The Old-World Garden

"My love is like a glowing tulip that in an old-world garden grows."

In the novel The Girl on The Boat by English author P.G. Wodehouse, one of the protagonists of the story refers to the aforementioned ballad lyric as humorless and a little boring. In actuality, it's not the song that distresses him, but rather his cousin, the would be singer, who was once engaged to the girl the protagonist ends up falling in love with. 

As a gardener, the image of an old-world garden is extremely appealing to me. In my mind, I picture stone or concrete statues and benches throughout. There's an arbor made of metal rods glazed with patina and enclosed by wandering green vines, where one has a spot of tea at least three times a day. Beautiful trees hover above spots of shade and picnic blankets. Neatly trimmed shrubs work in unison to create a maze I could stay lost in for days. I envision row upon row of austere roses and huge lush flowers in all hues, each pollinated by lazy buzzing bees and watched over by frantic humming birds with slender beaks and agitated wings. I imagine an old-world garden as one I've never seen before, but would be instantly familiar with if I were to come across it.

The Optimistic Gardener

Gardeners are optimists. When we loosen the earth, scatter seeds, and place small plants in rows in our gardens, we do so with the intention of generating and reaping a harvest. Diligently, we water, weed, hoe, fight off bugs and critters, read the weather reports, make endless trips to the local nursery for supplies, wash our hands, trim, prune, pinch back, fertilize, bite our nails, and pray. We smile and boast when our plants grow, and mutter and sigh when they do not. And regardless of the yield, we never give up.

Southern Posture

My grandmother had a discernible shape that, if I close my eyes for a half a wink, I can to this day evoke without even thinking about it. Her build was sturdy yet feminine, due in part to her regular uniform of a homemade dress, cinched ever so slightly at the waist, and thigh-high stockings held in place by slim, elastic garters. Oftentimes, she wore a hairnet, which kept stray strands of gray hair pushed back from her face, but I also have memories of her in a hat, worn mostly when she worked outside in her garden.

The defining attribute, however, that contributed to my grandmother's recognizable form was the placement of her hands on her hips. This pose, a staple in her body language, was used for a multitude of pursuant questions, usually addressed to her grandchildren: "Where are you going with those scissors?"  Or "what do you mean your sister jumped off her skateboard before she reached the bottom of the hill and scraped her knees? Well, why on earth did you leave her crying in the middle of the road!?" And one of my favorites - "how did you fall backward into that washtub of clean water I just put on the porch? You were holding a cat? We don't own a cat!"

Looking back, I attribute the positioning of my grandmother's hands on her hips as a holdover from her southern upbringing. It wasn't an aggressive stance, but rather an unconscious, lady-like reaction to what was happening around her. Frequently, it worked in tandem with a deep sigh, and a slight tilt of the head. Did my grandmother know the answers to the questions she asked us? More than likely. Did she believe our less-than-honest, but highly creative responses? Probably not. But, she put her hands on her hips and listened anyway. Like I said, it was a southern posture. And for her grandchildren, a gesture of her abiding love.

Index of Important Events

During the early years of my adolescence, I kept a diary. A quick review of this memoir, (yes, I still have it), reveals that most of my musings centered around the relationships I had with my mother and father, my sister, and several boys I knew from school. In the back of the diary, under a section labeled "Index of Important Events" are several dates and entries scrawled in my youthful handwriting. Sadly, this index serves as a poignant reminder of the struggles I endured as a result of my parents' divorce, unrequited love from those aforementioned boys, and the intentional stabbing of a frog with the pointy edge of a cross-country ski pole by my sister, coupled with a promise she made the following day never to kill another frog. Consequently, if someone were to present an oration of the events listed, they'd more than likely do so with a melancholy face, a distressed hand to the forehead, and a sigh or two thrown in for good measure.

The intent here is not to downplay the conflict I experienced during my teens, but rather to keep it in perspective. Did divorce, rejection, and death have an impact on me? No doubt. However, as I grew older, I began to realize I am not defined by my past, by the fleeting opinions of others, nor by circumstances I cannot control. Thus, with the realization that anything is possible, I created a new "Index of Important Events" based on where I want to go, not where I've been. "Dear diary, today I . . ."