With summer here I’m reminded of how useless a gardener I am. Except for a sprawling German ivy and some moss, weeds seem to be my most loyal patrons. I’m so lousy with plants that I was genuinely concerned about becoming a parent knowing I could kill a healthy houseplant in a week.
Though I follow the instructional tags placed on plants, I might as well be pouring acid rain on them in how they respond. I once purchased a herculean jade plant thinking I would have immunity with its maturity. Well aware that killing a jade would incur a legacy of bad luck far worse than breaking a 100 mirrors. I managed to destroy it. Now I have not only this lifetime, but what looks like an eternity of bad luck. The robust jade quickly turned into a scene from ‘Dark Victory’ with Bette Davis. It started to hack and cough. The leaves got limp as they laboured in the last ditch effort to take a breath. Then suddenly it became unresponsive, fell over, never to rise again.
Gardening is the new zen for those our age and what magnificent gardeners they are. Growing up in downtown Toronto in the early sixties we had little space for planting. Back then our neighbours used whatever area they had for growing vegetables. Aesthetically appointing ones home with plants was not on the menu. My mother wasn’t invested in gardening despite the fact she loved flowers. Spending eight hours making a walnut torte from scratch was her rush. Consequently, we had our 1960’s Blue Mountain pottery vases peppered throughout the house, busting out with artificial flowers that she duly dusted, vacuumed and windexed. Consistently pleased by their appearance, I use to razz her about how ugly they were. I’m now eating crow with my dirty little secret of cheating with synthetic bouquets scattered throughout our home as well as outside. To be fair, they are far more convincing today than back then. So much so, some florists are creating considerably longer lifespans of fresh bouquets by intermixing with artificial flowers.
The gifted sisterhood doesn’t have pretty designed curbs with pleasing pedestrian walkways. They have bodacious, bustling botany. Incredible gardens, some quaint, some wild in their design, all stunning. Exploding with a dense plethora of plant life some gracing the covers of prestigious international gardening magazines. All augment the appearance of their neighbourhoods. It is wonderfully overwhelming to be enveloped by the stunning oasis that they have created with their respective gardens. Less than a novice, and with feeble landscaping skills, I don’t dare bring any of them a plant because I’m concerned about insulting their sophisticated expertise. Handing a perennial from my energy frequency to theirs would surely doom whatever existence the little seedling could otherwise enjoy.
These mavens make the world a beautiful place. Whether it is an assortment of plants on a balcony or an entire backyard filled with a dazzling array of flowers, they are responsible for taking something raw and bringing true earthly beauty to it. The soil their canvas, the selection of plants, their palette, and the arrangement and artistic design, their personal composition for all to appreciate. It is both a selfish and selfless undertaking.
I appreciate and love gardens even though I’m inept. At a time where the environment is so important, I take it seriously that our residence is covered in foliage and we are doing our due diligence. I’m reminded daily through the dedicated investment of my husband, who can revive even the puniest of plants on deaths doorstep into a vital Schwarzenegger appearance, that he is my only link to the greenery that surrounds me. With a back and front yard that can accommodate a couple of toddler blowup pools and parking for three trikes, he has managed to create a small putting green amongst a backdrop of lovely designed elements making both yards sing. Unlike my deprived legacy in landscaping, he inherited an enhanced proficiency from his dad. My father-in-law’s green thumb was astonishing. His garden, rich and abundant with large and succulent produce. He got some seeds from the neighbourhood kid and tried growing pot plants for no good reason, as he didn’t consume the stuff but was curious what all the noise was about. Not since Jack in the Beanstalk did plants grow that tall and hearty. He would undoubtedly serve as the chief botanist for a legalized cannabis farm had he been alive today. Suffice to say they were cut down and composted. What is especially impressive is that this was done in an Alberta climate.
Each year, following Victoria Day weekend, I get a small window of participation in our garden. I use to have a pair of gardening gloves for this momentous occasion, so I’d feel included. Unfortunately, a skunk took one, and a raccoon chewed the other. I would stand on our tiny back deck and suggest to my husband where the bright coloured impatiens might best be planted to spark another year of vibrant colour. From there, I’d head into one of the big box stores, grab a cart, select the most pleasing tone, load a dozen or so as the woman at the nursery gives me a big thumbs up while I check out. The entire experience clocked in at under eight minutes. From there my husband creates his magic.
When we started our garden he had laid down three small rolls of sod for an immaculately groomed putting green in our Lilliputian city oasis. Like late night clubbers, the raccoons rolled in each evening dining on the grubs underneath. Though resistant to the notion, artificial turf quickly replaced the sod and remedied the situation. Our tiny pond with lovely water lilies soon turned into the neighbourhood bar for the local wildlife. That got shut down faster than a kid on cake. Now filled in with soil it’s home to several Hostas. He planted small cedar trees in containers, and the squirrels dug them out nightly. A tiny sprinkling of some natural concoction he devised alleviated that. He potted herbs and something with a tail and fur, who was apparently a foodie binged on most of them. Living in the city has proven to be a ‘Hinterland Who’s Who.’
When my gardener girlfriends get together, it’s not dissimilar to a conference of master botanists. Their linguistics transcending into Latin as they spew terms and protocols of each petal in their yards. Their knowledge is extensive. Unfamiliar with the names of flowers except for the typical ones like rose, tulip and daisy I remain silent surrounded by these gardening aficionados while I quietly stuff my face, having absolutely nothing to add to the conversation. I leave their company 50 pounds heavier, feeling like a bag of compost.
As summer progresses, I sit on our deck looking out at our tiny garden. The impatiens my husband planted are bright and happy providing, of course, I’m ten feet away from any of them. I’ve come to believe that I have a restraining order issued by nature. Any closer and I’m convinced the plants will implode, and a branch from our tree will swoop down denying me further entrance, a stern voice stating “back up lady, you’re crossing the line.”
Our front porch currently has two tall planters parked on the stairs filled with authentic cedars. A few steps in on a ledge sits two ribbed charcoal coloured pots filled with globe shaped plastic manicured bushes that are plush and exquisitely groomed. Above them hangs a wreath made of imitation boxwood in a convincing tone of forest green. My husband, shaking his head, as this goes against his green thumb, routinely power washes them for me because ‘et hoc modo volvunt,’ which is Latin for ‘this is how I roll.’