Story of Grove Court Garden

The windows on my day room are graced at the moment by cuttings in a crystal vase. The windows are sunny and give a view of the garden outside. It's just a little garden, but a nice one, and likes to do a good job of it, and has. The view is such that houseplants are not really needed, and the garden plantings often provide the things for the vase. This little garden has been my jewel. In appearance, it is not very different from that of my neighbors, but it has proven to serve very well. A row of five shrubs creates the space. There are three evergreens that make the little berries in fall and two others. Later, they wear white caps when it snows. Just as the snow melts, the fourth, a forsythia, announces that the cold days are giving in to spring, and when forsythia is done with her show of golden flowers, there is the rhododendron. Rhododendron was not my favorite until I rented this bungalow. I thought the leaves too leathery and flowers too cabbage-y, and this one was burdened with dead branches and untidy, as well. In fact, all five shrubs at fifty-five grove, number five, were sadly neglected in care, and then the neighborhood security meant that the groundskeepers had to machine-prune them strictly, so that a felon could not easily hid behind them, and so at move-in, I lamented their condition.

The previous tenants, apparently, had kept the garden beautifully, but were aging and when their health failed, the garden fell into its present state, and both had passed away. I never met them, but thought of them kindly for their legacy to me. People who love a garden, like nothing better than one that needs attending.

Not my first profession or skill, my parents were pleased when I found it a happy knack, in girlhood. So much to do in life, and at seven I was clearly a mommy and an artist, and gardening worked well for me, delighted at being able to put my hand to a thing and celebrate the life and beauty that resulted. New England soil , our teachers said, was especially rich, "alleuvial" it was called. In a previous age, when great glaciers grew and devasted, then melted, they left the most incredible layer of mulch over the warming land, and the green re-grew, greener than ever, feeding new life and sharing great beauty. I smelled the soil and smiled and thanked God for it.

As soon as my things were in place indoors, I studied them for care. It was November, and my new place gave me an extra Thanksgiving Day prayer of happy gratitude, and I studied the little garden more closely. The stand of shrubs in front of each bungalow were not normally included in Christmas Holiday Lighting displays, so there was not much help for them till Spring. Till then, I used existing leaves to mulch and gave them the usual closing down winter fertilizing.

But Spring already held promise. There was forsythia, standing tall at the west corner, like a guardian angel, with a solid promise of bright yellow trumpets, one or two of them still clinging and dry on the branches to introduce itself clearly to me. And there were irises and a hint of other bulb flowers, too, and I enjoyed imagining them hibernating contentedly and regenerating each little power. Then our library shared a gift to all, for as long as supply lasted, of some nice big yellow tulip bulbs, and happily, I accepted a few. Taking the chance that it was not too late to plant them, I bought a bulb planter, noting that that the existing flowers were badly clumped and needed thinning and organization to do their best, and did some of that, too. No more to be done but tidying for now.

At breaktime, I would give it all a moment's study and talk to them with the promise to fix them when the weather improved. They seemed to like that. Better yet, I discovered that enough space existed between the row of shrubs and the patio door at the West end of the garden to create a little garden seating area, for breaks and reading and to allow smoking friends to have a place to go for it, keeping my tiny house smoke-free, but hospitality nice: good for a bit of everything legal. And a little pot discretely hidden to serve as ashtray.

A nearby shop had the little paving stones, and two folding garden chairs that I could easily bring in and store for a sleek look overall, or in cold weather. And by that time, the snow was melting. As soon as the life showed in the branches, I popped off the dead ones and stood back to study the arrangement of them, and appreciated their unique and lovely sculpture. Forsythia at the West End did a proper cone, fanning out nicely and tall, but needed a comb for the knotted and tangled mess her branches had become. I talked to her the whole time, happily arranging it all to best advantage and feeling the nurse, somehow, relieving the snarl and choking. When I was done, she danced and blinged.

Equally tall, the yews were easy: remove the dead stuff...there was a great deal of it, and shaking them both gently but vigorously yielded enough pine mulch to do the area beautifully,and then a simple massage therapy to the branches, plucking strays, tidied them and showed the wood at their bases to best advantage.

Rhododendron was the thing: everthing that can go wrong with a shrub was there to be righted. So I had been studying it while doing the first three, and by the time I actually approached, I had a plan and was happily anticipatory. The actual base and branches were soundly set. Removing the deadwood came first, revealing that the branches radiated, first outward, then up and further out, like a hand, palm up, with the leaves at gracefully curved fingertips, creating an open center above the trunk that would be a nice home for a large bird's nest if there was a bird that nested that low. But it was naturally so artfully arranged that I pruned away the remaining obstructions to it, and it showed like sculpture, the wood mellow grey-brown and mildly luminescent. Each branch then received a brushing like a maiden's hair , removing the dry petals and stamens and leaves from the previous year and gently giving the new growth plenty of room. I truly did feel I had completed a natural sculpture in fine co-operation with nature.

And number five was just at my front door: the low-growing box-pruned yew. Its effect was perfect, punctuating, but not dominating the entry to my home. Its general health and appearance fine, except for the neglect. So first at it, with gloves to untangle and remove the dead branches: they could be very stong and scratch and though not at all heavy, somehow gave an argument at first, till we achieved friendship. Odd baldspots in the growth were showing, but what could not be fixed by rearranging the branches was concealed by the groundcover, pachysandra, creating a proper carpet all around it. I love pachysandra and envisioned encouraging it to spread nicely in time and give the proper front-yard garden effect. Since this town is Vernon Rockville and my budget for garden care limited, the startup windup was creation of a border of the local rocks, all sudsed and proper, to make it easy for the groundskeeper at mowing, and to give it definition. Alyssum tucked among them, later, did just the right thing. This Grove Court Garden and I were established.

