A few weeks ago, the planting part of the season was officially over.

The budget was spent.

The pots were full.

Well, almost. To be honest, I still have five tubers sitting in my little urban greenhouse, waiting to be planted. 

But those just arrived. 

Black Satin, Shadow Cat, Ferncliff Midnight, and Gypsy Midnight, I had decided, notably late, were critical components of my revised garden plan. They would add depth, drama, and a deep red splash of mystery. 

Plus, they sound like members of an 80s rock band. How could I resist? 

And, number five: Abbie. She had absolutely nothing in common with this dark and moody quartet, but she was cute, and sassy, and somehow found her way into my cart too.

The important thing is that these five were properly justified.

Their pots had been allocated.

The season was still under control.

But here’s the thing.

This was my previous last tuber order of the season.

Not to be confused with my current last tuber order of the season.

Every gardener who’s ever been afflicted with dahlia fever understands the distinction.

As I wrote in “York, We Need to Talk,” he was supposed to be one of the stars of my garden this year.  When he failed to live up to his potential, his departure created an opening.

A big, gaping, half-whiskey-barrel-sized opening.

I had no choice but to order a replacement, which was placed with impressive efficiency.

One York.

One Sandia Bliss.

One MM Buttercream.

Three more tubers on the way.

Yes, I know.

I only needed one.

Now, I find myself standing in the garden, realizing I have a new problem.

I have eight dahlias that need planting. 

York will take over the vacant half whiskey barrel left behind by his predecessor.

That part is easy.

But I only have five empty pots for what is now seven dahlia tubers.

And absolutely no potting soil.

Not low on potting soil.

Not running out of potting soil.

Gone.

Finished.

I walked through the garden, looking thoughtfully at all my already-occupied containers, and assessed my options. 

The kind of assessment that began with, “I need another pot,” and ended with, “I need a bigger budget.”

Let’s recap. Five dahlias waiting in the greenhouse. Three more somewhere between here and delivery. Five empty pots. No potting soil. And what I can only describe as an evolving garden plan. (Clearly I need to get better at tracking this. My Growing Season Journal might have saved me here.)

All in all, a fairly typical weekend in the garden.

The funny thing is that gardeners are always talking about growing flowers, but if we’re being honest, most of us spend the season growing plans.

Then revising them. 

And revising them again. 

Until the garden slowly becomes something different than what we intended. 

And somehow, exactly what we needed.

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