THEY ARRIVE, WALKING TENTATIVELY along the path on one side of her house, looking at the plants, not sure where the Garden starts. When they see me stand up inside the house and wave, they pause, mildly surprised, then smile. I open the back porch door that leads onto the low, broad steps into the Garden.
When I introduce myself, they generally reply with a greeting and their names, not that any of us think we will remember the names. But our politeness turns us from strangers into temporary acquaintances.
“I’m here to give you a brief introduction to her home.” I point to the house behind me. “And Garden.” I point forward to the depth of her small urban lot and across the gravel paths between wide flower beds. The solid green rectangles with spots of colorful flowers, shrubs, and trees captivate the visitors.
I pay attention to what they do next. Most visitors will slightly adjust their stance to be more comfortable, or they move a short distance closer to better hear what I have to say. When I see this, I relax into their receptivity and their willingness to be guests. A few will look at me with skepticism in their eyes, like they don’t believe that I’ll be brief or have anything to say that will interest them. When I see this, I become more determined to surprise them.
She has purple streaks in her black hair and tattoos along her arms and wears heavy black boots. Her eyes are bright, her smile engaging. He has soft, almost feminine features that seem either acquired or departing. He asks questions and listens carefully, fully participating in the experience of the Garden. If I had seen them walking down a street somewhere else, I would never have guessed that they would visit the Garden. I love being surprised by the visitors.
Waving my hand across the Garden, I say, “There are fifteen hundred different plants here, on this third of an acre,” which generally raises eyebrows and occasionally produces a wow. “Of which about 420 she planted, now more than forty years ago.” Again I see mild astonishment on their faces.
I wait on the steps and watch them disperse into the Garden. Most visitors walk and pause, bending now and then to look more closely at the name tag of a plant that has caught their attention. I watch to see at which plants the visitors linger. Sometimes it’s a flower or shrub that I failed to notice blooming when I first arrived for the day. The few visitors with large cameras take time to compose their shots. As I watch them choose plants and angles, I see the Garden anew through their lenses.
She says they came from a state in the Midwest to spend a few days with her husband, who works here. Her two grade-school-aged girls act shy, but their little brother, maybe six or seven, is a talker. He works hard to tell stories of what they saw and did at the other garden up the street. They walk the Garden and then return to the house. The boy announces that he saw a dead bird.
The mother lingers. I sense she needs something, maybe an adult conversation, or maybe she just feels reluctant to return to their hotel. So I walk with her as she follows her children back into the Garden.
We are the only ones here. The early afternoon spring sun suffuses the Garden’s beauty in dappled brightness. We talk easily about children, plants, and gardening. I perceive no rush. The Garden has that effect, a quieting that narrows attention, energizes, and momentarily puts strangers at ease.
When I started volunteering, I only knew that I loved being in gardens. I knew nothing about this Garden. Many locals, however, know it as a precious little secret, a public space in the heart of a quiet, well-kept residential neighborhood. Now I want to emulate the generosity and openness she showed visitors to her garden.
Once a week, I volunteer at her home and garden. I start by strolling the gravel paths, looking for what has newly bloomed, seeded, or disappeared during the intervening week. I’m testing myself, looking for what has arrived or faded according to her plan for the Garden to continuously change throughout the year. The Garden is always presenting something different, some new version of beauty to nab attention and delight.
The petite black seed pellets of the summer iris have become visible. The September snow lilies now delicately raise their little heads. The cyclamen beneath the pines still bloom, their single, small flowers giving the otherwise seemingly baren earth some liveliness. Each of the three stands of purple fennel has gone to seed. Toward the middle of the flower bed, standing above the shorter flowers, the bright orange quince flowers have become fruit. The quince fruit fool everyone by looking like apples from the path. The white ginger blooms atop its tall, slender, dark green stalks. It is too far off the path to smell but looks fragrant.
They are from Florida, both balding, with middle-aged, fashionably stubbly faces. One does most of the talking, asking question after question in a way that makes me wonder if he’s originally from New York. I barely get out the answer and he asks another. His partner smiles at the banter.
