A Child's Verse of Gardens
by Ron
Sullivan
Domi habet hortum
et condimenta ad omnis mores maleficos. — Plautus
I wasn't exactly born
with a green thumb in my mouth, but I did have the rapacious and
meddling tendencies of a gardener when I was a kid in Pennsylvania.
We lived in a brick duplex that had an oddly fertile back yard
This was most likely because my parents were greeted, on their
first visit as proud new homeowners, by a broken sewer main in
the basement. As
the alleged French drain — just a hole through the concrete
floor with no pipe or even gravel underneath — was giving
the French a bad name, the resulting two feet of yuck had to be
carted up the stairs in buckets and dumped on the lawn out back.
This was followed by enough water to dilute the stink, a short
quarantine, and that was that. Maybe the Fifties really were a
more innocent time. Fortunately, no one got typhoid.
That was when I was
three. I was probably about eight when Dad got the idea to spade
out a rectangle of grass near the Nelsons' boundary hedge, and
plant stuff. This was probably supposed to be educational; I remember
it as a cooperative venture with those of us kids who could walk,
involving instant-gratification annuals like radishes and scallions.
I 'd first tasted scallions,
dipped in salt and eaten out of hand, at the party occasioned
by my First Communion, and I loved them. It's a much stronger
memory than the Mass, the sacrament, even the obligatory white
dress, scratchy veil, and white patent-leather shoes with ruffled
ankle socks. Maybe I am a congenital foodie, or maybe I've developed,
if not a fashion sense, at least the taste to be embarrassed in
hindsight.
I guess no one had
thought to inform me that kids weren't supposed to like veggies.
Scallions seemed an engagingly grown-up taste, like my dad's bottle
of Stegmaier beer. Growing them, and radishes, the hotter the
better, was a kick. I'm sure we had flowers, but I have no memory
of what they were. This garden was all about base instincts, not
artistry.
We continued to have
the most robust lawn in the neighborhood, in spite of heavy foot
traffic and a summerly wading pool, even when in a dry year watering
was verboten. The Nelsons moved out, and the Poes moved in. They
had one kid (four or five of the six of us had been born by then)
and he was not only outnumbered; he was overprotected. We didn't
gang up on him, much. We were never exactly sedate, singly or
in concert, but we didn't trample his mom's modest border of flowers
either. I had a lively interest in them; I remember her showing
me a plant she called "Joseph's Coat," maybe an alternathera,
with variegated leaves. So I never knew exactly why they strung
a six-foot hurricane fence between the two yards; it was rather
a violation of neighborhood cultural norms and we were accordingly
indignant.
Dad responded by planting
a honeysuckle to climb it, next to our patio, and helped my sister
Ellen plant a cucumber against it in the veggie patch. The cuke
didn't climb too well, but it did produce. We ate some, and left
one on the vine to see how big it would get.
Somewhere in the family
archives is a snapshot of Ellen in sunburn and Sunday dress, with
a good two feet of shiny green cucumber in her lap and the grin
of a ribbon-winning 4-H kid. I'm not sure why this felt like a
Showed-'Em, but it did, maybe because Mrs. Poe's determined gardening
efforts (including sneaking out at night to water the lawn in
that drought) never resulted in anything like it. I don't think
we ever told her our fertility secret — I mean the yard's;
it was assumed that there were six kids because we were a good
Catholic family.
I learned about the
joys of volunteer plants after one Hallowe'en. Along with soaping
the windows we could reach (and if we were really wicked, using
paraffin instead of soap) we had the odd custom of throwing kernels
of hard dry corn to rattle against the ones we couldn't. I told
you it was a more innocent time.
One spring, Dad laid
down a tanbark mulch around the shrubs under our front window.
In a month or so, my lost tossed corn from last Hallowe'en started
sprouting. This was puzzling until I remembered and confessed.
(Why it seemed a big deal mystifies me. I suppose Catholic school
had infected me with a bad case of scrupulosity.) We were mundane
enough to transplant the corn to a less prominent spot, and I
do recall at least one ear of grain resulting. Being "horse corn"
it wasn't particularly tasty -- a poor thing, but mine own.
I remember the first
garden I installed by myself: a monument to eight-year-old greed.
I took a trowel (or was it one of Mom's good serving spoons?)
down the field and under the fence to a bit of maple woods we
kids named, because it was so posted, "Private Propitty."
We never did
see anyone there, and there were (until years later) no houses.
I dug up a few hapless violets and other things; in retrospect
I think some were the common weed English plantain. They withered
and died, every one. Since they were in sun against a reflective
wall instead of their accustomed shady woods, it's no surprise.
What did I know? I was dumb enough to plant weeds!
But to this day, when
some hapless nursery plant gives up the ghost in a pot or my backyard,
the drooping souls of those poor waifs join the chorus of accusing
little green Marleys, rattling chains and accusing me of wanton
slaughter.
Too bad. I'll tell
you a secret: A willingness to murder plants is the first knuckle
of a green thumb.
Ron Sullivan is an
Associate Editor of Terrain
Magazine and Garden Editor of Faultline,
California's Environmental Magazine. She writes a monthly
column for the San Francisco Chronicle
and is the author of The (remaindered but not forgotten) Garden
Lovers' Guide: San Francisco Bay Area."
Ron (fyi, short for
Veronica) gardens in Berkeley, CA on badly drained montmorillonite
clay soil. You can reach her for comments and questions by email
at rons@dnai.com
