Planted in My Garden

Take a walk with me and learn my garden's secrets

Planted in My Garden


Follow me through my garden, child, and learn something of the way nature can shape a person’s life.  Let’s start over here, with these simple purple violets, transplanted from the field yonder way. I will always think of Angie, and her wonderful recipes for fresh violet syrup and jelly, colored like a stained glass window in church, when I see their little smiling faces. You have to get down real close to smell their delicate essence, a favorite not just of Angie's, but also of my mother’s. Speaking of my mother, here is a flowering dogwood. Every Mother’s Day growing up, she made me run through the woods and come back with a bouquet of pink-tinged wild dogwood for her. Alas, we are losing the dogwoods, to a disease of unknown origin that has decimated the population, like the chestnuts and elms.

Over here is a batch of forget-me-not’s. When I was your age, I read a story about the pioneers in Alaska who asked that they be made the state flower, and how it became woven into the lore of the state’s history as well as the tapestry of its flag. I devoured Jack London's books when I was growing up, and I always wanted to go to Alaska- and maybe one day I still will. Get down on your hands and knees for the next one- if you look close, you will see the lily of the valley peeking oput from under thier leaves, a tiny flower with one of my favorite fragrances. They grew under the cherry trees where I used to play when I was little. Come, delight in their heady fragrance, and picture their little bells as skirts of tiny fairies, whisking to and fro, dancing on the leaf spines. Completing this section is the stand of pansies. I will always love the little pansy faces, and you will see I have planted a myriad of colors and varieties- as many shades as there are to any woman’s personality.

Over there is my other favorite scent, the lilac. My neighbor Carrie -85 when she got electricity- had these growing as a wall behind her house. Every spring, she would walk out there with me, and cut a few for me to bring back to the house. See the masses of tiny stars that cover the surface. If heaven had a smell, I think it would smell like these trees in bloom. And here is a mock-orange, with its high, spicy fragrance of its own- the only thing that has the ability to make itself known above the lilacs' heady musk. This was also a favorite of my mother’s. Follow along the path- here is an elderberry in bloom. Later this year, it will produce huge flat-topped clusters of wine flavored berries, so heavy they will make the branches droop with their abundance. The jam made form these berries was my great-grandmother Laura’s favorite food- slightly bitter, just like her.

Walk along with me to this Peace Rose, which will always remind me of the bouquet I made for my cousin Jessica’s wedding. These are her favorite flower, and I stood by her when she married Rob, whom she had known in person only from two visits prior to accepting his proposal. Sometimes, life takes you in totally unexpected directions. It took her from Pennsylvania and landed her in Seattle, just like it took my grandmother from the shores of Rhode Island and placed her in the mountains of Pennsylvania. These were the same roses Gram planted in her yard, and the same ones Jess will plant in hers. Speaking of Gram, she is the one who gave me my love of all green glad growing things. This whole next section is dedicated just to her.  Tread quietly with me here, so we can listen to the spirits of loved ones no longer with us.

Here are the stately gladioli, not yet in bloom, that were my gradnmother's favorites- magnificent splashes of color in the mid-summer on stalks that towered over her 4’11” own height.  Old pictures showed the drive lined with equally regal hollyhocks, and this batch is a homage to her love of these cottage garden plants. Check out their frilled blossoms, winding around the stalk and reaching over my head. In the archway behind them are the moonflowers, with their heart-shaped leaves twining towards the light. In the fall, they will flower at night, a gorgeous crisp white blossom the size of my hand, like an angel’s dress caught in the moonlight. These were also planted over the entrances of her house, and probably helped lift her spirit the same way they lfit my own.  Now look in front- sweet peas, their delightfully fragrant little heads bobbing, colored like the calico patches on that kind woman’s quilts and skirts. Here, too the wild rose, native to the seashore where she made her first home, and always, I think, yearned to return.

Alas, my grandmother was a lady of English tastes, and my mother inherited her refined tastes- but I have always chosen my own wild path. This next section is a field of wildflowers, for me. Like me, it is only loosely organized, and has been encouraged to grow beyond its bounds. Here is butterfly weed, its orange like a beacon for the monarchs, and behind it a stand of milkweed, their only food. If you look closely this time of year you might see a tiny egg, or the littlest wisp of striped white yellow and black, a miniscule caterpillar drifting and eating its way along the plant. The sap of milkweed is sticky like Elmer’s glue- here, put some on your finger and feel it. Don’t taste it though- it is poisonous. I used to trace the life cycles of monarchs when I was a little girl, and we had huge stands of both of these plants on our first property. These cinnamon ferns remind me of that time, too- I used to wander through thickets of ferns taller then me, and I always knew there was a dinosaur waiting to eat me underneath the next one!

