I didn’t have much to do with garden design in my previous life.
I mean, I’d always loved the idea of a garden (especially the likes of Monk’s House and Sissinghurst) and always knew that I wanted one and certainly, I had distinct ideas about what was swoon-worthy to me: tangled drifts of flowers, nothing contrived (please, no topiary here) and certainly no tight dots of militarily arranged begonias.
However, the reality was, I did not place any value on my own contributions and it was simpler (and safer, frankly) to leave the horticultural reigns to my husband as he strutted around perennial beds like Napoleon, instinctively knowing what should go where and why. Gardening was also, unfortunately, a bit like Operation Desert Storm in our house and certain tasks had to happen within a certain time frame, usually for hours at a time. My own childish role (which we joked about frequently and the term "navvy" was often playfully applied) was to clear out the weeds, bundle any branches he clipped and let fall to the ground and make sure there was a pitcher of margaritas and an elegant meal ready at the end of the day.
Can I say it wasn't always fun?
I hate to think of myself as being part of this ‘MadMen’ era way of being that I’ve just described but I think, well, I know now, that I was, even though I have a signed copy of ‘Revolution from Within’ by Gloria Steinem on my bookshelf. I was just so grateful (and maybe a bit incredulous) every day that someone as wonderful as my (good-looking and kind) husband truly, loved me and I felt that there were very few things worth rocking the boat over.
I once recall a poem in which marriage was depicted as a car and at some point, the woman folds up her dreams like a road map and slips them into the glove compartment. Out of sight.
Is this not the most bitter thing you’ve ever heard?
Yet, I think of it many times.
When he left us completely out of the blue and I found myself suddenly in charge of the garden and a myriad of other duties, I felt like I was drowning.
I was also ashamed for not knowing how to do certain things - and then white-hot angry that I was ashamed. There was also a strange kind of creeping paralysis as I railed against yet another thing to be learned at warp speed while I was scraping together the pieces of my life and just trying to stand upright each day.
The garden was a metaphor for my life as it became out of control ugly and as soon as one part was tamed, another part would start to unravel.
Seemingly overnight, an elegant but huge bamboo that had been planted right beside the pond - (and not by me, friends! My Starter Husband bought it by the roadside, from a super questionable source) - multiplied into a dense, swaying, evil grove, literally fourteen feet high. Sharp shoots began appearing everywhere, all over the lawn and ultimately pierced the lining of our pond (a pond built entirely by Starter Husband and myself, including the digging) which then had to be restored in places.
The bamboo, obviously, had to come out as soon as possible but even with a crowbar and my entire body strength, the roots could not be moved from the ground.
It was like a complex underground plumbing system made entirely of smooth, unyielding steel.
Everyone recognizes that kind of solid, tubular bamboo that wind chimes are made from or prison-bar fencing?
This is what was in the garden.
No gardening contractor would even come out to offer estimates after I mentioned the word “bamboo.”
Every day when I came home from work I determined once more to oust it, once staying outside till it was 10pm and ending up weeping and exhausted flat out on the grass.
After that, a friend recommended a landscaper who was just starting out and might want to take it on. When I watched these experts arrive - as if in slow-motion - two women, both with machetes and mallets strung low across their hips, I cannot even explain the joyful relief I felt. They were confident, cheerful and reassuring and what they did, worked. (They also gave me a superb removal price since they were both technically, still students!)
With the bamboo’s removal, came the sudden and significant realization that I was not only a smart, capable person but going forward, would always be able to find the right person to help me. My best friend wisely counselled that as a single woman, she already knew that it was always okay to keep asking questions.
And this has proven true, ever since.
Nowadays, the garden feels like my own and I love that feeling so much.
I work at my own pace, a mug of tea at my side. I will reward myself with an actual drink later. Stanley enthusiastically shadows my every move and there are frequent breaks to play ball with him or just to watch the steady stream of bees dipping in and out of flowers. He is always happy to find a stick he particularly likes and bask in the sun. Sometimes I just lie on my back, thinking and looking up at the clouds.
I feel safe there now, completely supported and at peace.
Son #2 gifted me some of the finest gardening tools that money can buy after we helped maintain the yard at his income property last year.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t even have known what to ask for.
My nephew coaxed along a Red Bud for me - as did another friend - so I have two additional trees planted now and a Serviceberry coming soon. I have learned so much - reading gardening books in the depths of a Canadian winter is an encouraging thing - and so many people have given me kind advice as well as plants from their own gardens.
As I work away, preferably first thing in the morning, I set up my phone with the Merlin bird app close by and have clocked well over fifty different species so far this year. The birds love the pond, as do bats apparently, who like to swoop low for a sip as they fly by. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal are especially devoted to bathing and take turns in the waterfall spray.
It is delightful.
I no longer hear that smug, superior voice in my head admonishing my decisions, questioning why I have chosen flowers in garish colours better suited to a carnival (Answer: because I like them) or scolding the fact that I haven't gotten around to dividing the water lilies in 15 years ... which I haven’t, and I don’t intend to, since the many residents that flourish here have never mentioned it once.
And, we’re all perfectly happy.
My darling D. is not a gardener himself and tells me this almost daily in a warning, worried voice, because he incorrectly continues to believe that I expect him to be a Master Gardener like the one I used to be married to. He does not seem to realize that this lack of interest is a massive bonus because he never judges anything I do in the garden and although he feigns interest and encourages me, he earnestly believes that everything I plant is a Snapdragon.
(Last week I bought a few just so he could be right at least some of the time!)
He has built a gleaming yellow pathway for us out of some abandoned bricks he found (our house is yellow brick too) and although he insists that this is not gardening (because remember, that is something he does not do), we now have a magical curve at the end of the lot that shines like butter after the rain.
Today and always, please consider leaving a COMMENT or simply scrolling down a bit to press the❤️ below if you’ve enjoyed the piece.
My younger brother was an arborist. He told me that gardening is "mental flossing". I always feel better after gardening, even somewhat " righteous" with the new little aches!
What a sweet post and your photos are fantastic, too. As a Master Gardener, I appreciate everything you mentioned in the entire post. All of it. 😊