The other day, while taking inventory of the work to be done in my flower garden, I was struck by a more pleasant thought: Many of the plants, bushes and flowers I have accumulated over the years have some sort of sentimental value.
This is one advantage, you could say, to my method of gardening, as opposed to a more “professional” approach. I might not always have just the right things growing in just the right places, but most of my plants come with a little anecdote of how and why they endedup at my place and usually remind me of a special person who made that possible.
For me this feature outweighs the notion that every plant must be purchased with careful consideration to choosing just the right variety, size and color for the space in the garden it will fill. I do buy annuals each year for their added splash of color, and occasionally pick up a new perennial here and there, but I generally don’t spend a lot on plants and bushes. In fact, many came with no price tag at all. My favorites arethe “starts” I have gotten from others.
For example, the cluster of lilies-of-the-valley at the end of one flower bed reminds me of the kind gesture of a neighbor. She shared a few plants from her yard with me, and now the entire area behind the rock chimney where not much else would grow before is filled with the fragrant flower-producing lilies.
Not far from there is a group of pretty blue irises. These, like many other plants in my garden, were shared with us by my mother-in-law, Emma, from her own flower beds.
Next is the bunch of old fashioned daffodils transplanted from the home site of one of my great grandparents. These are not the prettiest variety of daffodils by any measure, but I like the idea that theyhave been in the family for so long.
I also have a miniature rose bush that came to me in a round about way from my grandmother. Years ago my grandmother placed a cutting from her rose bush under a fruit jar until it rooted, then passed the new plant along to my mother. Some time later, my mother did the same thing and passed the new miniature rose bush on to me.
At the opposite end of the long flower bed, I see the hydrangea planted last year leafing out again. That one came from my dad’s funeral; so naturally, it makes me think of him and of those who reached out to us during that time.
The old tub full of Easter lilies on the side of the driveway started from a single plant given to me by my son, Zack, on Mother’s Daymany years ago (the rocks in my garden were also gifts from him). Another tub along the driveway holds the hen-and-chicks purchased at an outdoor flea market on a trip through Tennessee.
Then there’s Mr. Campanella’s bush, a site that always bring back fond memories. The plant has another name of course but I can never remember it. Mr. Campanella and his wife ran a bed and breakfast in their home on Cape Cod. It is the place Earl and I went to celebrate our 20th wedding anniversary, and I returned twice since - once with my sisters and another time with Emma. It was my motherin-law who noticed the little offshoot growing from a pretty flowering bush near the Campanella’s home. Mr. Campanella seemed at a loss for words when Emma, being the gardener she is,asked if she might take the offshoot home with her. Late that evening when we returned from our day of sight seeing, the little plant was wrapped in a plastic bread bag and waiting at the door. The bush thrived in Emma’s yard and later produced the offshoot that now lives in mine.
Stories such as these add a personal dimension to my flower garden and make it more than simply landscaping. I am sure it could look neater if I had a more organized plan for what I plant. But the way it is, I have something more entertaining to ponder than the task at hand while doing my spring cleaning.
Annette Rowe is a freelance writer and a speechlanguage pathologist at Siloam Springs High School She may be reached by e-mail at awalkinthepark50 @ yahoo.com.
Opinion, Pages 5 on 05/05/2010