A Gardener Lived Here

I must have stopped at that traffic light near the overgrown, corner lot hundreds of times, and there I was again. I’d been aware of the long-abandoned cottage since I moved to my home over twenty years ago. Nearly hidden behind a tight lattice of vines sinuously woven through arching forsythias and rambling rugosas at the edge of the road, it remained an enigmatic, melancholy reminder of once flourishing life and a caring inhabitant.

In winter, the bare oak trees, deciduous wild blueberry bushes and widening gaps in the lattice exposed clearer views of a moss-carpeted slate roof, crumbling fieldstone chimney, peeling white clapboards and a mostly collapsed front porch from which dangled hooks and chains, several with crude bird feeders still attached. A tarred shed stood opposite the cottage. When winters afforded only minimal snow cover, I could see two deep ruts in a wide strip of gravely sand that ran between the cottage and the shed. Large whitewashed boulders were set on either side of the ruts. The stones extended from the old front porch toward the tangled mass of forsythias at the road's edge. I assumed this had been the driveway. Scattered throughout what was the front yard were two or three stone pedestals and one overturned birdbath basin.

Wheelbarrows, pitted with holes, some missing a wheel or handles, were upended near the shed. Off to the side, on a slightly pitched rise of earth, began a run of rusted chicken wire clinging to broken sections of picket fence. In days gone by, the fence must have completely surrounded hilled rows of dark soil, once brimming with a winter’s larder of crops for the gardener’s pantry. Now, the rows were only prominent by their abundant crop of purslane, vetch and wild onions. At the base of the shed, where the wire began, there was a deep rut filled with what appeared to be smoothed beach stones. Lying on its side, inches above the stones, was a length of pipe pockmarked with several holes. A french drain, I guessed. Probably to divert rainwater which sluiced down the furrows towards the shed and would have otherwise prematurely rotted its foundation. Jim and I had dug one of those several years ago for runoff from our rainbarrel before I realized the plants nearby would delight in wet feet.

At the far end of the fenced mounds and furrows, towering above the weeds, was a rotting t-pole of 2'X4's from which hung frayed blue jeans and raggedy swatches of plaid affixed to each outstretched arm. A faceless, aging sentry still on guard in pathetic need of restuffing, a red bandanna's panache and a hand-me-down straw hat from the loving gardener who created him.

Come spring, then summer, when trees, vines and weeds regain full vigor, a spreading green canopy enshrouds the little cottage, the gardens and the faithful sentry. And like Brigadoon it all once again fades into a lush, green mist.

But unlike the imaginary village which fantasizes its reappearance every 100 years, the presence of a gardener’s hand remains visible, if only in glimpses, by those with eyes willing to search for signs, appreciate their meanings and imagine what may have been. Perhaps through the eyes of another gardener.

I find myself sitting at that traffic light more and more often this time of year. As it happens, this is the route I travel to my favorite perennial nursery, and I am eternally grateful to the town for the most propitious placement of this light at this very corner. While I could easily beat the light on most occasions, I choose not. Instead, I purposely coast to an ever-so gradual stop with more than ample time between yellow and red. Much to the dismay of the more impatient drivers behind me. Glaring at me in my rear view mirror, obviously oblivious to my gardener's curiosity, I'm sure they haven’t a clue as to what I could find so interesting in that patch of weeds off to the side of the road. Every so often, however, there would be a smiling face in that mirror, and I'd smile back as we both turned our gaze in the same direction. " Uh huh" , nodding my head in recognition. " Another gardener" .

As the growing season progresses and my nursery visits become a weekly routine, I pass this way even more frequently. Quite often, pulling off to the side of the road to peer through the thickets. On occasion, I’ll get out of the car; brave the brambles and thorny rugosas to search for signs of that week’s blooms. It’s not like I’ve never seen frilly mounds of plump peonies or clumps of tulips or giant globes of purple alliums before. It’s more a matter of paying homage to the gardener who planted them years and years ago with such care and devotion that there survives today a touch of beauty to mark the gardener’s footprint on that plot of soil.

When I nod at those smiling faces in my rearview mirror, I’d wonder if they were return visitors to this traffic light respite. Or had they accidentally stumbled onto a recognizable sign, suggesting there were more than just weeds growing here? Could they see through the green mist? Were the burgeoning buds of the roses clear to them as well? Did they spy the uppermost branches of pink and white dogwood valiantly surviving in the shadow of overgrown white pines? If a sudden gust parted the branches and rustled leaves, were they quick enough to catch a glimpse of lilac panicles or salmon azaleas nestled against the collapsed front porch? If they remained at the traffic light long enough and squinted hard enough, could they detect the yellow throats of giant blue irises growing alongside those whitewashed boulders? Did they wonder what color clematis would bloom from the emerging tendrils weaving up the leaning cedar post poking through the pigweed at the road's edge? It's pink with red veins and at least four inches across. I'd seen it enough times. I'd imagined it was planted in that specific spot to grace the mailbox, which probably rested on that post and bore the name of the gardener who lived there.

