The Full Circle

Deb: Loss always brings to the foreground the idea of the full circle, the passage of time. As we searched through photo albums looking for pictures of our friend Paul whom was just lost to us, we came across these. I thought they were a lovely link between Barbara's post on gardening and the passage of time. The span is twelve years. Wow. Just took my breath away these did. Time seems to have sped up when I wasn't looking. 

Before

After

Weeding And Growing

Barbara: I have a garden. Not everyone does. I don’t take it for granted. I know it is a special thing to be able to sit outside before, after (or during) work. To see the green. To hear the birds. To inhale the spa-licious fragrance of sweet alyssum or lavender or lilac. But I have a love/hate thing with it. It is always growing, changing, and dying in ways I can never quite grasp.

I imagine an order-of-things when I plant—and by plant, I mean “invest”. Make no mistake, a garden is not a cheap thrill, as I used to think. As Phil and I were standing at the cash of the tree nursery the other day, waiting to zip the debit card through the machine for an ungodly (to me) sum, I joked that over the years the garden has surely racked up as many costs as our children. The cashier—seemingly unaware that all that money she was counting was coming out of our personal coffers—looked at me askance and asked if the children were very young. No!!! This is a serious long term financial commitment! At least for my own green (brown?) thumb it is.

I plant with precision, with purpose, with high and mighty hopes. I do all the research. I ask many questions. I rely on horticultural advice. Every plant that has gone into the garden has been thoroughly vetted. And still, year after year, plants curl up and wither, they don’t thrive, they die in great spires of browning needle…

…or in slow spindly inversions…

…gradually diminishing and disappearing until one day I no longer remember I even planted them.

I spent all of Sunday and holiday Monday digging out trenches between my stone pavers after a heavy investment several years ago for the pavers to be laid and inter-planted with various “hardy” greens. By this year, all I have left of those expensive greens are dense and ugly weeds (some weeds, yes, I know, are lovely). After digging in I realized the poor plants had maybe an inch or so of good soil over a bed of 6 inches of pure sand—a sand bed is critical for paver stability, but not so nice for lush growth. So I (or we, my daughters both helped!) dug down, peeling the weed rug off the top, scraping any good soil off their roots, and scooping trenches out of the sand bed that I could then fill with topsoil and embellish with good plants. It was backbreaking (but also holistically heeling and therapeutic) work.

Before

During. This is Mother of thyme, which is supposed to fill in over the years...

In my Zen meditations I couldn’t help wondering why I kept at it, was I fighting a losing battle, was all this work and money for naught. And then it all began to make a kind of organic sense. All life is like this, isn’t it? You never know which of your investments of time, effort and/or money are going to really pay off. So you either never commit, never bother, just give up, or you roll up your sleeves (and pull out your wallet) year after year and try, try again.

And you know what? In the end, for all of the many garden investments that never ended up paying off for me, there are many square yards of them that truly have. As tired as I am today, as sore as my muscles are, I can honestly say that for me all the weeding, all the sowing, all the dreaming, all the hoping, all the expense, all the time, has surely surely been worth it. And today, today, I get to smell the roses.

He Wants To Do My Tree

Barbara: The other day I was tending my garden and I happened to notice a few city workers out front planting a tree on a neighbour’s property. I don’t know about you guys, but in Toronto we have a tree-planting program whereby any homeowner can ask the city to plant a tree on what is considered the “city property” part of your yard, and they will plant it for free. It’s a great incentive to keep propagating a healthy, vibrant tree population.

So, anyway, I see these guys out front and I want to ask them about the aging (and possibly dying) maple at the base of my property (is it at risk of dying soon? will it keel over? will it drop branches on our neighbour’s car? etc). 

I tentatively approach the first guy to walk past my driveway without his hands full of vegetation. I know he could easily tell me to wait my turn, or call the office, or just f*ck off (he’s with the city, remember), but he doesn’t. He follows me to the tree, listens politely to my concerns, expresses his moderate opinion and makes me feel better. But here’s the thing: he spends the entire conversation trying not to stare over my shoulder at the copper beech tree that takes up much of my backyard.

I begin to feel like that woman who’s in the middle of a conversation with a guy when he suddenly sees the most beautiful girl of his dreams. It is love blooming before my eyes. And who can blame him: that tree is one helluva sexy, sultry, and exotic species.

And can I also add how cute he is? Cute in that way that some people are when you can see in their adult faces and demeanours the kids, the babies, they once were.

