Green Mountain Gardener

It is a beautiful spring day in 1980.  I am perched on the old oak window-seat that borders our dining room, studying the mass of white that carpets our backyard.  It is not snow, but the fallen petals of my mother’s magnolia tree.  Behind the magnolia, arranged in drifts, are daffodils, tulips, and crocus – a sea of color for my starving eyes.  Sunlight streams in the windows, casting shadows on the walls of the various potted plants scattered about the house.  There are jade and ficus trees and numerous ferns with orchids tucked in between.  All are contained in beautiful antique pots, never plastic.

My mother is the one that infected me with this addiction to gardening.  As a kid, I remember she would often be in the garden from the time she got up until it was too dark to see anything.  Her rose garden, filled with Floribundas and Hybrid Teas, held magic for me as I strolled along its snaking pathways, examining each flower for its scent and its beauty.  The pathway was just wide enough for me and my doll buggy.  As we walked through, I would ask my mother to name each rose.  Mister Lincoln, Judy Garland, and Queen Elizabeth were there, and you couldn’t help but admire their elegant flowers and intoxicating fragrance.  At the time, I didn’t understand why she had so many roses, 48 to be exact.  But, the reason is apparent to me now, as I have learned that once you fall in love with a particular genus, there comes a deep desire to collect every species within it.  My garden today holds a few of the English roses, mainly as a tribute to my mother’s garden, and the fond memories it holds.  But when June arrives, and the roses come into bloom, I always find myself aching for more.

I do not remember my very first plant, but three years ago, when I began a garden of my own, one of the first things I planted was an oriental poppy called ‘Patty’s Plum.’  I watched with complete wonder as the crinkled, purple-soaked petals emerged.  I was hooked.  A second oriental poppy followed, named ‘Beauty of Livermore’, with blood red petals surrounding the most amazing ornamental center.  This love of poppies now includes a late winter or early spring scattering of seeds for the black, peony-flowered, and purple-violet blooms of the opium varieties, Papaver somniferum.  With over seventy species, I doubt that I could ever grow tired of their beauty.

The reasons why I garden are numerous, though I suppose they could be summed up in one phrase:  I garden because I simply cannot imagine my life without it. I love the excitement I feel when I wake to a warm, sunny day with no agenda other than to get my hands in the soil.  The dirt under my fingernails gives me a feeling of being connected with nature, a sense of accomplishment, and absolute satisfaction.  In the garden, the noise in my head is quiet, and the rhythm of weeding and pruning is meditative.  In the garden, no one cares what I’m wearing, whether I’ve bothered to put makeup on my face, or if my hair is combed.  In the garden, I can completely be myself.