Compelled

"The mountains are calling and I must go."

The quote above is credited to John Muir. As an author and naturalist, Muir advocated for forest conservation and preservation. Although I love being outside and experiencing nature, I am drawn to Muir's pronouncement because it sums up how I feel when I work in my garden.

Oftentimes, when asked why I invest so much time and effort into getting things to grow, it is hard for me to formulate an answer right away, to put my passion into words. On these occasions, I am most likely to talk about my grandmother, and how watching her work in her garden inspired me to start one of my own.

On a practical note, I cannot explain this innate desire I have to put my hands in the dirt, loosen it up, and move it around. Nor do I know why talking about plants, flowers, and shrubs takes me from a mild-mannered individual to a zealot in less time than it takes a Pentecostal preacher to speak in tongues. What I do know is that regardless of where I've lived, and despite my circumstances, I've always been able to grow things. I've had no formal training, only what I've learned on my own and from my family. I rely mostly on my instincts, and while I've made many mistakes over the years, I've also had appreciable success. I consider myself a lifelong student of the discipline of gardening, and I educate myself by researching, reading, and reaching out to others who share my enthusiasm.

Thus, the calling that Muir refers to makes perfect sense to me. No apologies, no regrets, no lengthy explanations. I've really just got to go.


 
                                                                  

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 . . ."

Grandmother's Church

My grandmother was a conservative Christian woman from South Carolina. As such, she centered her life around God, her church, and her family. When me and my sister visited my grandparents during the summer, my mother always threw a couple of dresses and a pair of sandals in our suitcases to ensure we had something to wear when we went to church. Most summers our visit included a week of Bible school, church on Sunday mornings and Sunday nights, as well as church on Wednesday nights. Scheduled less frequently were week long revival services, intended to reign back in the hearts of backsliders, and encourage everyone else to do better. Revival attendees were treated to special gospel singers and guest pastors from neighboring churches who sermonized, at length, about how to get to Heaven, how to avoid Hell, and how to love thy neighbor at the same time.

Although I dare not underestimate the positive impact these gatherings had upon my youthful soul, the event that created a lasting impression on me past my formative years was the all night prayer meeting. These meetings were similar to revivals in that they featured songs of praise and vigorous preaching, however, those who attended prayer meetings were usually pretty sure of their salvation. During a prayer meeting, one could expect to hear personal testimonies of God's goodness, random shouts of "amen" or "hallelujah" as needed, and audible prayers of thanks to God. And true to their name, these meetings seemed to last all night. So, after singing until our throats were dry, squinting our eyes and holding our breath for most of the prayers, and chewing all of the Wrigley's spearmint gum from the bottom of my grandmother's purse, my sister and I would stretch out on one of the church pews and fall asleep. When the meeting was over, my grandmother would wake us up and take us home. Well-rested and sanctified, we'd get up the next morning full of energy, ready to go. And my grandmother? She was up as well, heating water on the stove so my sister and I could wash our faces, cooking eggs and bacon for our breakfast, ready to prepare us not just for the day, but for the days to come.

Pruning The Party Line

My grandparents did not have a telephone in their home for many years, relying instead on family and friends to interchange information as needed. Eventually, they purchased a rotary phone with a handheld receiver and a clear plastic circle attached to the front for dialing phone numbers. If executed correctly, someone with nimble fingers and a small amount of patience could usually make a call in two to three minutes.

Their telephone number was connected to a party line, a circuit shared by multiple users. This meant if you picked up the phone to make a call and someone was already in the middle of a conversation, you quietly replaced the receiver and tried again later. Consequently, it was not unusual to be on a call and hear a click followed by subdued breathing, both indicators someone was listening to your conversation. If you confronted the eavesdropper and asked them to hang up and allow you to finish your discussion, you may or may not be the recipient of a few choice words. The party line afforded little privacy in a small neighborhood where most people prided themselves on knowing the business of everyone around them. Despite the rude interruptions of nosy neighbors, my grandmother rarely complained about the party line. Happy to have a way to communicate with her family and friends, she waited until the line was free to make her calls.


A party line is reminiscent of the weeds that grow in your garden and flowerbeds. Oftentimes, to cultivate the areas you want to fertilize and sow, you have to snip, trim, pinch back, and remove that which is unruly, that which is disagreeable. Hence, to create the optimum environment for strong and healthy growth, you have to prune the party line.