Open Writing

It has been my good fortune to have gardens most of my life. First it was my parents’, carved by them from a wooded lot. Later, when I had my own first home, a newly built house, I had to tackle a similar task, except that instead of clearing trees and underbrush, I was dealing with the rock and clay left by the home builder.

After three years I moved to another new house, this time with a more sensitive builder who set aside the top soil before he started construction, and put it back after the house was built. My main task this time was creating something interesting out of a perfectly flat and level plot of land.

Creating these two gardens was like writing, or painting - you start with a blank page or canvas, and this can be intimidating on such a large scale. Nevertheless, I enjoyed laying them out, but what I had in my mind’s eye was a mature garden, and of course this takes time. Being relatively young, I was short on patience. Recently disturbed land needs time to settle and regain its fertility.

Even a lawn takes a while to become established, and between bugs, climate and weeds there was many a false start. The one thing I didn’t have a problem with was obtaining plants. My mother, an avid gardener and propagator, made sure I had all the herbaceous and rockery plants I needed. Her rooted rose prunings soon bushed out and flowered.

Just about the time my “mind’s eye” vision had come to fruition, my marriage withered, and I found myself living in a rented apartment in a big, old Victorian house. The garden was sheltered by a high stone wall, which made it ideal for growing even fairly exotic plants. Unfortunately, the other, long time renters, were an old couple, too feeble to take it on, so by the time I moved in it was a wilderness.

Even so, it was satisfying to restore it to its former glory, and to discover the many and varied plants that had survived the neglect and waist high weeds. Along one sunny wall there was a row of raspberry canes that produced the most wonderful, large, luscious berries every year. Now it was time to pay my mother back for all her horticultural support.

Every plant I rehabilitated that she did not have in her garden was split, or cuttings were taken. A lover of all berry fruits, and a jam maker, she soon had her own raspberry patch for the first time. I lived in the apartment for three years before leaving for America; just about long enough to see the results of my labors. The benefits weren’t all one-sided; restoring the garden had also helped me through the trauma of divorce.

In the USA, my first home was an apartment that fortuitously had a balcony. It wasn’t long before I had tomato and cucumber plants growing in a wooden trough, but it was frustrating to be so limited. Once I had purchased a house on a good sized lot I couldn’t wait to start planting.

Like many parts of America, the Philadelphia climate isn’t conducive to English style gardening. The summers are hot, and the winters can be severe. This doesn’t stop some suburbanites from trying, but most settle for a lawn, a few evergreen shrubs and some annuals. I tried roses for a while, but the Japanese beetles had other ideas, so I capitulated and settled for vegetables.

What I hadn’t reckoned on was the rapid growth and fecundity of well-tilled soil, coupled with the warm, wet springs of that region. My neighbors were amused to see me planting so many vegetables, but didn’t let on. Presumably they thought on the job learning would be more effective than advice.

It wasn’t long before I was ankle deep in tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and beans. No problem; I’d just show what a good neighbor I was and give the surplus away. I didn’t even stop to think that all my neighbors had vegetable gardens too. Nobody wanted my surplus. It wasn’t uncommon to find a basket of produce on one’s doorstep, put there by a neighbor, desperate to see their crop not go to waste.

Since those days, I’ve had two more, very different gardens. Both were set amongst large trees, where it was a constant battle to overcome the lack of sunlight. The first of the two was in up-state New York, where the growing season is only around 6 months. In the end, I found most of my time was taken up between clearing fallen trees and branches, and trying to persuade grass to grow in the deep shade.

My last garden was much the same, but further south, so the climate was more conducive to plant growth. Unfortunately it was also conducive to a large, deer and woodchuck population. The woodchucks quickly decimated the tomatoes and peppers, whist the deer subsisted on my evergreen shrubs through the winter, and ate my crocus in the spring.

When I came to live in Florida, 5 years ago, it was a relief to live in a condominium, where the planting landscaping and grooming is someone else’s responsibility. I cheerfully gave away my gardening tools. But after five years I have begun to feel the call of the soil again.

It started with the gift of an Orchid, and later a gift to my wife of a Desert Rose, followed soon after by a Peace Lilly. All reside on my lanai, and I talk to them every day about my gardens long past.

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