soulsearching
soulsearching Gardening. The furthest back place for me and gardening is remembering visiting my Grandfather. He worked for a rich man in West Hartford where he tended flower gardens that gained renown in the area. He would congregate with other gardeners for the wealthy at the Rose gardens in West Hartford. Whenever we went to visit him and Gramma on a Sunday afternoon, he would be hard at work in his garden. His everpresent pipe clenched in his teeth, in a permanent crouch as he pulled weeds or seperated bulbs, he would wave hello, no smile on his face, and go back to work.
My sisters used to delight in the gnarled dwarfs with faces partially disfigured by the weather. There are bits of movies in my head of them straddling the gnomes and sqealing in delight. Invariably when he gave us a ride home after dark, there would be cuttings or bulbs or plants that my mother would transfer to her garden. More than the smells of the leaves burning in the Fall, or the scent of the flowers, acrid marygolds in the Fall, sweet roses or peonies in the early Summer, I recall how his dour face would cloud over with sadness when he looked upon us.
My Mother's garden on Roxbury st was an offshoot of his. The forsythia that rattled in the wind outside the sunporch windows where I slept, the lilacs, the daffodills and tulips that lined the foundation on the sunny side of the house all came from his patch. Years later when we used to visit Aunt Martha's farm on the Delaware river in Mt Bethel Pennsylavania, she would bring home cuttings from Martha's peonies. These would bloom in the back of the yard, then give way to Grande's roses later on.
Before I left to spend two years in Turkey, my Mother asked me to plant the bulbs of tulips and daffodills which had been cooling in the cellar. She would report their progress in the following Springs while I was away. Now I live in the country with a woman who has spiritual ties with Wendell Berry, in fact she has her own version of the Mad farmer's manifesto which is laid out in meandering beds of herbs, milkweed and other plants and shrubs that attract butterflies and hummingbirds. But that is a story for another day.
My sisters used to delight in the gnarled dwarfs with faces partially disfigured by the weather. There are bits of movies in my head of them straddling the gnomes and sqealing in delight. Invariably when he gave us a ride home after dark, there would be cuttings or bulbs or plants that my mother would transfer to her garden. More than the smells of the leaves burning in the Fall, or the scent of the flowers, acrid marygolds in the Fall, sweet roses or peonies in the early Summer, I recall how his dour face would cloud over with sadness when he looked upon us.
My Mother's garden on Roxbury st was an offshoot of his. The forsythia that rattled in the wind outside the sunporch windows where I slept, the lilacs, the daffodills and tulips that lined the foundation on the sunny side of the house all came from his patch. Years later when we used to visit Aunt Martha's farm on the Delaware river in Mt Bethel Pennsylavania, she would bring home cuttings from Martha's peonies. These would bloom in the back of the yard, then give way to Grande's roses later on.
Before I left to spend two years in Turkey, my Mother asked me to plant the bulbs of tulips and daffodills which had been cooling in the cellar. She would report their progress in the following Springs while I was away. Now I live in the country with a woman who has spiritual ties with Wendell Berry, in fact she has her own version of the Mad farmer's manifesto which is laid out in meandering beds of herbs, milkweed and other plants and shrubs that attract butterflies and hummingbirds. But that is a story for another day.
posted by 2260 lake ave at 8:50 AM
1 Comments:
I don't spend nearly enough time with my fingers in the earth... so many little things can begin to make us whole, even if it we are fooled into believing his wholeness is fleeting...
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