These bluebells and lupines grew in the sunken garden behind the house I lived in at Boy Scout Camp, for three summers.  You think you feel misunderstood- try being the only girl at a Boy Scout Camp for 6 weeks- dressed in the same ridiculous outfits they have to wear and everything! Speaking of summer camp: the bank of mountain laurel off to the side will always remind me of the 17 years I spent at 4-H camp growing up- and that will always remind me of Christine and John, the two people who encouraged me to never give up on myself during those years. I spent many a summer chasing bears through thickets of mountain laurel with John- ah, if my mother only knew! The daisies and black-eyed Susan’s round out the batch here, and these wisps of bachelor’s buttons add a contrasting hue. See how their October sky color nicely offsets the golds and oranges of the rest. I used to grow these in Saranac Lake, in the garden I shared with Pam. She got so mad at me for sneaking them in- her practical mind wanted a vegetable garden, and my romantic one wanted flowers. I snuck them into the rows between her tomatoes, and she was none the wiser until they bloomed!

Speaking of golds, I left this field of goldenrod alone. To me, these are the Creator’s paintbrush in the fall, and their scent is, to me, the smell of autumn. Here, crush some leaves and inhale- you’ll see what I mean. It smells like the apples were just picked and there is a pumpkin pie in the oven, and oh my it is time to make sure the fireplace works. The one time I almost got married (of four engagements, I only got close once), it was going to be an early October wedding, and the bouquet was going to be goldenrod and purple aster. It was to be late afternoon, when the sunlight hits the earth at an angle to light up the fields in a fiery embrace. Perhaps I was hoping in that Golden Light I would be finally forgiven somehow for the very meandering path I took to get there in the first place, and the extremely unconventional forms love took for me. Life takes us in strange places, and that journey is not complete for me, and maybe never will be. If it does, the autumn suits me just fine still, for that seems to be the age of my spirit. Come back in October and share it with me.

There is a tiny bit of formality in me, and this herb garden over here should reflect that. I have tried to balance the basils with the savory herbs, and have thrown in enough silver artemesia to balance the greens. The variegated sages back here draw the eye back and further balance the silver. The thyme is a fragrant carpet that I hope will spread across the rest of the lawn. I’ve always hated lawns. Once, while hiking in the Catskills, we bushwhacked through an old goat pasture that was planted with a base of wild mountain thyme, and it was delightful. Using an herb like thyme makes the milk taste superb, but very few people do that any more. Each step through a pasture like that releases the shimmery fragrance of the herb, and makes you feel bradn new agian. This lavender is another favorite of my mother’s, and I make scented bath salts and teas with the flowers for her. Around the pool is the peppermint- suck on a leaf and feel your mouth get refreshed like it was a popsicle, Here is rosemary- I’m trying to grow into a topiary. Later today, I will bake you some fresh foccaccia bread with a few sprigs of this rosemary brushed with sea salt and olive oil. You may never be content with processed food again! We used to sell fresh foccaccia like that at the farm market I ran, and we always ordered two extra loaves on Sunday for ourselves. We ate it right out of the bag, still warm from the oven, the way you will enjoy yours later today.

Over this way, hidden behind the fence, is the garden of remembrance, for people who are no longer in my life for one reason or another. This red rose is for Luke, the boy I went on my first date with. He died of a drug overdose when I was 24. He brought me a single rose when he asked me to go see a movie with him. We ended up seeing “Dead Poet’s Society”.  The strawberries are for Ray and Kevin- my two greatest friends my freshman year of college. We spent literally hundreds of hours together, slaving over strawberry fields, our backs bent to harvest the tiny fruits for sale. Our boss Dave made us spend the night clear-picking a patch behind his house that he forget to treat- and the whole field was rotten and moldy. We spent 19 hours picking those damned fruit- and when the sun went down, Ray pulled his car up in front of Dave’s house, put his dorm room speakers on top, and blasted Disney and Broadway tunes for us to stay awake (and to annoy the daylights out of Dave) until we finished picking by tractor light. I miss them both so much sometimes- Ray died of brain cancer when we were 29, and Kevin dropped out of school and wandered off. I cannot pick tomatoes like these without remembering him dancing with me in a tomato field during a thunderstorm that broke a 12 day spell of 98 degree days.

