During the summer months, the turfgrass on Seattle lawns goes dormant. By July the grass browns, hardens and awaits the September rain. Grass was a dud but the flowers – wow – foxgloves, wisteria, heather, blue hydrangeas and of course the gaudy diva of Washington state, the rhododendron, or rhodies as they are colloquially called by the locals. Add to the lavish colors of the flowers the scent of herbs, such as the plentiful and ample rosemary bush. Amble down a Seattle neighborhood sidewalk and invariably you’ll brush against those oily sprays. Suddenly the air is infused with the aroma of Christmas. The mild winter does not bring forth snow and ice which pulls apart landscaping and lifts rock in other parts of the country. Even a humble Pacific Northwest garden enjoys decorative stone, tile and wood structures.
My friends who could afford to own a home often reached out to landscape architects to consult on their gardens. Sometimes drunk on the scent of an Arrowwood shrub in my friend’s backyard, I imagined these architects were schooled in the Garden of the Hesperides by wood nymphs.
I could not afford a house in Seattle, let alone a consultation with a landscape architect, even the ones who failed to keep scab off the immortality-giving golden apples. One of the most challenging aspects of living in a big, successful, expensive city is that, unless you earn a big, successful and lucrative income, you are often relegated to the role of spectator rather than that of participant.
Of course, if I could have afforded a house in Seattle, I would have hired a professional landscape architect. But, as spectacular as the gardens are in Seattle, they are an inspiration not an aspiration. It isn’t sour grapes that I snack on as I transplant and repot in my South Buffalo garden. I am well pleased when my father, after a more than 40 year mostly absent relationship, can consult over what to do next. And, I seek my neighbors’ approval when I tend to the weeds, even during an overly humid August.
It is a pleasure knowing that my great-grandfather busted up the sod in this same neighborhood to plant his tomato garden. His primarily grape and tomato patch had its roots in his childhood in Italy, but it was deemed eccentric in this predominately Irish neighborhood. At first I wondered if my front-yard garden among these chlorophyll-rich yards would be considered eccentric, too, but then I was asked to be in the South Buffalo Garden Walk.
For the garden walk, I stake a sign in the front that reads, “The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, one is nearer to God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on earth.”
I brought the sign with me when I moved from Seattle. The plaque was given to me after my garden gargoyle was stolen from one of my scrappy basement apartment gardens. Following the heist, I staked a note where the gargoyle had been to scold the thief. The next morning, I found the note and the stake had been lifted and in its stead was this kinder message.
I never found out who left me the plaque. I just accepted the transplanted ornamental as a gift and a lesson: gardening is a neighborly effort for the spectators as well as the participants.
