Somewhere. Out there. Beyond my frosted window panes. Lies my garden.
My breath leaves cloudy circles on the kitchen window as I press my nose against the cool glass and scan the crystalline landscape of freshly fallen snow for signs of life. I can easily make out trails of squirrels' feet, the tiny hash marks of birds' claws, long oval rabbit tracks every foot or so, and the deeper impressions of deer's' cloven hooves. Underneath that thick white blanket, the curves, pathways, borders, dormant perennials and entire structure of my garden lies hidden. Hidden to others, yet in my mind's eye, it's as clear as the sparkling stalactites precariously dangling from the gutters of my house.
Having walked my garden's pathways, knelt along its borders, deftly tip-toed on stepping stones through the beds and hauled my wheelbarrow around it dozens of times a day in season, I am able to see it all with my eyes closed. There are, however, those rare occasions when slightly snow blind, my mind's eye dims, and I can't quite remember just where I'd planted that miscanthus, which only a week ago was waiving its fluffy beige plumes above the frozen ground. Then I must rely on hints to tweak my memory and enhance my vision. Hints, oddly enough, provided by my snow covered garden itself.
Lady Liberty's torch, jutting through that sandy beach, may have been of little comfort to Charlton Heston when he discerned the reality of his simian home. But, my gazebo, standing four feet above the snow line, is a reassuring sight to me by denoting the center of the island bed, and directing my eye to the far left where I remembered last seeing those billowing miscanthus plumes.
Strategically placed as eye-grabbing focal points during the summer, eight- foot bamboo teepees, once entwined with cascading tendrils of Star of Yelta purple and white picoteed morning glories and red -throated pink mandevilla, now eerily resemble tall, skeletal traffic cones warning where borders' edges meet driveway.
Frozen conical peaks of white piled atop the dozen upturned birdbaths scattered throughout the garden, provide further benchmarks of my garden's structure. The garden bench, flag holders, various sized shepherd's hooks for hanging baskets, trellises, wrought iron figurines, garden chairs, planted last summer with moss and creeping ground covers... one by one these hardscape elements of my garden reappear as the warming sun releases them from the snow's icy grasp.
Eventually, tiny purple and yellow cups of crocus will peak through the last few inches of snow. The melting tide of white will ebb enough to expose bare spindly arms of viburnums, the gray twigs of perovskia and buddleia branches bowed from the heavy snow.
Beds, once brimming with brilliant displays of color and textures, will present only the ruddy brown of leaf mulched ground. Distinguishable crowns of dormant perennials will dot the landscape as the snow recedes further.
Each succeeding day will uncover more and more of the garden's structure till all is discernible even to a stranger's eye. But, it'll be quite some time from then until I can truly and once again characterize my garden as... "My" garden. Oh, it's mine in theory, as well as by virtue of the sweat, aches and pains and time I've devoted to it. But it'll take more than the required manual labor, choice of plants, curves of borders and delineation of pathways to identify it as my very own.
First there'll be the organization of last year's seeds. Placing the last of my orders or trading for new varieties. Scribbling designs and plans on scraps of paper as to which plants will be added or transplanted and which beds will be altered. (*Note to self: Always keep a pen in the bathroom). Starting seeds. Adding compost to the beds and re-edging borders. Hardening off and finally planting seedlings and new perennials. All topped with a fresh mulch of shredded leaves.
After all the prerequisites are done; new foundations laid for a new season; all the natural elements of the garden are in place and growing...only then can I concentrate on making the garden truly my own. Incorporating those little extra somethings which give the garden it's individual and unique identity. My identity.
I AM MY GARDEN. MY GARDEN IS ME. That zen-like approach to gardening is exhibited in the subtle (and sometimes blatant) touches I add to the landscape. The color dahlias I grow or configurations of plants, doesn't reveal the true symbiosis between my garden and myself. Nothing says as much about my personality as do the more intimate or personal components of my garden. In order to accomplish this to my own satisfaction, I aim to create a garden which tells stories. Stories of significance or interest to me or something that just plain makes me laugh. Or cry. Hopefully, something which will also entreat a visitor to pause and divert their attention from the flow of flowers, if just for a moment, to laugh or reflect. To Stop and smell the roses , so to speak, where none may be growing.
