I planted the creeper in a pot.
And then left it there for the better part of two years.
It didn’t seem to mind.
It did its Virginia thing, and crept in all directions like a land-lubbering-octopus with limitless tentacles. I pruned it back severely any number of times. But the second I turned my back, that darling vine would go on creep-about again.
Which is how I wound up with the creeper in the first place.
Apparently, one person’s creeper is another person’s creeped out.
A dear friend who is a better gardener than I ever hope to be, had neighbors with feet planted firmly in the “creeped out” camp and there was no persuading them otherwise.
Berries for birds.
They weren’t having it. The creeping creeper had to go.
Me? I loved the creeper the moment my friend handed it to me. Although it took me a moment to wrestle it out of her hands. She loved it too.
“Be careful,” she said with tears in her eyes.
“You can’t plant it just anywhere,” she whispered. “It’s a creeper…”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Creeper-haters,” she replied, and cast her eyes knowingly up and down my street.
“Creeper-haters,” I scoffed. “None such critter lives here.”
But that tiny inner voice called intuition raised its eager little hand shortly after she drove away, and said, “Whoa there sister, the neighbors!”
“What about ’em?” I retorted, knowing full well the weensy tattle-tale usually had my back.
That darn naysayer knows how to hold a pause in conversation longer than anyone alive. Likes to let you stew awhile. You know, think things through.
“Ah, shucks,” I toe-kicked the ground like a petulant child. There went my dream of having a waterfall of fiery fall foliage cascading down my rear fence.
Creepers, self-sowers and wayward roots. Nothing comes between neighbors quicker than rogue vegetation.
The creeper’s out of the pot now.
I bought it a faux-wrought-iron trellis.
And planted it as far away as I could from any property line.
Let’s hope it’s enough.
I’d hate to wake up one morning…
♥ ♥ ♥