By JoEllen Collins
In 1948, a fellow wrote a summary of gardening. He said, “The best way to get real enjoyment out of the garden is to put on a wide straw hat, dress in thin, loose-fitting clothes, hold a little trowel in one hand and a cool drink in the other, and tell the man where to dig.”
This reminds me of my conflicting thoughts about gardening. Both my birth mother and the mother who raised me were dedicated gardeners, producing magnificent though time-consuming displays in very different environments. I would hope I have this capability as well. I don’t think I do, if one considers the large yards I have spent trying to be like them, often to no avail and lots of hard work.
When my daughters were toddlers, I attempted a terraced vegetable-and-flower garden on the slant of hill facing (far away, but beautiful) the Pacific Ocean. I also had a long deck planter filled with herbs. Finally, I could see sprouts of veggies popping up; I proudly showed it off to my girls and their tiny friends who watched me pulling weeds. (I enjoyed the thwunk of getting the root up.)
When we returned after a long weekend, I was dismayed to see my plants—all of them—thrown down the side of the hill. I was sure that someone in the neighborhood hated me, but it was only a little neighbor boy who had seen me weeding and thought it would be a nice surprise for me to have my garden clear. He was awaiting the delighted hugs and praise he would receive for his efforts. The only thing that fully emerged in the almost barren rows were masses of huge and almost inedible zucchinis.
I still love gardens, but now I don’t live where I can practice the folly of attempting a green thumb in homage to my mothers. If I had a big garden, I would indulge in sitting by it in a comfortable chair and perhaps reading a book or talking with a friend, and maybe even having fresh lettuce and veggies at dinner.
However, I do have a small deck off my condo, and I must say that my annual early-summer planting binge has proven to give me surprising pleasure. I have a good friend who spends her summers here, and when I pick her up around the first week of June, we head to a nursery and, even jet-lagged, she helps me plant pots and window boxes with a riot of bright annuals.
I must say that even my little spot of red, blue, yellow, white, orange and hot-pink bunches of flowers provides me with inordinate pleasure. On any summer day I can bask in vivid colors, maybe deadhead a bit of unhappy blooms, gently sprinkle water over my “charges,” and gaze at the hills and the ever-changing Idaho sky. Can’t ask for much more than that—a sanctuary of beauty and calm. I don’t even need a gardener.