Coco, my daughter and green peace advocate, asked me what I wanted for Mother’s Day. “An English Garden with lush greenery and a mixture of flowers. I want it to feel relaxing, yet look wild, with a variety of heights and colors,” I said. “Do you think it will attract butterflies and deer?”
“Mom, you know that deer statue in the neighbor’s yard down the street,” she said and rolled her eyes. “That’s as close as you’ll see deer around here.”
I visualized a waterfall. While I was at it, I pictured Hugh Grant and the park bench from the last scene in the movie Notting Hill. Only he wasn’t with Julia Roberts and I was younger.
She asked what kinds of flowers I wanted. “You know,” I said, raising my arms doing a pretty darn good swaying impression of pussy willows in a level one tornado. Of course, I’ve been in a tornado — compliments of Universal Studios.
When I woke up this morning potted flowers danced in the breeze in my soon to be English garden. Coco took a couple of whacks with a pick axe to a thick tree root relic under the ground’s surface. I could tell it was wearing her out. “Why don’t you just bury it,” I suggested.
She gave me her intense look. “Because now it’s personal.” After a few more swings of the axe, she picked up the spade, and shoveled dirt over the exposed root. “Okay,” she said, “I’m over it now.”
She talked non-stop about soil composition, pH levels, acidity, back digging… On and on. I tuned her out — just like she used to do to me.
She artistically laid out the wavy stuff (non-technical terms for salvia, achillea and even a Persian berry iris) in the turned soil. She snuck in some corn, peppers and tomato seedlings. “You’re not going to plant vegetables in the front yard, are you?” I asked. “The neighbors will think I’ve gone rural.”
“Yes, I am,” said Coco. “People don’t realize how pretty vegetable gardens can be. They don’t have to be hidden in the back yard. It’s all about arrangement.”
“But strangers might eat the crop.” I worried they might investigate me further and find my survival supply of seventeen buckets of wheat grains tucked away in the garage.
But what did I know when up against a horticulturist who had made the cover of Inland Living? She stuck bamboo stakes in the dirt and tied them off at the top with twine, then placed a tomato plant at each stake. Two red, one yellow and one black variety. A black tomato? Last week I’d thrown out a red one, turned black, shriveled and stuck to the bottom of my refrigerator’s vegetable drawer.
As we toiled in the morning light, a man jogged by, more like a slow scamper, with a Chihuahua. Not that that is important, but Chihuahuas always make me laugh. “Clever idea to put tomatoes in the front yard,” he commented.
Shot my argument with the photographed horticulturist all to Hades.
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A black tomato? Last week I’d thrown out a red one, turned black, shriveled and stuck to the bottom of my refrigerator’s vegetable drawer. Oh, my gosh was that a visual!
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