You Told Me So: A Public Declaration

The front of our house is red brick and the windows are very low, perhaps only a foot above the ground.  Because we have a walkway from the driveway to the front door and because we wanted to be able to look out those windows, we didn't want a large bed of foundation shrubs against the front of the house.  I have large rectangular areas of groundcovers between the walkway and the lawn: liriope on the sunnier side and indigofera mixed with variegated vinca major on the shadier side.  My brilliant idea?  Plant creeping fig ivy to climb up the brick walls, providing a cooling curtain of green and the look of shrubbery without any depth at all.

The Chief Engineer in our house advised against it.  "You'll constantly be trimming it back, to keep it off the roof and the windows," he said.  But how hard could that be?  I mean, I can climb a ladder.  I have my own special smaller-hand Felcos.  What's the problem?

Well.  It's a problem.  Don't get me wrong -- I love the look.  It really does cool down the hot red color of the brick.  It does look like landscaping without having rows of big bushes in front of the windows.  But it's a real project to keep it trimmed correctly.  If it gets away from me, it leaves sticky little footprints on the woodwork.  It's crawled around to both sides of the house, and threatens to actually come in the front door.  It's harder than it looks to use the ladder to trim the top.  The trimmings are pretty tough and don't decompose quickly in the compost pile.

There is a benefit, however, that I had never considered when I planted the ivy.  Whenever I'm working on it, I'm thinking about my marriage.  About when it's important to be right and when it's not.  About giving and taking advice in a graceful fashion.  About doing what matters and forgetting about what doesn't.  And that's got to be a good thing, I figure.