trees” and suggested the task of raking be rechristened “autumnal futility” because “the majority return in the spring. Like migrating birds.” Critical of the role of the elements — “If only the wind took a few away instead of bringing more to my yard,” he grumbled about “seeing neighbors with more trees than I have whose yards have less piles.” As to the maples’ inability to decompose (“they’re like tires”) he suggested a communal disposal area – a leaf arena, a maple complex, a foliage stadium for kids, noting that “maybe that would increase youthful involvement” in the chore.

In winter, “The Reluctant Gardener Sings the Lumberjack Blues” addressed dealing with trees destroyed after damaging storms, lamenting that he not only lacks the right tools, “I don’t even have the right outfit. I do not own a single flannel shirt, a watchman’s cap, suspenders, or anything plaid.” He promises to submit an article on the laborious task of turning those fallen branches into fuel for our woodstove without benefit of a chainsaw. Or flannel.

So there you have it — the sum and substance of the garden column’s humor, which I, alas, cannot claim. Though some people thought I was pretty funny when I offered advice meant in all seriousness, which I repeat here in the hope that it’s heeded:

• As you prune, remember that shrubbery was not designed to sit upon
• Plastic was never meant to be planted
• Orange rhododendrons don’t belong near their fuchsia and magenta siblings
• Certain deer deterrents also deter visitors, barbed wire, for example, or dirty socks
• Never plant annuals in geometric patterns unless you’re landscaping a park
• Use topiary, pagodas, and gnomes sparingly
• Red tulips and yellow daffodils are a metaphor for spring (and catsup and mustard)
• A weed is a plant that’s in the wrong place
• Ornamentation is enjoying a surge of popularity, but there’s no place for Jocko, the lawn jockey
• This also goes for decorations that bend over to reveal polka-dotted pantaloons