Also in the field of remembrance is a bonsai tree- for David, my karate instructor and friend I left behind when I went to Guatemala. The white roses and calla lilies remind me of my garden in Guatemala, and the red hot pokers remind me of my little horse, Sombra. Sombra carried me more or less patiently on his back for miles past rock walls planted with endless rows of these flowers. The peace lilies are for Jamie, my former best friend, in hopes that we may one day reconcile our differences. The coral vine is a gift from Jeff, perhaps the single greatest work mentor I ever had.  The morning glories keep Suzi here with me, as this color blue is her favorite. The apple tree makes me think of Bob and Ruth, the Quaker couple I knew in Doylestown. I groomed their dogs and spent countless hours talking to them-they became surrogate grandparents to me. This patch of bamboo reminds me of the Yan family, and how for 8 years they took me into their lives as if I really were one of them. Finally, I planted this birch tree for the baby that Dwayne and I lost, when we were 22. He never forgave me for that, and he left me on Thanksgiving, 2 years later. Men can be so strange.

This garden will be ever growing, as you can see. I have added some things that only appeal to me, like the spidery cleome and the ballerinas of fuschia. I have planted food and shelter for the wild things to feel at home here, like the trumpet vine that draws hummingbirds to it from miles around.  New people in my life are added as new memories. I have not yet chosen plants for some of the ones I’ve cared most about over the past 4 years, for example. I have not yet selected Joanna’s flower, but I might plant Gerberas for Damian if I can find red ones. Carla will get a patch of something thorny, maybe a Devil’s Walking Stick, to complement her patch of sage. I may plant rue for Moonray., but will also need to add some native woodland plants for him. Alan, Dick, and Joann will get blight-resistant chestnuts when I have a place to call my own. I strongly believe that relationships, like plants, are vital living things that must be tended with utmost love and care.

Thank you for taking the time out for this little excursion with me today. I want to show you one last thing. This little patch if ground over here, almost forgotten, will be where I tend the flower I plant for myself, in expectation that I may find an nurture the love I seek, and think I am now ready for. I have not chosen it yet, either, but it will be nurtured carefully as a symbol of my hope and faith. Next to it, I would like to plant something to honor you, and the wisdom you have led me to. Perhaps you have some ideas of what I can plant in these two spaces?








 

Reviews

[bob, small b. aka invs]

wow. i hate starting out a review with wow, but sometimes it's the only word that fits my reaction. i am sitting here with teary eyes thinking about what you wrote. i never thought of a garden in those terms before, but it is true for me as well. every flower in our garden has a person or story behind them. forget-me-nots, irises, rose bush, etc. i wrote a poem once about a magnolia blossom i remembered from my youth. funny the importance we attach to things like this. daisies will forever be associated with one of my first loves. floods of memories come back with every flower i think of. thank you for shaking up those memories and writing a wonderful story. i'd love to walk through your garden with you. (you will find me in the shade garden, with the ferns, jack-in-the-pulpits, trillium, and lilies of the valley)

[Marie Anzalone]

bob, all of those grow wild around my home... I have often thought of your words while walking through the woods this time of year.

[Jay]

Old world jonquils. It must be the old world jonquils that you plant in one of those remaining spaces...And if you've still the room, a Boronia.

[Marie Anzalone]

Wow, Jay,which archive did you dig this one up from? :-)
I have actually planted jonquils since I wrote this. I was not familair with Boronia, and had to look it up. Hopefully, this time next year I will be starting my garden over in Central America. Maybe it will grow there. I will dedicate to you if I do. Thank you very much for this today.

[Jess]

;*-)

[Through the Gateway]

Beautiful. I love the walk through the garden. Like yours, my own garden would be overgrown and wild.

What would you plant for me? Ivy. A resilient plant that can take a brutal loss and come back, time and time again. It does not flower, but its green leaves hold their own beauty. And its foliage grows close together, like armor, so you do not see the delicate runners within. And, when rooted to a damaged tree, can keep the tree up until it heals itself.

What to plant for yourself? I thought that was obvious...

...Salix babylonica. A Weeping Willow.