I welcome his questions, delighted to share what I know about her. No, she never married. He looks at me as though he wants an explanation, so I add that as far as I can tell, it just didn’t happen; she was too busy taking care of her mother and her garden. Yes, she worked as a landscape architect but also as an author. Yes, she knew the owner of the other garden down the street. They shared visitors but probably didn’t socialize much. They had different personalities. The other woman was more formal, whereas she preferred to be in the garden in her jeans.
The two men leave with more information about her than any other visitors I have met.
Some visitors leisurely experience the Garden’s treasures and absorb its liveliness; I watch them leave changed, a peace and satisfaction on their faces. Others, who arrive with time constraints or have been dragged along by friends or family, walk at a steady pace, only briefly glancing at the plants; they leave with less joy on their faces.
He’s a skinny young man with a complex design of small, tight braids in his hair. They look expensive, as braids go. She has a broad smile, a lovely shorter woman with a round physique. He announces that he’s spiritual and loves nature. I’m not sure what to do with that information but nod with approval. They make a quick trip through the Garden and begin to walk out without coming inside to see the house. He pantomimes eating. I rush outside and ask if they are local or need directions to a restaurant. He says they are from a neighboring state and had a very good trout dinner last night. I sense that he’s trying to impress, but I’m not sure if it’s for me or her.
It’s now pollinator season. I reassure anxious visitors that insects prefer pollen and nectar to people. Near the beginning of the path, one plant in particular, with bright yellow flowers at about chest height, attracts a plethora of flying visitors. The tiny florets bob up and down as bumblebees, wasps, beetles, and butterflies land, nourish themselves, and hop around searching for the next meal. One type of wasp that seems to especially enjoy the plant has dark blue metallic wings. A flashy punk of an insect.
He is visiting from the Northwest, but she lives here. They stand close to each other as they listen to my introduction, exuding pheromones. After a while, I spot them over in a slightly private corner of the Garden in a full embrace. I smile.
Next, I see him giving her directions at the main path that goes from the house to the fishpond. They straddle the path near the house. Then they straddle the far end near the pond, laughing. They’ve verified that the path does indeed get slightly narrower at the pond end; I had explained that she intentionally narrowed the path to add depth perspective. I admire his hands-on approach to the information I gave during the introduction.
The woman whose house is now a tiny museum I show to visitors was the first woman to receive a degree in landscape architecture from the state university, in 1932. Most visitors just nod at that information, not seeming to appreciate it as a notable accomplishment for a woman of her time. Although trained as a landscape architect, she mostly earned a living from her writing.
She generously shared with readers her knowledge of literature, stories about other landscape architects she knew, and instructions and trivia about plants and their care. Notably, she wrote an astonishing seven hundred weekly gardening columns for the local newspaper. In April, she wrote about the flowers in Shakespeare’s writings, in honor of his birthday. She declared May to be the month of roses, of which she had many. One week, she shared her fertilizing preferences. She loved bulbs, often devoting a column to which bulbs had budded, especially in the winter months. In another column, she described going with her friend to a neighboring wooded and undeveloped lot. Carrying baskets, on their hands and knees, they gathered plants. She wanted to save the native plants from the bulldozers coming the next week.
This Garden is not a wildlife refuge. Admirers and caretakers are welcome, but not creatures, small or large, that might damage the plants. To my relief, the human visitors are well-mannered guests. That makes it easy for me to be an enthusiastic host.
In the late-afternoon sun, a little girl spots a small rabbit sitting mid-path. She excitedly wants to rush over to pet it. “Not a good idea,” I say, thinking of various unhealthy scenarios. “Rabbits might be cute but are not welcome visitors to the Garden. They eat the pretty flowers and rare plants.” She begins to look disappointed. “Sorry to say this, but they are better as food for the neighborhood hawk.” She seems to accept my matter-of-fact distinction.
