It’s not you, it’s me.
No, that’s a lie. It’s totally you. This is the part where I tell you exactly why it’s all your fault.
On paper, grapevines, we were a perfect match. I like eating grapes and you like growing them. How could we go wrong?
I had heard (through the grapevine – heh) that you might be a little fussy and high maintenance, but with my head held high and a fist full of internet research, I plowed on ahead. Your branches were dutifully cut back by 90% late every winter to just four growth nodes on each main branch of the “T.” I trained you to have a strong main trunk, and strung wire every 18” for your vines to spread. I offered you a nice living ground cover of peas and herbs. I mean, I tried. I really did. You could at least acknowledge that.
Maybe you would have been happier with a little more time and attention, and some sprays, but I’m just not INTO that. It’s not who I am. I can’t be a different person just to please you, grapevines, and it’s not fair of you to expect it from me. I probably could have found some organic treatments, and I even went so far as to buy Surround At Home Crop Protectant from Garden’s Alive, but couldn’t quite remember when to apply it. It’s the thought that counts!
It comes down to this; I have other stuff to do besides coddle you all day, grapevines. So what do you do the second I turn my back to harvest the garlic, or plant more spinach? You throw giant Japanese beetle sex orgies all over your leaves! I’m talking like, obscene 4 on 1 beetle action. It’s as though the entire cast of the Jersey Shore, plus all their friends from home (and even Angelina From season 1 and Vinnie’s incomprehensible Uncle Nino) were all reincarnated in beetle form and turned my garden into a Seaside Heights club named “Fuel” or “Tool” or “Pump”. Seriously, grapevines. Passive-aggressive much?
Relationships are a dynamic, I know, and we probably weren’t compatible from the start. New Jersey’s clay soil is not exactly your favorite environment, and growing up a fence probably left you stifled and cold. I think it’s time for us both to admit that we just don’t work well together.
I don’t regret my time with you, grapevines, and I’m not kicking you out since you obviously have nowhere to go. We’re just going to have to do that awkward thing where we live together as friends, but respect each other’s personal space. I promise to still cut your vines back - not with the precision you likely prefer, but you’ll have the freedom to grow however you desire. I’ll even try to remember to spray your grapes (should you choose to produce them, which you don’t really do anyway) with Plant Guardian to head off the black rot. Finally, if you insist on continuing your beetle sex orgies, I will look upon it without resentment and consider it your personal lifestyle choice. However, mark my words: if your little friends try to throw an after party in my heirloom perfume roses, I’ll murder every last one of them, and will enjoy watching Snookie and the Situation swirling to their respective deaths in a bucket of soapy water. So better spread the word.
In conclusion, grapevines, I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings too much and I know you will look back on this decision knowing it was the right thing to do for both of us. In the meantime, if you see me lovingly harvesting my asparagus beans, or happily trellising my favorite tomatoes, look away. Baby, look away.
Yours In friendship,
I am Laura; lover of plants, fan of words, drinker of wine, practitioner of yoga, planner of schemes, and conductor of the family crazy train, Check here for gardening tips (because I can't stand the word "hacks"), harvest recipes, and crafty projects.