a very, very, very, very long post about gardening

I used to plant gardens wherever I lived. My parents are gardeners, although—just like in every other possible way—they are complete opposites. My dad turns every landscape into a sculptural Japanese/Zen creation. This is not due to years of study of sparse design, or even a reflection of his spiritual beliefs per se. He grew up on a farm and as the oldest son it was his responsibility to do all of the work. He is still the hardest-working man I know. His occupation is no longer so physically demanding (since he was promoted to management years ago) but he has maintained his work ethic nonetheless. He chops all of his own firewood, and also does this for people in need (elderly relatives of his friends, or people he knows through the church). He does a lot of other things like this as well, and I could go on and on about my dad, but I won’t right now. Suffice to say that it is easy for me to go off on a tangent about him because I admire him so much. My point was that his utilitarian nature is what has influenced his design-sense the most.

My mother, on the other hand, is complicated in every way imaginable. I love my mom, but there are a lot of issues with her (how very normal of me, I know, to have issues with at least one parent…are there really people out there who have perfect relationships with both parents? I’m sure there are. Yes, there must be.) I could also go on and on about my mom and perhaps someday I will, if I am in the mood. But right now I am reflecting on my love of gardens, so I will get back to that topic. My mother’s style would best be described as an English cottage garden gone wild. But there is a method to her madness, as there is a bit of a mad scientist in my mother, and she knows every plant. More importantly, she knows every “baby” of every plant. So when my dad decides to “clean things up,” as he is inclined to do, she absolutely freaks out. To her, he has committed murder. They have found a way to compromise over the years, and now they have zones in their landscape.

When I was in my teens I began experimenting with planting, primarily vegetables. My dad and I built some raised beds in the back yard and I had a lot of fun. I also put some perennials here and there. When I went away to college one of my joys was to see how the perennials had grown over the years (and mom was always the first to show me all of the new babies that these plants had resulted in). She took over the raised beds as another place to plant flowers. I’m sure my dad appreciated the fact that they were contained in the beds.

It was in one of the places that I lived while I was in college that I started my first solo experiments as a gardener. At home, with mom and dad’s supervision, my plantings were all successful. Dad made sure the soil was rich (a detail that I took for granted) and they both, as a matter of habit, pulled weeds before they really took root and watered plants to ensure they got a good start or didn’t get burned by the sun, etc. These *finer* details of gardening (some fairly common-sense aspects, really, but to a neophyte the common-sense/banal can be harder to grasp) were huge stumbling blocks for me in the early solo days. I enthusiastically dug a garden in the back yard of the alphabet street house where I lived with two other college roommates and one non-college-self-appointed-punk-rock-goddess. Nothing would grow for me in the topsoil (duh). In the front, where there were some beds along the walkway and in front of the porch I had better luck. I’m not sure why I made the decision to buy several big bags of potting soil, but it did the trick. So sad I was a few months later when my house had become essentially a flophouse (the three roommates turned into six, with people setting up residence in the mudroom off the back porch and in the ample upstairs hallway). As the house was being taken-over by more and more people I took refuge at my boyfriend’s house (this was in the very early days when Mr. C and I had just started dating). On the morning my parents came to help me move into a studio apartment I was saddened to see that my giant sunflowers, as well as pretty much all of the other flowers along the walkway, were the victims of these careless assholes who had taken over my once happy home. When my parents and I walked into the house we literally had to step over bodies just to get through the front door. But I digress. My point is that I learned a lot about gardening here—some fundamentals, really, not the least of which is how quickly a garden will fall apart when it isn’t properly cared for.

After graduating from college and moving out of the studio apartment over a year later I moved to Seattle where I lived in a house with Mr. C and two of our friends. I was dubbed “Snow White” by my now MIL. I loved making this house feel like a home and kept myself busy with projects. Outside I tended to the beautiful roses that were all along the walkway. And in the other flowerbeds I learned about planting flowers from seed. I also learned about the many different bugs—good and bad—that live in gardens. We only lived in this house for a year, though, as the guys had all lived in shared houses all through college and were finally feeling ready to have their own places.

So I moved into an adorable house by Green Lake with my friend Deb. Deb loves gardening with a passion. We had such a great time transforming every part of the landscape. My early lessons had paid off, and here I learned more. Deb and I were both creative in our approach and weren’t afraid to experiment. The landlord appreciated our efforts as well. Unfortunately, after just over two years of living there, Deb’s job at the hospital where she was working ended due to budget cuts. She found a new job two hours away. We had to say goodbye to our little cottage and our lovely garden. The landlord encouraged her to take as many plants as she could, since he knew that renters-who-garden are rare. I was moving into another apartment, so nothing could go with me. It is almost ten years later now and Deb is still living in the house she moved into that fall. I have watched plants that I put in the ground from 4” pots grow taller than me (ok, I am short, but some of them have grown really tall).

After finishing graduate school and landing my first teaching job I moved into a little house in North Tacoma—a neighborhood called Old Town. As a first year teacher I had no time to tend to a garden that fall and by the spring Mr. C and I were engaged so my “extra” time was spent planning an August wedding. Then my time living in that house was cut short when I realized that I had a stalker (a story for another time perhaps, albeit not a very juicy one, despite they way it sounds). Neither Mr. C nor I felt comfortable with me staying in that house another night once this was discovered.

I made some modest attempts to garden at the first house Mr. C and I shared as a married couple. We lived in that house in Renton (for those of you who are not familiar with the Seattle area, Renton is a suburb to the south of the city) for four years. We kept saying that we would move back to Seattle at some point, since Mr. C always worked in Seattle and that is where all of our friends are. What kept us in Renton was my job/commute to Tacoma. Finally one day Mr. C came home from work and said, “let’s move.” Since I had wanted to do this for so long (he is much slower, usually, to make the big decisions) I jumped at the chance. The next thing we knew we were living in the house we are in now.

This house has a distinct lack of curb appeal. The exterior, from the front at least, gives no indication of the charm that this house actually has. The living room wall, which faces the very private backyard, is pretty much floor to ceiling with windows. It opens out (through a door with a large window as well) to a deck. Since it is so private we have never felt the need to put up any curtains. Regardless of the time of year I always feel like I am close to *nature* here. I have for the most part ignored the garden. Our landlord shows up every now and then and wrecks havoc on the trees or shrubs, clearing things out. There is a huge rhododendron and some other plants that bloom when they should, and for the most part the rest of the landscape is evergreen. I added some bulbs to a spot near the entrance and every once in a while I pull out weeds when they get large enough. I’ve also made a half-assed attempt at container gardening on the deck, but my lack of consistency with watering always leads to the certain death of anything planted in a pot.

So what inspired me to write this lengthy post about my history with gardening? This morning I sat down with a magazine and didn’t make it passed the table of contents. I read this description: “It had a humdrum landscape and ramshackle house…but (she) knew at first glance that this three-acre property had enormous potential. See how she created the garden of her dreams.” At once I was overcome with wistfulness at the idea of having a ramshackle house and humdrum landscape to transform…while simultaneously I long for an urban, industrial loft-space. Yes--I know, I know...it is the pull of the two extremes.

Our lease is up at the end of the summer. We are still not ready to buy a home. Over the years it has always been one thing or another to tell us that the time isn’t “right” yet. But with Mr. C seriously contemplating pursuing his film business full-time it just doesn’t make sense to make two really big life changing moves at once (and with starting a family still on the horizon, too…). Perhaps we will move into a loft-like apartment?