Garden State
My mother is from the Garden State. Though my parents moved west more than 30 years ago, she still has traces of her South Jersey accent (which I find completely adorable). I’m always trying to trick her into saying certain words that will make the accent rise to the occasion. For instance, if I need something from an Italian market I might ask, “Mom, where is Vinnolas?”
“It’s on fouwdy-fouwth,” she’ll say and I’ll chuckle a little bit because I already know where Vinnolas is. (Fortunately for me, 44th Avenue runs right through the Italian part of Denver, so there are a lot of opportunities for her to say “fouwdy-fouwth.”)
Or, when she’s out in the yard I might say, “Where are you going with that hose?”
“I need to wudder the mooorning glooories,” she’ll shout over her shoulder.
Because of her east coast, Italian-American roots, my mother is particularly fond of gardening. When they bought their current house my father told the realtor that they needed a place with a garden because his wife was “genetically predisposed to grow tomatoes.” Now that she’s retired, mom spends a huge portion of her time tilling her land, and her garden is certainly a sight to behold.
I’m not really sure why she likes to dig in dirt, but I do know that the garden serves as one of mom’s main avenues for expressing her love. I remember one time I came home from college broken hearted and she made me spaghetti with sauce made from fresh garden tomatoes. In addition to the hugs, I remember this sauce warming me from the inside out and healing every place where it hurt. Later I sent her a “thank-you” email and she wrote me back saying, “I love nurturing the plants and allowing them to nurture us in return. It seems to complete the full cycle in my mind.”
In addition to her wide variety of vegetables (she’s particularly fond of her pumpkins right now, which she plans to give to the neighbor children) mom also has an extensive array of flowers. She spends hours tending the roses, tulips, and other delightful bursts of color that pop up from season to season. If I had a yard full of flowers like hers, all I would do is sit in my yard and admire them. But mom is always trying to pick them and give them to me.
When I was fresh out of college and living in a tiny, 400-square-foot apartment, I happened to be visiting and admiring her peonies, these poofy, pink flowers that seem fit for a queen. “Those are beautiful,” I told her. “I’m impressed!” And she smiled. “Do you want some?” she said excitedly, “I’ll pick them for you!”
“No, no, Mom. I couldn’t let you do that.” She only had a few peonies, which could live for several weeks in her yard but would die in a matter of days if they sat in a vase on my dining room table.
About a week later mom showed up at my apartment. We were going to the art museum and then out to lunch. I saw her walking up the stairs and past my front window with an enormous smile plastered across her face. She was clutching three of these gigantic peonies in her cute little hand.
Even if I had a yard, I don’t think I could keep a garden – certainly not one that would rival my mother’s. I simply don’t have that garden state of mind. I don’t have the amount of patience and persistence it takes to plant things and watch them grow, and I don’t have the amount of selflessness it takes to share the fruits of my labors so liberally.
Gardening seems to be a special, different type of labor. It’s not just about working hard. I know how to work hard. For example, on Thursday I was still in my classroom at 4:30 (my 10th hour at school), working away with no end in sight. At that point the Chinese man who cleans my hall scooted in with his broom. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "I survived Northglenn High," which looked positively ridiculous on his 52-year-old frame.
"Boy, you working hard," he said.
"Yes," I replied flatly. "But my students are very important to me." I kept banging away at the keyboard, not looking up.
Though I had planned to work late only one night, things were starting to fall apart. The janitor found me in my classroom every night this week, pounding the soil, trying to force my students to sprout and grow. In broken English he started telling me about how, in addition to his janitorial duties, he and his wife own a dry cleaners. Having two jobs was causing him a great deal of stress. "We are very busy with dry cleaners," he told me. "But last year my wife say, 'why don't you plant a garden?'" He told her something about how he didn't have time for "farming" but he ended up planting the garden anyway. This hobby quickly became his greatest joy.
Then he paused and asked tenderly, "Do you want to see pictures of my garden?" I had to stop typing because my heart was starting to melt a little. I got up from my desk. He put down his broom and showed me the pictures on his camera phone. There was his lettuce patch from six different angles, which (he explained) was utterly spectacular. There was his one red pepper hanging like a jewel amongst a hill of greens.
"Those are beautiful,” I said. “I’m impressed!”
And he smiled.
“It’s on fouwdy-fouwth,” she’ll say and I’ll chuckle a little bit because I already know where Vinnolas is. (Fortunately for me, 44th Avenue runs right through the Italian part of Denver, so there are a lot of opportunities for her to say “fouwdy-fouwth.”)
