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Column Methodical man, impatient woman mix it up in a garden
By JEANNETTE BATZ
The first time my husband saw me
plant a petunia he skidded across the yard like the Roadrunner. Gently,
gently! Youre gonna tear the roots!
Newly married and unused to having my habits questioned, I rocked
back on my heels, spanked another tiny plastic pot, released another captive
petunia and plunked it into the hole. Andrew removed the petunia as carefully
as a brain surgeon, leaned it against his palm and began detangling the frayed
roots. You, he said, are banned from the garden.
He proceeded on his own, so slowly and steadily I thought Id
lose my mind. He was determined to plan it all out, plant one thing at a time
and baby it until it was solidly established. At this rate wed finish the
flowerbed in 2007.
The following spring, I put the gloves on, and the clogs, and an
old Amish straw hat. This is my yard, too, I announced, and
youre going far too slowly. I want abundance, lush foliage, color
everywhere. Flowers are resilient, if theyre going to grow theyll
grow. We reached a tenuous compromise: I could plant the annuals in
containers, and be as slapdash as I liked, and hed continue putting the
lifelong shrubs and perennials into the ground, one at a time.
Since my expulsion from the garden, Id been poring over
garden catalogs the way other women look at the Neiman-Marcus Christmas book.
Now all that dammed energy burst forth, as though hed pruned me back so I
could blossom more rampantly. I filled every stone urn, every terra cotta
flowerpot, every hollowed-out swan I could find, filled them until they
overflowed with daisies, dripped vinca vine, frilled themselves with geranium
leaves. We congratulated ourselves on having found a system that drew on each
of our strong suits, and made it impossible for us to tread on each
others territory.
But ambition cannot be contained.
Every day, as I watered the pots, Id glance sidelong at the
flowerbeds, and ask timid little questions about when we were going to get the
blueberry bushes, and
er
had he happened to see those wonderful
irises in the Wayside catalog? He pointed to the herbs, already in place and
growing nicely, and the rose bushes, and the candytuft. Everything in
time, he said. Gardens take years to take shape, you
know.
Years! But this was our paradise, a metaphor for our lives
together, our ability to create beauty and peace, nurture life, even tempt a
little sin. We needed fruit trees, and hot color to lure the butterflies. The
third year, I went mad. Didnt even ask permission, just started planting,
finishing out the long flowerbed, edging over into the main yard and down the
other side. There was tacit silence, a truce of sorts: Id watched Andrew
plant often enough now that my hands slowed of their own accord. Id
learned the hard art of discernment -- when to coddle, when to kill ruthlessly,
when to kneel and listen. By mid-summer wed reached a new compromise:
Id start things, get them into the ground at least, and then hed
fix them, raise the roses that inevitably sank after I planted them, dig out my
crooked brick attempt at a path.
This spring, we bought the new plants together on our anniversary
trip to New Harmony, Ind., walking happily up and down the rows of the flower
festival. By now we both knew the garden well enough that the decisions were
mutual and instant. Back home, I walked around with my pad of graph paper,
diagramming flowerbeds and making little circles for the shrubs just like
landscape architects do. Andrew smiled to himself -- I saw him -- but he
didnt make fun. Everywhere we looked, there was more to be done: The ivy
had taken over, the lavender grown woody, a new strip to be filled with plants.
But I bided my time. We ordered tiny apple trees, and knew without discussing
it who would plant them. I knelt beside him, watching his big hands gently tamp
the soil to remove any air pockets. He let me hold the delicate little tree
trunks steady while he filled in around their roots.
This, I realized with a start, was paradise.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer for The Riverfront
Times, an alternative newspaper in St. Louis. Her e-mail address is
jeannette.batz@rftstl.com
National Catholic Reporter, June 1,
2001
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