The front garden, in progress. . .
I've been chatting about compost with my father-in-law. Earthworms, weeding, nettles, rocks and bricks--these are the topics about which we ruminate. We wax eloquent about trellises and rare fencing.
Never in my wildest young dreams would I have predicted these as likely topics of conversation.
My mother is no gardener. She opts for the pots of ice pansies on the porch and sticks to indoor greenery for the most part. My father, though he loves azaleas and showed an unexpected vehemence of opinion when my mother mercilessly hacked them back one spring, is as likely to pick up a shovel and break sod as he is to pick up a knife and skin a raccoon.
Growing up in Kenya's bustling capital city, we enjoyed a postage-stamp backyard, backed by a dense thorn hedge to keep out thieves (this proved unsuccessful, since we were robbed one night as we slept). Bougainvillea and morning glories crept unbidden up the hedges. We had a tiny, covered patio where we drank tea every afternoon and enjoyed our flower beds. I don't think my mother ever had to dirty her hands over the flower beds, though; she picked out the plants, drove them home, and placed them in their pots over the dirt. And then our gardener popped in and planted them all.
Once our Somali neighbor hired me to do an hour of gardening. I turned up with flowered scarf around my neck and a ridiculous sunhat. She fixed me with a stare and commented on my overdressing. I poked at the soil for a few moments, but it was awfully hot and I don't believe the experience stood up to my picture of the genteel English lady gardener with pruners in gloved hand.
My husband grew up in the suburbs of Houston. He sweated through summer days at his parent's hands, mowing lawns and raking up cottonwood leaves. One summer he joined a team of landscapers, mostly made up of illegal immigrants, and he experienced what it is like to work as an illegal immigrant: long, unfair hours, little breaks, and back-breaking labor. He stuck it out for a week or so, dropping into bed shortly after supper until he quit.
So it may have come as somewhat of a shock to our folks when we bought 3/4 of an acre of sloping Pennsylvania land, rubbed our hands in glee, and began to dig up sod. My parents, who value "get-up-and-move" (in 25 years of marriage, they're on their 26th house together) looked askance as we planted trees and seemed to settle down for the long haul.
Here's the secret, though, that gardeners know: gardening is not genteel--it's sweaty work--and through the sweat and the frustrations of weeds and bad bugs who want to eat the roses, joy keeps surprising us. Joy surprises us in the hops of a robin who, in friendly fashion, follows us down rows of newly turned soil. Joy surprises us when, at the end of a day of hard summer work, twilight illuminates the glow of a certain flower's petals and deepens the greens of tomato leaves. When I find myself in a tizzy over stupid daily details, a good hour in the garden refreshes my soul and renews my perspective. Gardening invigorates imagination and relaxes us to stand for a moment, soaking in the impossible reality of joy.
Last summer, side garden
It's a secret made better because I discovered it myself, as an adult. It's a secret my girls are growing up believing, even taking for granted, and that's good too. Someday I hope they'll make it their own.
Happy mother's day, all you mamas.