That parcel of land…the cottage…the garden and that gardener, have always raised questions in my mind. When had that clematis been planted? Was it a gift from grandchildren? Ordered from a catalog? Or purchased at the same nursery I haunt? How long had it been since that gardener's gentle voice greeted visiting cardinals and towhees or coaxed seeds to germinate? How many years had passed since loving hands tickled the royal blue beards of those irises? When was the last morning fresh bouquets of lilacs, still damp with dew, were gathered and placed on the kitchen table, their fragrance mingling with fresh-brewed coffee and cinnamon bread baking in the oven? How many years had passed since roses felt the rough cheek of the gardener who delayed chores to smell their sweetness? How recently had the warm, fertile earth within the picket-fenced vegetable garden felt tired knees kneel in its furrows as dirt ingrained fingers deftly weeded rows of snap beans? Did that stalwart sentry still hold enough stuffing to remember all the summers he stood guard as the sun-warmed sweetness of that first ripe tomato dribbled down the chin of the gardener who had coddled those seedlings since late winter on a sunny windowsill in the shed?

The light finally changed. It was just a few moments between red and green yet it seemed I was poised there for hours. As I slowly pulled away, I couldn't help but wonder how many other people over the years had driven by that spot and never noted its significance? Never recognized the treasures concealed behind thorns and thickets in spite of neglect and without the loving hands of the gardener who lived there?

For some reason, these days, I find myself more and more contemplative of that gardener and that cottage. My perspectives have changed (age and events can do that) and new questions arise. What had happened to that gardener? Had they moved? Had finances or physical ailments prevented them from tending their garden? Keeping their home? Or had they suddenly passed on with no one left who would care for their gardens or cared at all?

Each passing year reminds me I'm not so dissimilar from my perennials. In the beginning, we're lulled into thinking that because they're called " perennials" they will last forever. Come back each year. But, even perennials become spent. As they age, their vigor diminishes and some need more and more care each season. Efforts to propagate offspring fail and cuttings or seeds just don’t take, leaving no generations to carry on. Ultimately, they just don’t make it through another winter. Never returning to the garden home where they spent their life.

Pulling into my driveway, bordered not in whitewashed boulders but brick pavers, I sat in the car for nearly an hour. I watched the sun set over the tan roof of my soft-yellow, little ranch house. We need to re-shingle the roof, I thought. One of the many necessary improvements if we ever want to sell this house. Lately, we’d started to talk about where we might live when we retire. Although, quite awhile off, it was always in the back of our minds, and since the Boom! in baby boomer was getting louder with each birthday, it’s become a subject of more frequent discussion. But, retiring? Moving? I admit that up until recently, I maintained a very childlike mentality that this would last forever. Like my perennials. How could I think of leaving all this ground that had absorbed so much of my sweat, tears, sadness and joy all these years? Or would I even have a choice? Would time or fate make that decision for me? Had there been choices for the gardener who lived in the tiny cottage?

I looked over my garden beds. This time of year everything still looks so clean and fresh. Untouched by disease, pests, or the intense heat of high summer. What would last? What would survive? No, I didn't mean just this season. I meant... after. After I've left my garden. When I've moved. Or just gone on.

On certain summer days when I’m stopped at that traffic light late in the afternoon, the setting sun will sometimes pierce the branches of the billowing forsythias and scrub pines, reflecting a prism of light off the cottage’s last remaining windowpane. I'll lower the visor to deflect the glare. But, I still can’t avoid my sense that the erratic twinkling is a ghostly signal from the gardener to remind all who pass of the hidden legacy beyond.

Will that, then, also be the legacy of my garden? My footprint. My signature. Will the love I showered and shared on this spot, somehow, be unearthed, recognized and acknowledged? Will my most hale and hardy plants continue without my hand to guide them? Without my words to encourage them? I wonder how big the tiny lilac I purchased this spring will grow when I’m not here to chart its progress? Will my little blue shed still be visible through overgrown banks of mountain laurels? And will a broken line of brick pavers direct the eye towards an old cinderblock foundation?

Will someone, one day many years from now, drive by this spot where my gardens stood, peer through the green misty hedge of my forsythias and see my salmon azaleas still blooming near sections of green-coated rabbit fencing? Will they spy a rusted shovel partially buried in the weeds? An overturned birdbath? Will their eyes follow wild blue morning glories twining up towering old oaks? And...will they wonder...if a gardener lived here?

LINDA

Linda M. Frank

Linda is a writer, dried-flower crafter and above all, a passionate gardener, who lives with her husband and two cats in New Jersey. Comments can be sent to Linda at: lmfrank@farm-garden.com.