March 15, and I am counting this as the first, official day of gardening for the 2018 season. Oh, I've been out there recently, picking up sticks and such, but gardening truly begins when you plant something.
Today it was a little pot of lavender, moved from a sunny spot in the kitchen into the big rock planter out back. Oh, Lord, it is good to dig in the dirt. Possibly, I should have given the little thing a sweater, but we both have great hopes for its future.
I repotted a Christas cactus (to be returned to the kitchen) and did a little pruning. As I bent to the task of giving my thyme a ruthless haircut. I thought of my friend Charlotte.
We moved into separate apartments, at the same time, in a big old house in Tryon years ago. When I first saw her, she walked up the steps as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. In a sense, she did. I was sitting outside on my tiny porch, and I asked her to sit down too.
Among the many common interests we eventually discovered, that first day we shared that each of us was trying to put our lives together after devastating bouts of depression. It just kind of spilled out; the gray clouds hovering over our heads being a dead give-away. At last, someone who could honestly say, "I know how you feel."
The old house and it's neglected gardens were to be the setting for recovery; for taking hold of the reins of living once again; and for the first time in a long time, laughing and feeling enjoyment in the activities of everyday life. I think it saved my life.
When a third woman moved in, we became a kind of adult sorority: to each according to her needs; from each according to her abilities. We cooked and talked together and spent an inordinate amount of time sitting outside around Charlotte's ceramic fireplace.
Gardening, however, proved to be our strongest bond and our greatest joy. Char was a professional horticulturist; Jane a semi-pro; and I was clearly the duffer in the group. I didn't have the perseverance and patience to do what needed to be done over the course of a long, hot summer, but I was clearly the best hole digger. In that I excelled.
I was also first rate at looking over the garden early in the morning, wearing my pajamas and carrying a big mug of coffee. I would soon be joined in the coffee, but I was usually first on the scene. Looking over the garden, I learned, was essential to gardening success and satisfaction.
I learned a lot from Char and Jane, much of it about gardening, but my hardest lesson was pruning, at which Char was an expert. I could not then appreciate the benefits of pruning, and I could not bear to cut back the limbs and flowers of a perfectly good plant. It broke my heart. I could not let go.
Considerate of my sensibilities, Char would steal into the garden late in the day, and I would wake up the next morning to see that the painful business of pruning was done. We called her the Phantom Pruner.
She was right, of course, pruning is necessary to encourage new growth and improve the health and resilience of the plant. You have to let go of the old stuff and encourage the new. Pause here to appreciate life's larger lessons contained in this gardening wisdom - they were not lost on me. And during my time there, I grew and got well.
We all did. We tackled the Big D, and came out on the other side. I got married, and Char felt well enough to take on a big new job - for which she was eminently qualified - and sadly for me, moved to Florida.
Life had more difficult times for Char. She was in a serious car accident and then cancer took her life. I don't think it was more than 2 years after we said good-bye.
I have some consolation of knowing that she was happy living in the big old house with her gardening buddies. She was a rarity; a dear friend who came along later in life, but she was as clear a presence and influence in my life as if we had always known each other. I still miss her. I read a quote once, which said everything about her: She was the kind of person who would lean over your broken fence to tell you how beautiful your flowers are.
So here I am, still gardening; somewhat more accomplished, and able to take on the tasks of summer weeding and no-nonsense pruning. (although I still replant the tiny zinnia seedlings that come up too thickly).
I think Char would be proud to see me out there giving thyme a haircut. I would be proud for her to know.
Today it was a little pot of lavender, moved from a sunny spot in the kitchen into the big rock planter out back. Oh, Lord, it is good to dig in the dirt. Possibly, I should have given the little thing a sweater, but we both have great hopes for its future.
I repotted a Christas cactus (to be returned to the kitchen) and did a little pruning. As I bent to the task of giving my thyme a ruthless haircut. I thought of my friend Charlotte.
We moved into separate apartments, at the same time, in a big old house in Tryon years ago. When I first saw her, she walked up the steps as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. In a sense, she did. I was sitting outside on my tiny porch, and I asked her to sit down too.
Among the many common interests we eventually discovered, that first day we shared that each of us was trying to put our lives together after devastating bouts of depression. It just kind of spilled out; the gray clouds hovering over our heads being a dead give-away. At last, someone who could honestly say, "I know how you feel."
The old house and it's neglected gardens were to be the setting for recovery; for taking hold of the reins of living once again; and for the first time in a long time, laughing and feeling enjoyment in the activities of everyday life. I think it saved my life.
When a third woman moved in, we became a kind of adult sorority: to each according to her needs; from each according to her abilities. We cooked and talked together and spent an inordinate amount of time sitting outside around Charlotte's ceramic fireplace.
Gardening, however, proved to be our strongest bond and our greatest joy. Char was a professional horticulturist; Jane a semi-pro; and I was clearly the duffer in the group. I didn't have the perseverance and patience to do what needed to be done over the course of a long, hot summer, but I was clearly the best hole digger. In that I excelled.
I was also first rate at looking over the garden early in the morning, wearing my pajamas and carrying a big mug of coffee. I would soon be joined in the coffee, but I was usually first on the scene. Looking over the garden, I learned, was essential to gardening success and satisfaction.
I learned a lot from Char and Jane, much of it about gardening, but my hardest lesson was pruning, at which Char was an expert. I could not then appreciate the benefits of pruning, and I could not bear to cut back the limbs and flowers of a perfectly good plant. It broke my heart. I could not let go.
Considerate of my sensibilities, Char would steal into the garden late in the day, and I would wake up the next morning to see that the painful business of pruning was done. We called her the Phantom Pruner.
She was right, of course, pruning is necessary to encourage new growth and improve the health and resilience of the plant. You have to let go of the old stuff and encourage the new. Pause here to appreciate life's larger lessons contained in this gardening wisdom - they were not lost on me. And during my time there, I grew and got well.
We all did. We tackled the Big D, and came out on the other side. I got married, and Char felt well enough to take on a big new job - for which she was eminently qualified - and sadly for me, moved to Florida.
Life had more difficult times for Char. She was in a serious car accident and then cancer took her life. I don't think it was more than 2 years after we said good-bye.
I have some consolation of knowing that she was happy living in the big old house with her gardening buddies. She was a rarity; a dear friend who came along later in life, but she was as clear a presence and influence in my life as if we had always known each other. I still miss her. I read a quote once, which said everything about her: She was the kind of person who would lean over your broken fence to tell you how beautiful your flowers are.
So here I am, still gardening; somewhat more accomplished, and able to take on the tasks of summer weeding and no-nonsense pruning. (although I still replant the tiny zinnia seedlings that come up too thickly).
I think Char would be proud to see me out there giving thyme a haircut. I would be proud for her to know.