I couldn’t stand between them anymore. I call him out on his flagrant attraction and then offer to introduce them. He doesn't need to be asked twice. He approaches like one mesmerized. He covets and reveres. He admires and fawns. He very carefully and respectfully touches, pointing out her singularities, her idiosyncrasies, her sensitive spots.

Then he starts to describe what he wants to do to her. He knows what she needs, what she wants. She needs pruning, suckering and cording. But he will be gentle, discreet. He has the skills, he assures me, to treat her right. He will use only the most dexterous moves, only the best paraphernalia.

He hardly looks at me as he tries to convince me, telling her as much as me (maybe more than), just how much she will thrive and flourish under his attentions. It is, without doubt, the most tender and honest seduction I’ve ever been third-wheel to.

He actually says it in so many words: he really really wants to do her. Later when he meets my husband, he tells him the same thing. Oh, and also that he wants to film it. Um, okay, more on that later.

Hey, this is our tree’s best suitor ever. Will we give him her hand?

How can we not? Just don’t ask me to watch.

Deb: Besides the fact that I adored this beautifully written tale of a romantic tryst, I could not help thinking that this was probably the gorgeous Barbara’s first time being a third wheel. I am sure you have never felt the sting of someone looking over your shoulder at another. Take it from me, for I have been the tree and I have been the shrub. I have also been the lovely perennial you buy in the spring, forget to plant and are forced to use as mulch come the fall. Do not cry for me though as I have been the tree many times in my life and with this husband of mine, I am always made to feel like the tallest leafiest tree in the forest. But trust me. dear readers, this tree of Barb’s is something to behold. Robin Hood would worship at her trunk. I have never seen her like. 

My Secret Love Chore

Barbara: When I say “secret”, the irony here is that I mean it’s a secret from ME. Yes, it’s true, we can and do (all the time) keep secrets from ourselves.

Here’s mine: I believe with every fiber of my being that I hate gardening. In the warm weather months, I dread it with a passion. But then when the season absolutely obligates me to don the garden booties and latex gloves (no comment), I find myself on bended knee professing my undying love to the back-breaking, shoulder-numbing but sensually beautiful and Zen-like peacefulness that is gardening.

One of the reasons we bought our home (besides the virtual steal of a price and its proximity to our daughters’ schools) was for its larger than average garden and its stunning 400-year-old copper beach. 

But when we celebrated the prospect of our new large garden, it was because we imagined days spent lounging in its splendour, maybe reading, maybe hosting intimate gatherings over rosé and antipasto. We didn’t picture hours spent mowing, edging, trimming, and seeding (Phil’s jobs), or composting and mulching 6 cubic yards of shit (actual shit, mind you, and btw, our shared job), or weeding, deadheading, planting and transplanting, and pest and pestilence surveying (my jobs). You see, there is no lounging with book or libation without plenty of—it sounds so benign, doesn’t it?––gardening.

But here’s the gist. I grumble and groan, I procrastinate (like, really a lot), I even whine, and then eventually I get to it. In the fourteen years I’ve gardened here and the five years I gardened at our other home (which is where I cut my teeth), I’ve never missed a season. And, if you want to do the math, yes, that 19 years with at least seven major gardening “events” throughout each season (by that I mean things like spring cleanup and prep, summer weeding sessions (I’m not a “weed once a week” type), fall bulb-planting and bed cleanup, etc), it works out to a minimum total of 133 times in my life where I have worked myself into a froth of foreboding only to find myself in a lovely, wonderful meditative trance as I prune and weed, dig and shovel, pat and tweak. It seems that no matter how many times I think I loathe it, I discover and rediscover how much I actually love it. Oh! and it loves me back.

My garden is lush and green and happy. Unlike my attempts at indoor gardening—which invariably ends with rotting leaves, dying stems, and non-existent flowers––outdoor gardening fairly swoons at my attentions.

My garden doesn’t care that I have spent more hours begrudging it than appreciating it. It just grows along with or without me, and then radiates beauty and peace and acceptance when I finally show up to pay my respects.

Deb: Barb has the most beautiful garden. She designed it like a pro and it looks lush and wonderful. I know Barb very very well so I was shocked when I read this. To look at her garden you would never know she didn’t adore gardening.

I am afraid that I will do little to make this post interesting by giving a different point of view. I too hate it. Or at least I hate the big jobs. The spring/fall cleanup and mulch, the backbreaking planting. But what I do love is the maintenance, and I have found the key that works for me. I simply don’t make it an event like “oh I have to find a day this week to weed and deadhead.” Instead, I come out in the garden almost every day, even for fifteen minutes and I do these things in a leisurely manner. Wow, has it made a difference in my gardening life. I find that this way, it is never daunting.

