What a great holiday weekend. The weather was perfect. May 24th is one of the few long weekends of the year when you don’t feel obligated to visit relatives, sit through marathon meals, or stick to a strict, busy schedule. No, this is the puttering weekend.
The cottages open. Lawnmowers emerge from winter hibernation. Garden gloves reappear from wherever they mysteriously disappear each fall. And, if you’re lucky, you spend a little time relaxing without deadlines tapping you on the shoulder. For me, it has always meant one thing: planting the spring annuals.
After many years and several gardening miscalculations—I’ve learned a few valuable lessons.
First, never go flower shopping on a spring weekend if you can avoid it.
Secondly, buy plants early enough that the good ones aren’t gone…but not so early that they sit in the garage while you anxiously monitor nighttime temperatures like a meteorologist. Because frost, as every Canadian gardener knows, has a wicked sense of humour. It can linger well past May 24 just to remind us who’s really in charge.
And thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, if at all possible, visit the greenhouses without your husband. Taking Chuck to a garden centre is a bit like dragging me through Canadian Tire to admire nuts, bolts, screws, and mysterious hardware items that apparently inspire deep excitement. The time stretches. Interest fades. Both parties suffer. Most men, I’ve observed, are not passionately invested in comparing petunias. Vegetable gardens, perhaps. Tools, certainly. Flowers? Not so much. So, the wise wife slips away solo.
Armed with all this hard-earned wisdom, I decided to go to the nursery on the Friday of the long weekend, right around lunchtime. Surely everyone would be at work or stuck in traffic heading north. Well, that theory wilted faster than an unwatered petunia. The place was packed. Absolutely packed. Cars everywhere, people circling like determined bees looking for fragrant blossoms. Finding a spot felt like winning a small lottery. So, I guess I hadn’t truly learned lesson number one.
Now I must admit, there was a good supply of healthy, beautiful plants, so I scored high on that tutorial.
Lesson number three was achieved with flying colours. Chuck did not accompany me. I enjoyed my unrushed time there. Marigolds were carefully inspected, selected, and put in my cart. And then I leisurely wandered throughout the area looking at all the beautiful blooms. It did my soul good. Of course, a nursery for me is never just about flowers. While waiting in line, I found myself enjoying the unexpected entertainment of people-watching, particularly the collection of husbands accompanying their spouses. Snippets of conversation drifted through the warm greenhouse air.
“Well, you got your hanging plants, so let’s go. What do you mean, you want another one? Where on earth are you going to put it?”
“We’re not buying another tomato plant.”
“Oh look, honey, maybe we should just check over there…”
“You knew I was going to look at flowers. If you didn’t want to do that, why in hell didn’t you stay at home?!”
I smiled. I could identify with each and every one of them.
But in the end, a mission had been accomplished. Maybe they didn’t stick entirely to their original plan. Maybe they were leaving with twice as many plants and a slightly lighter wallet than they had intended. But they had a story to tell. And honestly, that might be the real magic of the May 24 weekend. It isn’t just about planting flowers or opening cottages. It’s about the small rituals that mark the beginning of summer—the hopeful purchases, the shared errands, the belief that this year’s garden will be the best one yet.
