We are a couple of months late to the game, but we finally got around to repotting some of our plants. Normally we try to do it around the Victoria Day holiday in May, but winter seemed to hang on a bit longer this year, plus with the pandemic, we hadn’t gone to pick up soil or new pots.
But mid-June, garden centres had re-opened, and we had finally scrounged together a few packs of soil (it was not enough) and got started. We did the ones at the studio shop and in the apartment first, and then we planned a day to lug the bags of soil and pots to the main shop, and went to work. I think our fingernails had soil underneath and in the cuticles for a week. It was glorious.
It’s slightly more stressful to do the re-potting at the main shop because people stop by and admire the plants, and then have to tactfully slide away as someone breaks a pot or breaks off a stem or spills the very precious amount of soil we have on the ground or gets sprayed in the face with a hose and things start to get a bit hairy.
For the last several years, Jon has slowly been transitioning from cranky, young Asian man directly to his destiny as cranky, old Asian man, completely bypassing middle age.
“So this is actually twice as much work since we have to do it at the main shop and at home.”
“Why do you even need soil?”
“Let’s calculate the actual cost of these plants in the water bill.”