In fact, it is a philosophy I try to adapt to everything in my life. To borrow a concept from one of my fave authors, Anne Lamott, I just try to take it “Bird by Bird”. I don’t let it get too big and then I can’t be overwhelmed by it. I am just an amateur gardener, but each year I learn more and I glory in my successes and take my failures on the chin. I take photos of everything so I can review what worked and what didn’t, and I borrow ideas from my friends’ gardens. My indoor gardening has come a long way too. I stopped being afraid of killing plants and started just giving them a little lovin’. They used to have a Wanted poster of me in plant stores. I was a leafy serial killer. But I continue to grow with my garden and, as a result, it cuts me some slack. Now if I could just get the dogs to stop peeing on my impatiens.

A Sap For A Sapling

Hey, you can now check out our new Saturday posting of Deb's Deco Tips and Barbara's Easy Recipes! And now to our regularly scheduled post...


Deb: The gardeners who clean up our garden for planting were here the other day and they commented that the huge sixty foot tree in our front yard should maybe come down. They noted that it had many holes in its trunk––who’s doesn’t?––and said we should have the city inspect it.

Deb's sapling all grown up

So the city came to inspect the tree and said that, although it was not dying, it was certainly on the decline. The guy gave me a list of trees, a very impressive list of 29 trees that they would put in for free to replace it. Many of them were beautiful trees that would enhance the front of our home. Curb appeal, doncha know!

You see, most of the big beautiful trees in this hood were planted in the 40’s when the hood was a babyhood. And our tree was one of many Norway maple trees planted that, although gorgeous, are soooooooooooooo invasive. We are plagued with tiny insipid little roots that come up and strangle any plant we plant that isn’t as hearty as Popeye. Ug ug ug ug ug ug ug. (And so you know, that wasn’t me disparaging said Norway maple. “Ug ug ug ug” for you young’uns was Popeye’s catch phrase.)

So the prospect of a flourishing garden with NO limitations had me all green and leafy. I looked over the city brochure and googled each and every tree narrowing my search, daydreaming of shouting TIMBER!

So I went out to inspect the tree, with visions of friendly flowering foliage gracing our frontage … and it happened.

DAMN my EYES it happened.

I pictured our tree circa 1946 as a wee sapling held up by wire and a stick. I envisioned the very first owners standing in front of it brandishing a “Sold” sign. I saw them thrill to its first bloom and roll around in its first autumn shedding. Then I saw me and the boy wrapping it in spider webs for our first Halloween in this home 13 years ago.

 And I was screwed.

So there she stands. And until we have reason to believe she will possibly crush us, I shan’t shout timber.

PS Here are pics of our Ornamental Japanese Apple just now in bloom:

Barbara: Oooh, thanks, Deb, you’ve just offered me a chance to “talk trees”! I love talking trees.

I have a weird maple on the city portion of my front yard that is so odd-looking they call it a Witch's Broom. You can’t tell from this photo––it only sprouts later in the summer––but it has masses of suckers up and down its trunk that we (and by “we”, I mean Phil) have to trim off every year for fear the branches will poke an eye out.

Witch's Broom Maple

When these suckers leaf out, they'll be 4-5ft long

I have two black walnut maples in my backyard that are so toxic, everything except hostas, impatiens and boxwoods die underneath it. But the trees are gorgeous. And, yes, we’ve even stopped begrudging them their walnut husks which the squirrels leave everywhere and which leave a dark ebony stain on all they touch. We even have a giggle or two in the fall when we find the husked walnuts in the most obtuse places (for a squirrel conditioned to burying treasure): balanced on a spoke of our chaise lounger wheel, at the tip top of our backyard heater, sitting neatly on a chair at the deck table.

Black Walnut––when these branches leaf out, they're like long lazy fans

But the piece de resistance is my copper beech tree. You heard me: a friggin copper beech. The most beautiful, majestic, wondrous tree EVER!!! It is maybe 400 years old and we get to adore its magnificence every day. Does it bug me sometimes? Yeah, sure, with its millions of leaf husks that swarm into the house all spring, its hard nut husks that make walking barefoot a hazard in late summer, and of course its relentless shade which prevents me from gardening vegetables or pretty blooming flowers.

Majestic Copper Beech

Copper Beech up close

Copper Beech trunk––like a huge elephant's leg

But that’s all just irrelevant whining. We love our trees. We love their quirks and idiosyncrasies. They are as changeable and frustrating, as sweet and wonderful, as mysterious and revealing as our dearest loved ones.