How Does Our Garden Grow?

The French are serious about not walking on the grass, ever

As much as I like France, I’m not a fan of their gardening philosophy of everything manicured within an inch of their lives, “keep off the grass” signs everywhere, everything for show – all order and balance.  They don’t invite me to take off my shoes, wiggle my toes, and set a spell.  They frequently treat the outdoors as an objet d’art rather than a place to relax and express myself.

I’m more a Gertrude Jekyll kind of gardener.  I like my Russian sage intertwining with my daylilies and my grape hyacinths and daffodils coming up anywhere they please.  I have a certain set of borders they stay behind and I have to watch for the tipping point when one plant might take advantage of the space of a less aggressive one, and I like a general color scheme, e.g. pastels with a well-placed bright red or purple adding a bit of spice – or even the opposite with hot colors and the pastels to soften.

Chateaux gardens rarely tempt me to come closer than this

While a French formal garden can sedate me, the controlled chaos of a Jekyll cottage garden excites me to new possibilities.  When I see a patch of golden coreopsis thriving in an unexpected place, instead of ripping it out because that’s not where it was supposed to be, I immediately want to figure out what else I can plant there to show off all the blooms in their best light. That’s how I like the country I live in, too.  I love a mélange, a mix of cultures.  It’s possible to embrace the world without leaving the borders of the United States.

Last week I was in Sparta, GA (more about that in a later post) and found, even that deep in the South, Main Street had a Chinese take-out restaurant next to a BBQ rib joint.  Yet this has been a week that has caused me to shake my head at so many instances making me feel this country is putting up more “pelouse interdite” signs.

First, during a March Madness game spectators shouted out “Where’s your green card?” to a Puerto Rican player on the free-throw line.  Aside from just being rude, it also showed a distinct ignorance.  Quick, can anyone tell me why you don’t need a passport to take your spring break in Puerto Rico?  It’s a commonwealth country of the United States (bonus points if you can name the other commonwealths and territories, in other words colonies, of the U.S.*).  But even if the player were an immigrant from Zimbabwe, why would it be a source for taunting?

At least they said "please" this time

These spectators could have gotten the idea from Republican primary candidate Rick Santorum, who showed his own lack of knowledge regarding American history and law in an interview with a Puerto Rican journalist.  His demand that all citizens of that country learn English before it could become a full-fledged US state ignored the fact that there is no federal law that mandates English as the national language.  (And the fact that he uses a quotation in Latin to support his English-only argument?  Well, I won’t even go there or my rant could last for pages and pages.)

The absence of a federal law doesn’t stop many states – including my own – from trying to pass as many language and citizen litmus laws as possible.  My state legislature wants driver’s license tests to be available only in English.  The State Highway Patrol, by the way, is against this for many reasons, not the least of which is that they think the roads are safer if everyone knows the rules and has a proper driver’s license, even if the agency has to make language accommodations for the test.  Clearly the people who made this law are not the sort of people who would ever find themselves being offered a job in a foreign country (like France, par example) where driver’s tests are given in only one language and it isn’t yours.  They have not felt the sting of discrimination.

Is America really becoming a “keep off the grass” kind of country?

As a traveler I want to experience the world, but I want the world to be kind to me and welcome me.  I don’t expect them to bend over backward to accommodate me every step of the way or completely alter their culture to make it more to my liking (although it would be nice if France had a bit more ethnic food offerings in the grocery store than El Paso taco shells and sauce, and had free refills on soda at restaurants, and offered more than two ice cubes per glass).   For the most part, I only want to feel human warmth. I want to feel accepted and not like a “weed” that blights their garden.

So when you head out to your yard to do some spring pruning and head to your local gardening shop to pick up some flats of pansies, imagine how dull it would look if all it had were boxwoods lined up in perfect formation.

(*If you want to learn more about U.S. “colonies,” go here.)

What will your garden look like this spring?  Are you a formal garden kind of person or more the cottage garden kind?  Have you ever been made to feel like a “weed” in a place to which you traveled?  Share all your gardening and traveling tales in the comments box.

The redeeming French gardening habit -- an obsession with red geraniums

Let Me Serve You Up Some Blog Awards

A cornucopia of other blogs to feed your imagination today

You know, the one problem with giving up a job with a paycheck and an office and a title of some sort (head dogwalker and assistant jammed copier fixer, for me) is that once you settle into your non-office life no one walks around handing you awards or raises or meritorious annual reviews or whatever for just being you in the general family life-manager role you’ve taken on.  Well, yes, your husband does tell you sometimes that you made a bang-up dinner, and the dog leaps in circles, tail rotating at tornado speeds when you get back from having the oil in your car changed.  But don’t expect much from your kids until, oh, I guess they reach 30.  No more of that colleague coming up to you after a presentation you gave, saying, “That blew me away.  Let’s talk about it more over lunch.”

So as I take these wobbly, toddler-like steps into a literary life, it’s always great to know that someone has read my words and liked them.  It’s even better when they want to give you an award of some sort, complete with a colorful little medallion that you can post on your blog like the Nobel Peace Prize around your neck.

While I was busy doing other things (this was dog bathing week and cleaning up dog vomit week) some wonderful people in the blogosphere showered me with recognition.  I clicked on links and found I had been planted in the garden of Versatile Blogger award winners and Stylish Blogger award winners (so take THAT, daughter of mine who thinks I have little style because I wear “Mom” glasses, and not the cool dark rims she wants me to buy).

They have steps to follow in order to accept the award, but forgive me for fudging and combining a bit.

First, I need to thank those who gave me the awards.  Go spend some time with

Sandwiched Writer at Having Acquired the Words
Ruth Schiffman at Out On a Limb: Shy Writer Goes Social

Mary Catherine Lunsford at Hide a Heart

Second, I’m supposed to share 7 things about myself.  So in no particular order:
1.  I played viola from grade school until my kids arrived in my late thirties.  I miss it, but now that I have the time to get back to it, I have a bum shoulder.

