I thought gardening was over. Forty-one years ago I dug my first garden in the backyard of my husband's best man's mother's garden. Follow that? We moved to Connecticut right after our wedding and Mrs. Hinde was an incredibly generous woman who shared many things with me - her love of garage sales ("tag sales" in New England), redecorating (let's see - she lived in 4 different houses in the 16 years we lived in Connecticut - all charming historic homes that were much fun to explore) but most of all, gardening. She had a large garden in her house in Westport (where Martha, THAT Martha, also has a house and garden) and rototilled a space twice as big as she needed so that I could "experience the joy of a vegetable garden." I wasn't so sure about that "joy."
You see, my history with gardening was not good. I was raised in a typical 1950s household - we 3 girls did the inside work, our 2 brothers did the work outside . . . except for one horrid weekend each spring. We sensed its approach when we were told to not make any plans for the weekend. UUUUUUURRRRGGGGHHHH. Saturday morning Mom would throw open our bedroom doors, flip on the lights and call out in a hideously cheerful voice, "Good morning! Rise and Shine!" The drill sergeant was on the move and there was no escape.
By spring each year our garden was completely overgrown. The hedge between our house and the neighbor's was probably 15 feet high. Ivy had worked its way over fences and sheds, bushes had grown into each other and were each chock full of leaves fallen from overhanging trees. Weeds grew with abandon in the beds and in the gravel walkways around the garden. It was a mess.
Mom took the best job - she directed. She was so good at it that her nickname in college was "Butch."They had quickly caught on to her skill set. Two of us were sent to deal with the hedge (I still remember clambering up the fence to reach the tallest branches then bending them down so a sibling could hack 'em off). Others were set to weeding, removing sludge from the fish pond and pulling out ivy and rotting leaves. Mom attacked the bushes and fruit trees. She hacked, whacked and slaughtered. Around her grew piles of debris which we dragged off to toss into the back of a truck. It took all weekend and was absolutely hideous. It was at this time that I learned an important skill - work avoidance. I would sweetly volunteer to go into the house to make lemonade. It was a brilliant maneuver. I was left alone in the kitchen to wander SLOWLY about gathering pitcher, glasses, tray, etc. It was cans of frozen lemonade, mind you, but I could drag that process out for 45 minutes - minutes spent blissfully out of dirt, grime and thorns.
Ah, horrific memories.
So fast forward to Connecticut - a vegetable garden? By choice? Who knew that I would love it and from that year forward we always had one. I remember digging out the garden at our first little house on a lake in the Connecticut countryside - I couldn't believe how many rocks we removed from that space. Yes, glaciers had indeed passed over New England.
Here is Stephanie, maybe 3 years old, standing by that garden.
Below is the photo I call "Abbudanza" - the abundance of the onion crop at the end of the season.
When we moved back to California in 1987 gardening changed. Pacific Grove has a gentle climate - rarely hot, rarely cold - but not warm enough for a lot of veggies. Instead I grew herbs (until I noticed my dog Murphy peeing on them). And I grew flowers - masses of them. In beds and in window boxes that Lee and Gary built. I loved it.
After Gary died I moved to the house on Bentley Street and gardening changed once again. A corner lot, closer to the ocean's salt air, offers challenges. The back yard was tiny - I scattered little gardens around.
The side deck had lots of sun (when sun chose to show itself in Pacific Grove) so that is where I concentrated pots of flowers.
You see, my history with gardening was not good. I was raised in a typical 1950s household - we 3 girls did the inside work, our 2 brothers did the work outside . . . except for one horrid weekend each spring. We sensed its approach when we were told to not make any plans for the weekend. UUUUUUURRRRGGGGHHHH. Saturday morning Mom would throw open our bedroom doors, flip on the lights and call out in a hideously cheerful voice, "Good morning! Rise and Shine!" The drill sergeant was on the move and there was no escape.
By spring each year our garden was completely overgrown. The hedge between our house and the neighbor's was probably 15 feet high. Ivy had worked its way over fences and sheds, bushes had grown into each other and were each chock full of leaves fallen from overhanging trees. Weeds grew with abandon in the beds and in the gravel walkways around the garden. It was a mess.
