Two Hours
This morning I spent two hours introducing the garden to my student assistant for the summer. As we swerved from weeds in gravel walkways to the Latin name for columbine, I wondered how she could ever make sense of all these random instructions, recollections, admonitions, observations, historical references, and the etymology of “aquilegia.” I’ve been working in this garden for five years and I’m still struggling to get a feel for the place, to master a few of the fundamentals in this inexhaustibly complex environment. So many of the challenges derive from one’s awareness of the garden as a relentless combination clock/calendar, with hundreds of space/time mechanisms, each operating according to its own sense of tempo and rhythm. And this organic machinery never stops moving. Today’s garden is never tomorrow’s garden. And to have any chance of comprehending tomorrow’s garden requires remembering yesterday’s garden and last year’s garden and the year April was cold and wet–in contrast to the year when our last hard freeze was in March. It’s all a bit difficult to explain in two hours.
Although gardening is often driven by the need to respond to the conditions in the present hour, success often depends upon predicting those conditions before they occur–and then knowing some measures for trying to influence the likely outcome. If I plant these zinnia seeds in this spot, how will those fully grown zinnia blossoms look when surrounded by the perennials already living in the neighborhood? What will happen (aesthetically? ecologically?) if we remove the rose bush in the northwest corner of the garden and replace it with two varieties of perennial sunflowers?
As we walk around the garden, I notice how frequently my comments address problems not yet readily apparent: horsetail, bindweed, asters, swamp milkweed, thistles, dandelions, crabgrass, sedge. Instead of talking about what is there now, I can’t stop thinking about what will soon be filling those vacant spaces: What flowers will need protection? Which areas may later need watering? How will we combat the horsetail? I want my student assistant to feel good about this summer job, to feel she can function effectively in tackling some challenges encountered within these garden walls. But if I were in her shoes, I would be overwhelmed.
A Park in Emporia
I have three distinct memories of my year as a 6th grader:
#1: Playing in my first basketball game. Led by Terry and Tony, we defeated the 6th-grade Moline Hornets, 35-30.
#2: Mrs. Staley. On several occasions, Mrs. Staley informed me that her name was not “Teacher” but “Mrs. Staley.”
#3: Playing trumpet in the high school band. On my first morning as a 6th grader, Mrs. Staley informed Tim, Helen, and me that we had been promoted to the high school band, and band rehearsals would become our first period class. Needless to say we were excited. Even though we would be playing third chair parts, the promotion meant we could go on Saturday band trips and perform in the Neewollah (Halloween spelled backward) parade in Independence and the Christmas parade in Coffeyville.
Although I retain no clear recollection of those first performances in Independence and Coffeyville, the final trip of the year did leave an indelible impression: April’s district music contest in Emporia, held on a school day. I’m not sure what happened, but shortly after our yellow bus was parked on the Emporia State Teachers College campus, I discovered that Helen and Tim and the other 50 band members had all left for town or for participation in other music activities, and I had the bus all to myself. Fortunately, we were next to a small park with a small pond and several mallard ducks. And so I spent the day sitting on the shore, watching the mallards. As a 4-H project, I had a small flock of ducks on the farm, but we had no pond and I had never seen mallards in such a water-rich habitat, turning their tails into the air while feeding off the bottom of the lake bed.
Although we returned each year for the district music competitions in Emporia, I never returned to the park. By the time I was in the 7th grade, I had gained sufficient courage to walk downtown and enter into my first book store, where I eventually purchased two books that I still own: May This House be Safe from Tigers by Alexander King and Any Number Can Play by Clifton Fadiman. Although nearly all my teen-years reading was novels (primarily science fiction), I’m intrigued that when it came to purchasing books, I chose two works of nonfiction. Perhaps I was swayed by how the books were displayed in the book store window. And I had heard of Clifton Fadiman because of his association with the Book-of-the-Month club. I knew he was respected by educated people–and I suppose I wanted to be educated. But I regret that I never returned to the ducks in the park. They had proven ideal companions for a young boy who was a bit fearful about heading off into the big city of Emporia. That small park proved to be an invaluable sanctuary as I, unknowingly, was preparing for other worlds. And I see now that in my many hours spent in gardens, I still yearn for those moments of sanctuary.
Three Inches
When I first started working in the Alumni House Garden in the spring of 2014, it took me several months before I had the courage to visit a nursery and purchase new plants for the perennial beds. And I still needed coaxing from a more experienced gardener, reassuring me the hibiscus and the perennial cornflower and the Karl Foerster feather reed grass and the Phlox paniculata ‘David’ would all look great. Despite my insecurities, we managed to leave the nursery with her car full of plants. One factor propelling me forward was the awareness these arrivals would go into areas that had no previous inhabitants worth saving. Once the excess goldenrod and asters were cast aside, the new guys were soon in place.
Five years later, the new kids on the block haven’t moved–still residing where we placed them on that hot afternoon in the middle of July. But I’ve not always been so lucky in my choices for locating new plants. Earlier today I moved two small yarrow for the third time in the past three years, still seeking a mix of sun and soil and neighboring plants that will enable these small, shy achillea to do better than they have done so far. It’s been hard, however, for me to move plants. I’ve been more inclined to rationalize their current locations as a given. We’ll find a way to make do with minimal readjustments.
This year, however, feels different. Several weeks ago I was reorganizing the middle of the “D” bed on the south side of the garden and decided to add two stonecrop to complement the four stonecrop already in the bed. The six-sided arrangement was okay, but as I was looking at the bed, I felt two older stonecrop should be moved closer to the center of the group and aligned at a different angle. In each case a move of about 3 inches. Before this year, I probably would “have left well enough alone,” but now I didn’t hesitate. Within seconds, the spade was in the ground, the stonecrop lifted from their old places, a new hole dug, and the stonecrop plopped down in their new hole. Of course, this revised spacing may not work out, but in gardening it’s really the act of gardening that counts. We’re never going to have a final product. The plants are always on the move, regardless of what I do or don’t do. The composite family (over 23,600 species–which in the Coe garden includes dandelions, asters, sunflowers, wormwoods, black-eyed Susans, daisies, ragweeds, tansies, tickseeds, Eupatoriums, etc.) is relentless in its determination to take over the garden and claim this land as its own. Eventually, they will probably win. But in the meantime, I will try to be just as stubborn and insistent on my ideas about who goes where when. If I want to move someone three inches, so be it.