All gardens, big or small, square foot or cottage, community or school, roadside, shady, sunny, annuals, perennials or bulbs, collections of pots on a porch, displays of window boxes, hanging baskets....all ....all display the authentic personality of the gardener who planted and tends them when a bit of that gardener's own unique touch is added. They become more an extension of ourselves when we extend more than the sweat of our brow. Even though my aching back, unbendable knees and determination not to take another day of blistering heat or torrential downpours tells me this couldn't be anyone else's garden but mine....even then my garden still lacks that personal, intangible self-expression which truly identifies the garden as mine and mine alone. Including this personal aspect in their gardens, can sometimes be the only venue for some people to share part of themselves that they otherwise would not. The only means to publicly proclaim their personal humor or pathos.
To tell my "stories", I enjoy constructing little vignettes throughout by adding a piece of sculpture, a figurine, store-bought or handmade doodad or hoohah. Mostly, my intermittent garden reflections are comprised of items not necessarily meant for the garden. Like that old leaky coffee carafe, laid on it's side and brewing over with Ajuga reptans'Atropurpurea', placed next to a cracked Delft china teacup and saucer planted with creeping Sedum 'Sieboldi'. Broken pots are never, ever thrown out, but used as upended toad houses or laid (broken side down) over a spreading ground cover, creating the illusion of an upright growing plant, while flat on the ground. An old rusted wheelbarrow turned on it's side spilling over with Purple and Silver Wave petunias. Making cement stepping stones from a mold or stenciling large rocks. Growing Mexican Feather Grass (Nasella tenuissima) "Ponytails" or Blue Fescue (Festuca glauca) in terra cotta pots of all sizes and shapes. Painting faces on them and creating my own pot family with very unruly hair! Odds and ends. Flea market finds. Things that I should have tossed in the garbage long ago, had I not been your typical frugal gardener who never knows when a present hunk of junk might be fashioned into something whimsical or at least, serve some otherwise useful purpose.
Last year I was on the prowl for one of those old wooden rail back chairs with a cane seat. My goal was to remove the cane, replace it with an oversized planter filled with moss and grow some small vining plant which would spill over the legs and I could train through the rail backs. As many curbside throwaway items as I'd driven by during the summer, I never spied exactly what I wanted. Until one day (on the way to a nursery, naturally) there it was, and the cane seat was already removed! It was surrounded by other "junk", and because I knew I wouldn't be too long at the nursery (*famous last words), I opted to pick it up on the way back. Needless to say, this didn't have a happy ending. Returning from the nursery, my wallet that much lighter, I pulled alongside the pile of old cabinets, a child's broken tricycle and some tattered patio furniture which had surrounded this lone chair. But...it was gone. Nothing else was touched or removed. Just the chair was missing. An accident? No. Just a more astute gardener, I figured. Obviously with the same idea. What's that about "She who hesitates.....?"
Perhaps my favorite (and latest) bit of whimsical expression for the garden is creating a Fairy Garden. An idea from a friend ignited the spark which led to further research on the lore and legend of garden fairies.
"When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies" from "Peter Pan" by J.M. Barrie.
As legend has it they sleep in the depths of your garden or the funnel of a foxglove blossom during the day and watch over your garden at night. It's said that dew drops found on the petals and leaves of flowers is evidence that the garden fairy had watered your plants the night before. I totally love this sort of folklore, especially if it's to do with the garden. Certainly not wanting to risk displeasing my own resident garden fairies and just to please myself, I decided this was something I just had to create in my garden. Although many books on the subject describe specific plants which are "fairy favorites", it's really up to the gardener as to what's planted, how it's arranged and what scale you choose to build. I wanted to see mine every day immediately upon leaving and entering the house, which meant the only practical place for the fairy's habitat to be built would have to be right next to the cement pathway leading to my front door. Hopefully, visitors would notice it more easily there as well. Since the area was already jammed with groundcovers and shorter perennials, it meant construction on the village and home for the watchful, caretaking fairy would have to be on a miniature scale.
Before entering my house, Jean stopped at the front door and turned to once again look at MY garden. Taking it all in as if making a mental snapshot to remember it just as she saw it, she gestured to the fairy garden and the tired old gardener with his battered straw hat and waved her arm from left to right to indicate the entire garden. Smiling that open and sincere smile of hers she said,
"These things ...and your entire garden... are all so you, Linda". I felt that warm fuzzy feeling rise up inside me. A similar feeling that's been known to elicit a tear or two or three from this gardener's eyes.
When these personal touches enable my own satisfaction and pleasure and truly identify my garden as my own, it's reward enough. But it's really kinda cool when someone else gets it, too.
May your Garden Fairies find a warm, sheltering hallowed-out log in which to rest during these frosty days and frigid nights and return when the weather warms to keep a watchful eye over your singularly unique garden this season.
Linda
Copyright©Linda M. Frank 2005 All Rights Reserved