Or, when she’s out in the yard I might say, “Where are you going with that hose?”
“I need to wudder the mooorning glooories,” she’ll shout over her shoulder.
Because of her east coast, Italian-American roots, my mother is particularly fond of gardening. When they bought their current house my father told the realtor that they needed a place with a garden because his wife was “genetically predisposed to grow tomatoes.” Now that she’s retired, mom spends a huge portion of her time tilling her land, and her garden is certainly a sight to behold.
I’m not really sure why she likes to dig in dirt, but I do know that the garden serves as one of mom’s main avenues for expressing her love. I remember one time I came home from college broken hearted and she made me spaghetti with sauce made from fresh garden tomatoes. In addition to the hugs, I remember this sauce warming me from the inside out and healing every place where it hurt. Later I sent her a “thank-you” email and she wrote me back saying, “I love nurturing the plants and allowing them to nurture us in return. It seems to complete the full cycle in my mind.”
In addition to her wide variety of vegetables (she’s particularly fond of her pumpkins right now, which she plans to give to the neighbor children) mom also has an extensive array of flowers. She spends hours tending the roses, tulips, and other delightful bursts of color that pop up from season to season. If I had a yard full of flowers like hers, all I would do is sit in my yard and admire them. But mom is always trying to pick them and give them to me.
When I was fresh out of college and living in a tiny, 400-square-foot apartment, I happened to be visiting and admiring her peonies, these poofy, pink flowers that seem fit for a queen. “Those are beautiful,” I told her. “I’m impressed!” And she smiled. “Do you want some?” she said excitedly, “I’ll pick them for you!”
“No, no, Mom. I couldn’t let you do that.” She only had a few peonies, which could live for several weeks in her yard but would die in a matter of days if they sat in a vase on my dining room table.
About a week later mom showed up at my apartment. We were going to the art museum and then out to lunch. I saw her walking up the stairs and past my front window with an enormous smile plastered across her face. She was clutching three of these gigantic peonies in her cute little hand.
Even if I had a yard, I don’t think I could keep a garden – certainly not one that would rival my mother’s. I simply don’t have that garden state of mind. I don’t have the amount of patience and persistence it takes to plant things and watch them grow, and I don’t have the amount of selflessness it takes to share the fruits of my labors so liberally.
Gardening seems to be a special, different type of labor. It’s not just about working hard. I know how to work hard. For example, on Thursday I was still in my classroom at 4:30 (my 10th hour at school), working away with no end in sight. At that point the Chinese man who cleans my hall scooted in with his broom. He was wearing a t-shirt that read "I survived Northglenn High," which looked positively ridiculous on his 52-year-old frame.
"Boy, you working hard," he said.
"Yes," I replied flatly. "But my students are very important to me." I kept banging away at the keyboard, not looking up.
Though I had planned to work late only one night, things were starting to fall apart. The janitor found me in my classroom every night this week, pounding the soil, trying to force my students to sprout and grow. In broken English he started telling me about how, in addition to his janitorial duties, he and his wife own a dry cleaners. Having two jobs was causing him a great deal of stress. "We are very busy with dry cleaners," he told me. "But last year my wife say, 'why don't you plant a garden?'" He told her something about how he didn't have time for "farming" but he ended up planting the garden anyway. This hobby quickly became his greatest joy.
Then he paused and asked tenderly, "Do you want to see pictures of my garden?" I had to stop typing because my heart was starting to melt a little. I got up from my desk. He put down his broom and showed me the pictures on his camera phone. There was his lettuce patch from six different angles, which (he explained) was utterly spectacular. There was his one red pepper hanging like a jewel amongst a hill of greens.
"Those are beautiful,” I said. “I’m impressed!”
And he smiled.
posted by Alice | 1:06 PM
1 Comments:
Just a suggestion: get a pot next spring and plant a couple of seeds. Watch the seeds sprout, thin to get only the strongest plants, and then care for your plants until they flower and then produce seeds. (Mom can tell you what kind of plant to choose.)
It doesn't have to be a whole garden; you're too busy (and probably lack the acreage) to care for a whole garden. But if you're attuned, and women usually are, you will feel the pull of the earth in the springtime and want to plant something. Just plant some little, black, shriveled seeds and watch a miracle happen!
Auntie M
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