garden – Everpine & Petal

The only thing heavier than manure is a price tag

Rob had a plan.
A frugal, muscled, manure-laced plan.
“Why would we pay for compost,” he asked with a straight face,
“when we have tons of it sitting right there in Caspian’s pasture?”

He gestured toward the rolling expanse of the donkey kingdom like it was brimming with untapped riches.
“It’s free!” he said.
“Just a little labor.”

A little labor.

What Rob failed to mention was that this “free” manure came with a multi-step gauntlet of trials.
First, you had to fill a wheelbarrow with the sacred poo—three full loads just to make a dent.
Then came the real test: shoving it over the unforgiving lip of the gate, a move that required either brute force or a rotting shiplap ramp built out of splinters and one good heave.

Or, if you wanted to get fancy, you could slingshot it from the far side—right up against our Alcatraz-grade fence—and pray Caspian didn’t make a break for freedom.

And if by some miracle you managed not to baptize yourself in donkey droppings and drag your prize all the way up the gravel driveway to The Monet Garden—well, you could consider yourself divinely chosen.
Blessed by heaven and flora.

Naturally, when Rob left on a work trip to Miami to fix helicopters (a much cleaner endeavor than air-frying manure), I took matters into my own dirt-smeared hands.

I added bags of pre-composted equine nuggets to the grocery list.
At just over $2 a bag, it was practically a spa treatment—with no donkey braying in the background and no threat of slipping on hockey pucks.

I drove the car right up to the garden gate, lifted each blessed bag out like it was a newborn calf swaddled in black gold, and dropped it like it was fresh.
No shovel wrestling.
No donkey surveillance.
No uphill martyrdom.

And the best part?
I didn’t smell like a barn for three days afterward.

So yes, I technically committed a compost crime.
But in the eyes of tired arms, overburdened wheelbarrows, and delicate nostrils everywhere…
I am the hero this garden needed.

Let him think it came from the pasture.
Let him believe I earned every shovel’s worth with biceps and glutes.
I’ll never tell.

I am woman.
I am gardener.
I am compost criminal—
and I have no regrets.

The season that almost didn’t bloom—and the messy, magical way it still might.

The season began with late frosts and even later downpours. Seedlings nearly drowned in the muck while I slogged through chaos daily, searching for any sign of life. For the first time in farm history, the main source of floral happiness came from the kingdom of Dahlias. A huge, newly built garden bed surrounded by a beautiful white fence, full of more Dahlias than I had room to grow. Flower boxes lined the way, and a vibrant Pretty Polly rose bush was tucked into a massive pot I’d rescued from Aldi like a floral Cinderella.

Despite my reluctance and deep disdain—for Frank—I bought a twelve-foot above-ground pool. My neighbor smiled and said how happy she was to see Nikolai getting something fun this summer. I had to bite my tongue not to laugh. “This isn’t for him,” I told her. “It’s for the plants.” She was baffled. Possibly concerned. That’s fair. But thanks to my bestie, the WidowCall Pond is now full of magic where dragonflies tail you through the garden like loyal hounds, and frogs smaller than thimbles perch like royalty on taro leaves (often mistaken for elephant ears, which, fun fact, are actually poisonous). Because nothing says “welcome to the garden” like a plant that wants to kill you.

The lotus were late. The zinnias and cosmos were stunted. Over one hundred and fifty florals planted this year didn’t go as planned and neither did my body. Doctor visits and hospital bills are already a familiar part of my life, but this time it’s fevers and infections, too. The garden is wild. The weeding is out of control. And maybe that’s okay. (It’s not. I’m lying. I’m livid.) I stare out the bedroom window at the Monet Garden—aka Dahlia Kingdom—burning up with fever and fuming that I can’t fix it. Yet.

Still, the farm has its own rhythm. One day the field looks lifeless and I rage-clean my room just to feel like something’s in my control. A few days later, I walk out again and something tiny has bloomed. Buds, sprouts, and signs of resilience. I don’t know what this year will bring. But it’s stirring.

The boat pond is unfinished, but the greenhouse? Ohhh, she’s a sanctuary. A coliseum. A love letter from my husband made real. Is it finished? No. Is it breathtaking? Undeniably. Even my farrier was stunned when she visited. The stained glass isn’t installed yet—Rob had to order a DIY glass cutter and learn by failing (and nearly slicing his finger off). We had to hire hands to help lift the massive six-foot panels into place. Watching it happen, I white-knuckled my way through the entire process. There were moments I had to look away. Not from lack of faith—just from the sheer terror of impalement. You’ve never seen romance until you’ve seen a man defy death for architectural whimsy.

The French doors are open. The light is impeccable. One of my besties gifted me several outrageously large workbenches, the biggest I’ve ever seen (which now also need a small team to move). There’s much to do before winter, and the greenhouse is already threatening to overflow. I’ve got teacups to turn into bird feeders, a thrifted pot destined to become a fountain for the boat pond, and more aquatic blooms to order. My to-do list is so long it might actually be breeding. I’m almost okay with procrastinating. Almost.

And in the middle of all this? We got WiFi. For the first time in eight years. That’s right—Everpine & Petal has entered the modern age. I can now rest on the sofa and stream an audiobook without having to drive into town to download it. I can write without going to a coffee shop. I can submit essays. I already am. Some of what I’m writing, I’ll share here. Some I can’t yet. But the floodgates are open. The power’s on. And we’ve got a lot to catch up on.

So let’s start with all of that.
Let’s start here.

Tag: garden

Compost Crimes

Field Notes & a Failure to Thrive