I’m writing all this down at the tail end of August, which is a time, here in my USDA Hardiness Zone 5B/6A part of the Midwest, when most flower gardens begin to show signs of winding down for the year. It’s actually a perfect time to reflect on this fact (and write about it), as all the bullshit (watering, pruning, deadheading, etc.) that takes up spring and summer’s primetime is pretty much in the rearview mirror. In terms of energy expenditure and activity, both human and plant alike, the downslide is now. And although summer doesn’t end for a few more weeks calendar-wise, the plants that grow in ornamental gardens throughout my little hamlet of Michiana Shores – including those that grow in mine – are starting do some serious end-of-season telegraphing. Ephemeral perennials, like old-fashioned bleeding hearts, wither and brown and evanesce. Robust flower pom pons on plants like Hydrangea and Phlox discolor and go to seed. And the flashing red blooms of florid bee balm shrivel and turn the color and consistency of dried prunes. Of course, plants like butterfly weed and hyssop, and even roses, continue to flower fairly mightily, and Montauk daisies and strange, late blooming oddities like toad lilies have yet to flower, so there’s that. But all in all, my happy patch is starting to look tired. It’s starting to look like it’s on the final straight. The homestretch. There’s no two ways around it: my garden is fork-ready.

How do I feel about that? Not bad at all.

The plainest of all plain-as-day good things about growing perennial (and evergreen) plants is that they come back every year (or remain forever in a state of at least some level of greenness). If you happen to grow your own garden and you’re a judicious and/or lazy sort, you’ll have populated it with perennials that live a very long time. I’m a lazy sort, and that’s exactly what I did with my garden. Everything that grows here – everything I planted – is here for the long haul. The deciduous members of this bunch will be spending their autumns and winters brandishing their leafless, skeletal branches and trunks while the herbaceous group will disappear from sight and bide its time belowground during the coldest months of the year (they’re either chickenshit or really smart – probably the latter). Evergreens will remain ever green. In spring, the whole lot of them – deciduous, herbaceous, and, of course, evergreen, will be sprouting new green growth from branch or soil, or will be intensifying the green that’s been kept in place throughout the fall and winter. In all cases, they’ll come back bigger, better, greener, and more flowery than ever. And this cycle will continue undoubtedly long after the time I myself become a distant memory. So, am I sad about the fact that my garden is fork-ready? How could I be? As these long-lived entities begin preparing for the plant kingdom’s equivalent of hibernation, I’m reminded of the fact that 1) I won’t need to screw around planting anything new because these Methuselahs aren’t going anywhere, and 2) The sonsofbitches are going to definitely still be going strong long after I’m pushing up daisies. Feel sad? Me? Never.

The other reason the pangs of loss aren’t exactly gnawing at my heartstrings here at the front end of my fork-ready garden’s end-of-season denouement is the fact that I’ll have practically nothing to do out there from now until next spring. Of course, there’ll be some leaf raking and some basic cutting back of dead stems and branches to get done, and possibly a little soil amending in the spots where a few of my acid-loving evergreens grow, maybe even a general, broad-spectrum, pre-winter application of fertilizer. But that’s about it. That stuff’s all a one-shot deal, and when it’s done, it’s done. But the watering and deadheading, and pruning, and staking, and tying, and mulching (and re-mulching) that’s got to get done on a regular, continual basis throughout the sweeter seasons? The major, ongoing, pain in the ass stuff? At this time of year, it’s all just a miles-back stain on the tarmac. The fork’s been stuck in those kinds of things. Do I miss doing them? Will I miss doing them? No way, José. Not a chance, Vance.

Look, I’m 61 years old (a young 61, Goddamnit, but still, 61), and I’ve lived long enough to not let myself get too sentimental over the end of another gardening season. I’ve done that very thing once or twice (or a few dozen times) before, and there’s no percentage in it. Though I’ll not deny the fact that there’s more than a little wistful ambivalence inherent in the knowledge that the tenaciously beautiful life forms residing in my garden won’t be generating their concerted pastel-through-technicolor spectrum for the next several months, I try to resign myself to the fact that this floral performance is just one of the many aspects of a dynamic, endlessly fascinating, and mysterious life cycle – one in which each and every plant that lives in my garden engages. The flowers are just part of their plan. As is the withering, and the browning, and the leaf-dropping, and the evanescing, and ultimately, the rejuvenation. I remember this fact and I know I can’t get overly maudlin about the end of summer in my fork-ready garden.

Besides, I can’t help but feel more than a little glad about all the bullshit I won’t have to go through until next spring.

Cheers, and Happy Gardening!