I see a large group of children and adults chatting as they enter the Garden. My first thought is that I’ll never be able to get an accurate count of how many there are. Not all of them listen to my welcome; some head straight into the Garden, fanning out, dispersing themselves along the paths.
The younger children, barely older than toddlers, almost run toward the pond, where large, bright-orange koi swim beneath the floating lilies. It takes maternal oversight to keep the littlest ones from jumping in to play with the fish; the school-age children know better, despite feeling the same pull.
I hear the grandfather speaking Spanish to his adult children as they stand around the sundial in a corner of the Garden. I’m impressed that he knows how it works but more so that his adult sons are listening.
Inside, I chat with the women and a teenage girl. They tell me they are originally from Colombia but are now local. While we are talking, I can hear the grandfather explaining in Spanish how the samovar in the house entryway works.
In its incredible diversity, the Garden continues to reveal how fearlessly she experi-mented with plants. She bought plant material and bulbs annually from several different nursery catalogs. She also exchanged plants with friends and other horticulturists. An ever-practical gardener, she was willing to give a plant a chance but didn’t fuss over a sensitive species if it was failing.
Wearing glasses and solid walking boots, they slowly approach the Garden, looking down at the plants that line the short walkway along the side of the house. Their gray hair makes them look well seasoned; their smooth motions tell of their good health. After I finish my introduction, I ask if they are gardeners. Yes, they are gardeners. I love meeting people, however briefly, who also love being in the soil.
They begin by walking over to the plaque that explains how to interpret the information on each plant’s name tag. (Not all visitors take the time to read the plaque; mostly only those who later tell me they are gardeners spend a few minutes reading the information.) Then they walk the Garden, taking their time to bend down and read the labels. They pause and point at a particular plant as they talk. They take a few photos. They are in the Garden so long that I almost forget they are here.
I wonder how many years it will take me to learn all the blooming bulbs, if ever. During the late days of winter, narcissus and snow flower bulbs give the Garden color. Visitors are not surprised by the spring irises but marvel at the deep-fuchsia-colored dwarf gladiolas that brighten the spring beds. In the heat of late summer, the tall, bold, bright lilies stand out.
Given the late-afternoon heat, I don’t expect any visitors, so I’m surprised to see a small group walking toward the Garden. The two children, the mother, and grandmother look wilted. Yes, they walked half a block from the other garden. I invite them to come inside where the air is cooler. The older woman has a blank expression and looks weak, and I immediately worry about her being overheated. I offer them some water. By the time I finish my introduction, she looks revived. They quickly go through the Garden and leave without coming back into the house.
That day I fill the pitcher with water and ice three times for visitors who have ignored the heat warning and gone out walking.
When we enter the living room, most visitors will sigh with relaxation or gasp softly in delight. The low ceiling and wall of books give the room an unconfined coziness. The old books, handed down through her family, all have dark cloth covers, many with golden lettering. They give the room the feel of a small library, almost magical in its quaintness.
Most visitors have the same pleased reaction, which makes me wonder if modern houses with high ceilings and open floor plans have a less human scale, making them less welcoming. Or maybe something about the library brings a sense of nostalgia.
I point out the table where she and her mother ate dinner together, looking out at a wall of green bamboo. A two-foot-deep wall keeps the cane from spreading. Along roads, where bamboo has escaped, it pushes out native plants and gives no nourishment to pollinators or birds. But I imagine this bamboo’s green strength nourished her as she cared for her mother and her garden and wrote her books and weekly columns. I picture her weathered fingers tapping away on the typewriter in her study, index cards spread across her desk.
Above the fireplace mantel in black-and-white photos taken throughout her life, she smiles, impish yet polite. In photo after photo, young and old, her eyes say, Welcome, I was expecting you.
Michele Issel, residing in North Carolina, happily pulls invasive plants, chats up lonely neighbors, and pauses for all forms of beauty. She has published in Consilience and Mythic Circle and currently has short stories, essays, and an eco-suspense novel in the works.
Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Way Rogers and Warren Way III.
