In Calgary, last year at this time, I was bemoaning the fact that it would be another two months before I could get into my garden. The ground was still frozen and we often had frost well into June. I put on a good front of appearing despondent, but the reality was that as I looked out on the task ahead, I was relishing the extended hours of leisure time.

            It doesn’t appear that I will be given that same break here on Gabriola. As I go for my walk every day, I see industrious gardeners everywhere, puttering in their yards and gardens. I see raised beds of rich, steaming, black soil, waiting for loving hands to run their fingers through them. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw my first dandelion in February. Now that is unnatural.

I know that gardeners on Gabriola are serious; I went to one Garden Club meeting and realized that saying you don’t garden is a blasphemy here. I would much rather spend my days outdoors watching the sea lions on Entrance Island. But then I always face the inevitable walk back down Berry Point Road, past the picturesque Cottage Garden and the many other well-tended yards. It is going to take some pretty fancy footwork to avoid gardening this year. I planted quite a few daffodil bulbs last year, in an attempt to convince myself that gardening is fun. But let’s face it, anyone can grow daffodils.

            Jordan is excited about the yard work. Of course, for most men, this entails two beers and a burn pile. Oh, what a life! We are both into the kind of garden that you can’t kill and doesn’t require water: yard art. Over the years, we have accumulated an interesting collection of garden antiquities, birdhouses, driftwood and rocks.

The standard line we use for the lack of gardening activity around our house is the obvious fact that we are still under construction. We still have earth moving to go, and it would be pointless to put anything in permanently. Construction also is the perfect reason for not expending too much energy on any major Spring-cleaning. I’ll do a thorough job once all work is completed.

            Jordan and I are firm believers in the natural look. We are encouraging the salal, fern, and holly that once covered our lot to return. We don’t believe in grassy lawns that require mowing; we prefer a natural covering of cedar bows, dead leaves, and moss. Sound convincing?

            And then there is the pergola-ploy. A pergola is a fancy word for an arbour or trellis. This can explain away any large, prominent patch of property. With the look of someone who knows what they are doing, pace out a large rectangular area, marking it with twine and pegs. Plant anything that might eventually climb up the planned-but-not-yet-built pergola, grapes if you got’em, and protect these sticks with a cage of deer netting. Now, sit back and wait a few years, or until friends begin to suspect that there may never actually be any pergola.

            Another dodge that seems to work is an artful display of gardening paraphernalia: trowels, rakes, wheelbarrow, assorted empty pots, and ornate jardinières. Occasionally move the display around to make it appear as if something is happening. Try not to let a layer of moss grow over it. I also have a gardening kneeler-stool, which adds to the perception that this is the home of a bona fides gardener.

            To add to this ruse, Jordan brought me a set of “heritage, ergonomic” garden tools from Vegas. I agree, that does seem to be an odd souvenir from Vegas. I had to read the booklet that came with the six-piece set twice, just to find out what each piece was used for. They came in a classy canvas tote that could possibly double as a handbag. There can be no doubt that the owner of this fine set of gardening implements, which may never touch dirt, (Sorry, I meant soil!) knows what to do with a dibble.

            All I want is another month of enjoying the spring without feeling I have to do outside work. Perhaps I’ll just move a few pots around today, before I go for a long, Spring walk.