2.  In a former life I was a university professor with classes and students and committee meetings and all that jazz.

3.  I have no desire to travel to places where toilets are an issue.  Yes, the Amazon jungle must be amazing, but I really enjoy the modern niceties of a toilet seat.

4.  If I could not have taught, or if this writing thing ever runs dry, I think I would like to be a gardener, like Gertrude Jekyll

5.  That said, I grow tomatoes all the time but rarely eat them (that’s ok, husband and son make short work of them).

6.  I’m lousy at clearing out my e-mail box

7.  The first thing I want to eat when I get back from France each year is Mexican food.  I really miss spicy food while there.

Finally, I’m supposed to throw my own blog bouquets to 15 other bloggers you must read and then send them an effusive letter telling them all the prizes that will be coming their way, just because they’re great.  That fifteen thing won’t happen today because 1) I’m on a marshmellow creme pumpkin sugar high that is about to come crashing down before this post is finished, 2) the marching band of the local university seems to be practicing in the park a hundred yards from my house, and 3) I have to race off to write a post this weekend for my platform campaign using words like “miasma” and “lacuna.”  Easy-peasy stuff.

So here is the list of people with whom you should spend time.  Some may actually be surprised to get the award from me because I lurk and laugh more than join the conversation.  But I have them in my reader feed fer sher.

The Blooming Late Journal – over at SheWrites Samantha Stacia has gathered a wonderful group of  women who decided at the age of halfway-to-dead that they wanted to be published writers – yeah, right.

Simply June Bug – love, love her recording of conversations, real or imagined, between her and her husband

The Voice of Stobby – N. Scott writes just how you think somebody named “Stobby” would sound.  I love her breezy voice.

Gobsmacked: Confessions of a Working Writer – Valerie Brooks, well, I love her title.  And I love her love of Paris and the Pacific Northwest.  And I love her pirate talk.

The Big Green Bowl – Michael Ann Riley has such a lovely picture of a big green bowl, which you can see I’m partial to. And other lovely pictures of food.  And recipes.

East Bay Writer – It’s an anonymous blog, with language and stories I envy to no end.

One Sister’s Rant – Bella has a wonderful dog named Roxy.  But I also like her writing style.

Come back later and tell me what you're up to as autumn officially begins.

Autumn in the Black Forest of Germany

Cultivating My Garden

Wild violets storming the gates of my garden

I spent more time last weekend taking plants out of my garden than putting in.  Dandelion plants the size of dinner plates.  Wild violets carpeting the area with dramatic indigo blossoms and broad, rounded leaves that choke out the yarrow plants and the ferns.  Grass migrating across the stone edging that is supposed to separate the lawn from the flowers.  Thousands of tiny little plants I don’t recognize and that I eliminate with Round-up because they’re too small to yank. I plucked out at least a dozen volunteer redbud tree sprouts.  All of these small beauties when viewed from the neighborhood sidewalk, unfortunately, form a natural “weed barrier,” preventing my carefully selected bulbs and perennials from flourishing.  So plunging the tongs of my garden claw into the earth (world’s best garden tool), I twist, then bend over to separate the green invaders from the clumps of dark earth and useful worms who’ve been so rudely unhoused.  Tossing the weeds into my lawn bag, I repeat the process at least a hundred more times.

Scattered throughout the garden space in their plastic pots are my new lavender and white primroses, a columbine plant weighted down by its orange and yellow bells, and a bleeding heart waiting to burst into bloom once it has a home.  But so often the putting in becomes secondary to the taking out.  When I began this garden the first year we moved into the house, the space beneath the intoxicating viburnum bush and graceful dogwood tree seemed like a blank canvas of rich soil and promises once I cleared the scrub juniper and forest of fig bushes.  I was going to shape this space as inspiration struck until at some distant time it rivaled any Cotswold cottage garden of Gertrude Jekyll.  But just below the surface was an army of unwanted seedlings ready to lay siege to what was supposed to be my green oasis.  And so every spring and fall, with a combination of patient brute force and a carefully controlled distribution of toxins I beat them into submission so that I may transplant a few more of the flowers to fulfill my vision.

Too often it seems like the rest of my life is likewise occupied.  I know what my world should look like.  I can imagine projects that would bring beauty, joy, and a sense of order to my days.  Yet somehow I always seem to be weeding, tending to the unexpected irritations lying just below the surface.  Is there some “life barrier” that I should have put down at some earlier age to prevent the unwanted interruptions that spread across my hours so that I expend more energy rooting out one nuisance after another than nurturing new blooms? Even goals as simple as creating 600 words once or twice a week for this blog fall victim to the wild overgrowth of my to-do list.  I look around at friends, family, strangers and see so much thriving in their patch of earth.  They have time to position a lovely garden bench and contemplate what they’ve sown in their lives while I continue to stab, twist, and pluck the never-ending weeds choking my most carefully thought-out agenda.

After years of chasing across the earth in a ship of blind optimism and absurd adventures in search of the best possible world, Voltaire’s Candide returned home.  When friends and family who had been part of these exploits asked what they should do now, he replied, simply, “You must cultivate your garden.”  And so I do.  This year the Sweet William I planted as ground cover a couple of springs ago has noticeably spread.  Soon it will block any possibility of weeds poking through in its vicinity.  And the old-fashioned bearded irises I bought at Iris City Gardens (outside Nashville) on impulse and poked into the ground, higglety-pigglety, are about to burst gold and purple fireworks in my garden.  So it goes with my life.  I will continue plucking the weeds one at a time, believing the back-stiffening labor eventually will bring the blooms – in their due season.