Mom took the best job - she directed. She was so good at it that her nickname in college was "Butch."They had quickly caught on to her skill set. Two of us were sent to deal with the hedge (I still remember clambering up the fence to reach the tallest branches then bending them down so a sibling could hack 'em off). Others were set to weeding, removing sludge from the fish pond and pulling out ivy and rotting leaves. Mom attacked the bushes and fruit trees. She hacked, whacked and slaughtered. Around her grew piles of debris which we dragged off to toss into the back of a truck. It took all weekend and was absolutely hideous. It was at this time that I learned an important skill - work avoidance. I would sweetly volunteer to go into the house to make lemonade. It was a brilliant maneuver. I was left alone in the kitchen to wander SLOWLY about gathering pitcher, glasses, tray, etc. It was cans of frozen lemonade, mind you, but I could drag that process out for 45 minutes - minutes spent blissfully out of dirt, grime and thorns.
Ah, horrific memories.
So fast forward to Connecticut - a vegetable garden? By choice? Who knew that I would love it and from that year forward we always had one. I remember digging out the garden at our first little house on a lake in the Connecticut countryside - I couldn't believe how many rocks we removed from that space. Yes, glaciers had indeed passed over New England.
Here is Stephanie, maybe 3 years old, standing by that garden.
Below is the photo I call "Abbudanza" - the abundance of the onion crop at the end of the season.
When we moved back to California in 1987 gardening changed. Pacific Grove has a gentle climate - rarely hot, rarely cold - but not warm enough for a lot of veggies. Instead I grew herbs (until I noticed my dog Murphy peeing on them). And I grew flowers - masses of them. In beds and in window boxes that Lee and Gary built. I loved it.
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| The back door |
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| Back Yard |
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| Side deck |
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| Entry |
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| One corner of the back yard |
The one thing I never grew were roses - Pacific Grove does not have the right weather. But not so Portland. Here they are everywhere. After all, we are the Rose City.
What to do? What to do? Is it time to have a rose garden or time to hang up my trowel? My community offers plenty of garden space. I can own a patch in which I can plant whatever I want or I can take over a patch in which roses already grow. Hmmmm.
My first thought was to pack it all in - I have done my bit for beautifying the earth - but then spring came and the scent of fresh turned dirt made me itch to get my hands in the soil.
So I set out to discover what it takes to get a rose patch here in my new home. When I heard the level of commitment I had to laugh. These are rules:
1. You put in a request and are told which plots are available. You pick one.
2. They put a little plaque with your name on it so the world knows these are YOUR roses.
3. If you don't like the roses currently growing you can buy others and the staff gardeners will pull up your old ones, rototill and plant the new ones (THIS I liked!)
4. You weed and water.
5. All the roses are yours to pick - or share with others.
6. If you don't have a rose garden there are rows of plants that are "open cut" - help yourself (well, only three roses at a time, please).
What do do? What to do? While waffling a new friend mentioned that she was having trouble weeding. Her legs weren't quite strong enough. I like to weed (unless it is in clay then never mind) - it is mindless, there is immediate gratification, and it is lovely to sit in dirt while you smell plants around you. When I offered to weed her plot she told me to pick as many of her roses as I want. Perfection. I can now cut roses from her plants PLUS add 3 roses a day from the open cut. Glory be.
I then discovered that if you have a small unit and a small table you don't have a lot of space for large vases of roses - 3 - 5 are just about perfect.
What to do? What to do? Is it time to have a rose garden or time to hang up my trowel? My community offers plenty of garden space. I can own a patch in which I can plant whatever I want or I can take over a patch in which roses already grow. Hmmmm.
My first thought was to pack it all in - I have done my bit for beautifying the earth - but then spring came and the scent of fresh turned dirt made me itch to get my hands in the soil.
So I set out to discover what it takes to get a rose patch here in my new home. When I heard the level of commitment I had to laugh. These are rules:
1. You put in a request and are told which plots are available. You pick one.
2. They put a little plaque with your name on it so the world knows these are YOUR roses.
3. If you don't like the roses currently growing you can buy others and the staff gardeners will pull up your old ones, rototill and plant the new ones (THIS I liked!)
4. You weed and water.
5. All the roses are yours to pick - or share with others.
6. If you don't have a rose garden there are rows of plants that are "open cut" - help yourself (well, only three roses at a time, please).
What do do? What to do? While waffling a new friend mentioned that she was having trouble weeding. Her legs weren't quite strong enough. I like to weed (unless it is in clay then never mind) - it is mindless, there is immediate gratification, and it is lovely to sit in dirt while you smell plants around you. When I offered to weed her plot she told me to pick as many of her roses as I want. Perfection. I can now cut roses from her plants PLUS add 3 roses a day from the open cut. Glory be.
I then discovered that if you have a small unit and a small table you don't have a lot of space for large vases of roses - 3 - 5 are just about perfect.
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Ah, life is sweet! It is good to have my hands back in the dirt. Next year I will get my own patch but for right now weeding and picking is just fine.
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