Tag: garden

My (Not So) Secret Garden

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When I was little, my Mama gave me some illustrated Frances Hodgson Burnett novels, namely A Little Princess and The Secret Garden. I love these stories for the resiliency and pluck of the main characters, but also for their hopefulness, even in solitude and loneliness. Maybe she was giving me a road map she knew I’d need. I’ve found healing in gardens and flowers. I know what it means to be in an untenable situation not of my choosing and how to both survive and thrive in spite of it. These are gifts that certainly endure.

More recently, I’ve been able to witness my cousin and her husband take a rough and abused house and grounds and convert them into the promise of something magical, much like the garden Mary Lennox discovers on her uncle’s property. Their sweat, tears, and laughter (and including a novice like me) ensure this will be a wondrous, welcoming place. In the process of watching the transformation of a wreck into a home, I’ve been inspired to do a small DIY project of my own. After Bryan passed, I moved my bedroom into what was once the office-catch-all-pantry-whatever room. One wall had a lot of patches and holes and needed some TLC. I knew I wanted to do something different, creative, floral, but it was just an idea until recently.

I went through all the steps. TSP wash, painters tape, priming the holes, patching the holes, cutting in the primer, rolling out the primer (a couple of times after a few minor setbacks and mishaps), cutting in the very dark, very dramatic color twice, rolling out twice, and then free-hand painting my own secret (but now that you know, not entirely secret) garden. I wanted something joyful to look at even on my darkest days, which there have been more than a few these past couple of months. This is a gift from me to me now and future me, too. I still have detail work and some leaves to round out the finish. I have a plug-in plate on order that will replace the cream-colored plastic one I got rid of. My sister encourages me to put a small writing desk in my bedroom. I just might do that.

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Gardens

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When I was a kid, we had a big garden at the first house where we lived in Yakima–corn, peppers, cucumbers, beans, tomatoes, and potatoes (probably more things than that, but that’s what I remember). At six, my job was to smoosh the potato bug larvae on the backs of the potato plant leaves and then flick the mature bugs into a bucket of soapy water. And I also had to get the tomato worms off the tomato plants into that same bucket of soapy water. These are the things that build character, yes? We never really had a big garden after that.

Our family split apart. Mom lived in apartments. Dad lived in rentals. When we moved to Ohio, we lived basically in college housing apartments for about four years before getting the house in Wonder Hills. Southeastern Ohio soil is essentially red clay. We had a flower garden and that’s about it. My sister and her husband have always had a beautiful vegetable garden at their home. My Auntie Lila has an oasis of flowers everywhere she’s lived. I remember fondly her place in Stanfield that always seemed magical. My Grandpa Moore had the most epic garden, one of legends–biggest and best everything. Trust me this is not hyperbole. Straight facts, folks. What I’m trying to say is that I’ve had intermittent, but intense relationships with gardens until moving to Walla Walla.

A little while into our courtship, I asked Bryan if we could rototill his backyard and plant a garden. The look on his face was the closest to apoplexy I’d ever seen. I’m taking that as a no. HA! I’m sure I’ve told this story before, but it makes me chuckle and is worth the retelling. I negotiated ONE jalapeno pepper plant and ONE dill plant. I’ll have you know I’ve had dill volunteer every summer since. Oh yeah, and over the course of our time together, Bryan built me five raised beds.

This evening as I was watering, I looked at all of those raised beds full of flowers, tomatoes, peppers, and potatoes and smiled. This garden is a love letter from him to me, and from me to him and anyone who I can share it with. I harvested the red potatoes that volunteered this year. I sprayed them off, brought them in and used the soft-bristled scrubber to clean them. Here they are drying on a towel–potatoes as a love letter.

Bryan and I used to chat about people who were goal-oriented versus people who were process-oriented. There are those who bury the needle one way or the other. I used to think I was solely goal-oriented. The rototilling request kind of emphasizes that point, but I have become increasingly appreciative of the process. The garden has taught me that. Tending a home by myself teaches me that. Change is the constant. The “ta-da” is very short-lived; it’s what comes before, after, and during that matters most.

Overmatched

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Some days I get up early enough, make breakfast, make the bed, get to work with time to spare, take care of all the tasks in front of me. Laundry is caught up. The kitchen is pretty clean. The house is mostly tidy.

And then as the day concludes, here, alone, I see all that’s not done. All that I’m reponsible for. I feel overmatched. How do I do this? How am I supposed to do this? That feeling of overwhelm and smallness–it clobbers me.

I went out to clear the stream of debris. I think I might have plucked a dead squirrel or rat or some misfortunate, drowned rodent out along with all the water plants that flow downstream to the grate that separates my side from the neighbors. I began to remove weeds and dead plants from the back garden, barely scratching the surface. Why is it so much harder this year? Why does it seem like a mountain?

I know I can do hard things, but I don’t wanna. (you can imagine that in as whiny a voice as you can tolerate) Tomorrow is a new day. I’ll put on my big girl pants and tackle one thing at a time.

Too easy.