And the rewards came quickly, with the first Spring warming. The fertilizer at Autumn was worth the price paid for it, and as the snow melted, I found I was right to ready myself, like taking my seat to enjoy a favorite theater arts performance. The show began. Crocus, a happy surprize popping right through the snow. I had not noted its tiny foliage at move-in, and so I was a specially happy audience, painting several images of her bright purply petals , white stripes and golden bright orange centers. I smiled two times thinking of the billions who have been delighted and surprized by the very same thing, but thought this crocus "unique in all the world".

Forsythia was already a friend from the bonding that happens in shrub rescue, and we praised the crocus together, though forsythia was more showy about it, with her new foliage and first blooms appearing and crisp and green as a salad from the chill in the air in March. Profusion is a classic word for the show of florets, but still a very good one. At the other end of the garden, Rhododendron's flower bud spikes had come to life, noticably provoked by early Spring from the grey-gold, dormant look they wore all winter, the color showing artichoke green and plumping up in anticipation of its blooming. Grape Hyacinth and wild violet and then the daffodils and tulips followed. I enjoyed their show, delightful, yes, but watchful, at this first meeting with new garden friends.

I noted that the condition of things was as expected: the crowding meant not too many blooms and even with the feeding , the blooms that appeared were smallish. Not really a fault though, since such things only give the great game of developing them to their best advantage with easy and faithful care. A happy dilemma, then, was mine.

The irises were Germanica and large and lilac and lucious, and that there were only a few was only exciting. How they would show with thinning and time. The familiar fragrance most satisfying, and promise of more happy times together defining the top back row to crown the rest. Iris Germanica had been a friend since childhood, and I'd owned expensive prize tubers in the past, so they were workmates and very old friends. We played together with confidence.

Like a lovely sequence, Rhododendron bloomed and its show was the showiest. The attention had paid off and its blooms were generous and a lovely pink , and I decided that my Garden Angel must be a diplomat, since this blooming represented new peace and friedship between man and shrub, where there had been, previously, disinterest, and even dislike. We were friends now, just as fine as it gets, and always remembering that the friendship took cultivating and was not natural to us, so there was a mature respect in it all.

Then, another nice surprize... I was glad I waited to till and weed, because one of the weeds was rose! She had not too much time for her, like the previous tenants of the apartment, but was lovely and did well enough with very little care. I got so excited about her, like an award to me for the good work I had done in the rest of the garden for the past months, that I went online and researched her: she is only a spring bloomer, and you might wish to replace her later, with one that blooms all summer, since it diminishes in robust ability, but she is red and healthy and nice. Mulching her later became another friendship, and I wrapped her in silk, NOT burlap....she was MY spring rose and fancy. She liked that. And , just as lovely, she was much less vain and thorny than that of the rose in the famous story of "The Little Prince", and just as fragrant.

For summer , purchase was necessary, and a fine collection of marigold which works for me to keep pests away, and zinnia and lots of geraniums, red and white and coral and bright pink and a lily at the West end mound to charm forsythia and sometimes bloom twice. Another "non-weed" was a dusty miller that got healthy and has shared bright fuschia blooms all summer long till cold weather, ever since, and usually some mums for fall.

Having made this new garden friend and bonded in the care, there was a great deal of pleasure in the results, and I was running out of ways to tell it so, and so finally I named them, all but one, who is secret. Matthew, Mark, Luke and Joan... I thought forsythia not a John.

The many happy hours sharing the Grove Court Garden at Fifty-five, number five, with family, friends and neighbors and passers-by. It has proved a friendship that is not at all sterile, with "something good come of it" to share with the world. Garden chat is much to be preferred above the touchier topics among my neighbors, and garden talk has been an ongoing source of pleasant and enlightening comment. One neighbor painted "Secret Garden" on a little rock and we sat it inside, where it fit right in with the rock border, but in a secret place of its own. Although it cracked in two one winter, I reassembled it, since it charmed and five years later, it is still there.

And that tells the story of my little garden at Grove Court. I have owned larger, and fancier ones, with expensive blooms with very fancy names, and sometimes kept no garden at all, in other living arrangements but this one has been special. It is small and easy to manage, so the pleasure has been the best, but the workload light. I had kept no garden for some years before, so the experience of reunion was very satisfying...a delight. I came here injured, burned-out from a demanding time, and only sporadically able work, at first, and often sad and angry. This little garden might make me feel guilty for the gifts of mental health it gave while I recovered, but I was taught never to give in to such guilt and ruin the good of it. The stories created by this little garden, alone, were worth the work: like the morning I opened my front door to see our resident bunny supervising her babies' breakfast, or the frog who kept me company, and turned into a prince, or the skunk surprize, the However, this writing is to be sure that I do not fail to recognize and praise it, by way of expressing thanks.

I must move soon. I am mended in every way, and my life and work need a different livingspace to go on, and I am excited and happy about moving; it is an upgrade.....but I will miss this special little garden , and all its gifts to me, and today was working with my virtues, to be sure not to worry that the tenant behind me will fail it...or destroy it, in bending it to new personal preferences. I am winning through this one by planning my new garden. But that's another story.

This story was to delight the reader and to share a brief message of life and beauty and work rewarded, at this Harvest time, 2005.
-elle