Photograph by Alys Fowler
For a girl who grew up with absolutely no relationship to Nature, I am probably a decent gardener. Self-taught through some sometimes costly trial and error, I still do think gardening is one of the few endeavors that suffers from some terrible elitism. We all hear stories of "hydrangea whisperers" who know to prune back to the first terminal bud in January. Huh? Terminal what? All of that vernacular is designed to keep you and I intimidated into suppression. How could you possibly grow anything at all if you don't know the precise angle at which to hose aphids? And be warned, your roses will never bloom unless you perpetually manipulate the pH of your soil.
The fact is plants basically grow themselves. And while it does take a little guidance for plants to look and live their best, some things do perfectly fine on their own. From no garden in an apartment in Manhattan, to a tiny cottage garden in historic North Carolina, to a yard too big to fully tackle on my own in St. Louis, I have learned a lot about myself through examining my style of gardening.
I hate those bushes that are pruned into compulsive little pom-poms, and I think people who keep their boxwoods under such dictatorship are letting you know how they live their lives. Forsythia trimmed into broomstick-like silhouettes instead of their gorgeous, sprawling natural selves must surely be indicative of a person who has a "closet system" that is arranged by color and fabric type. Oooh, how fun. Did I mention I am busy on that night they're having a party? Whatever night that is...
I love utilitarian plants that not only look good, but also are edible. Like many heirloom perennials: roses, borage, dianthus and even hollyhocks are among my favorites. My son tasted his first daylily when he was not quite 2. He looked at me suspiciously when I suggested he pluck one and stuff it in his little mouth.
"Go ahead, taste it!” I urged him. “I learned about them from a fairy." I kept entreating him, until finally, he popped one tawny petal into his mouth and smiled. He picked a whole flower, dubbed the stamen "spaghetti," and has since taught every kid that comes over to browse on lilies, too. A child who wouldn't taste anything other than a McNugget is willing to eat a flower. I swear.
I refuse to be intimidated by the grande dames of gardening with their Felco No. 2 shears, who say I am doing it all wrong. I have those shears too, and I wield them with irreverent pride. Because when I walk through my yard come late spring, I see that despite my lack of experience and knowledge, I must be doing something right: my plants are happy, and so am I.
