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I started in July

It’s July. The lilacs have faded. One of the first phenological things I learned when I moved up north 25 years ago is that the lilacs bloom at the end of June. Which is around the same time as my birthday. I would remember their bloom time every year, anticipate their arrival and watch them fade as the young fresh summer turned sultry. I had young kids and fancied myself a savvy and accomplished gardener as I had turned my fork in the soil and grown some nice looking vegetables a couple of years in a row. (Actually I think it was beginners luck.) I thought naively that knowledge with a smattering of experience basically equaled expertise. I had learned a thing or two about cover cropping a ¼ acre vegetable patch, a few things about root cellar storage, and I could remember the bloom time of lilacs.   My truck farming career was short. I began working with a landscaper in July of 2009. I was 32. I worked on the garden maintenance side of things. The plant crew. The owner was a guy named Ron. He built new gardens, ran the hardscaping ‘crew’. It was really just him and one other guy. He was nearing retirement, after a 30 year career building masterful landscapes all over the county. He was tough but gracious, serious and kind enough but also quietly scrutinizing with a frayed graying beard and wiry red, almost orange hair that he pulled into a thin,  ponytail at the base of his neck. He never packed a lunch, hardly took any breaks but drank coffee as he worked all day. It was said he would visit a new site in the pouring rain just to watch how the water flowed across the ground. So he could see the low spots or the washout risks. He built his landscapes by hand with local rock. Boulders weighing a few tons were moved by hand with carts and levers and straps and finesse. He would call in a guy with a grappling hook on a truck from time to time. And then stand there and make him adjust a 10,000 pound rock a quarter inch at a time until it was just right. There was a mediaeval propensity to his approach to the work. And it showed. It was human paced, in tune with the earth. He and his rock setting guy would talk about how after awhile the rocks would start talking to you. They would start to sort themselves into the puzzle. If you listened well enough. He told me that it was better to be thorough than fast. Paths, patios, ponds, stream beds and terraced gardens flowed across the properties. Like water flowing downhill. His clients never knew what they were going to get or how long it was going to take (or how much it would cost) but they trusted him when he promised them it would be beautiful. He never disappointed. The landscapes he and his crew built remain incredible feats works of art, quietly tucked away gardens in pockets of the county that are stunning to visit. When he retired, four years after I came to work for him, I started taking care of the gardens he built. Season after season I would sweep the paths and patios. Brush off the rock walls. My mind would wander as I worked while my eyes traced the lines, memorizing the curvatures.   I weeded and watered, trimmed then cut back in fall. I watched the sun move across the gardens from spring to late fall. I heard the birds arrive and notice when all went finally silent at summer’s end. I trimmed overhanging branches, raked leaves, reset rocks that tumbled out of place, replanted bare spots, cut water sprouts, allowed native plants from the adjacent woods to wander in. I watched. I did. I observed. I practiced. I worked 5 days a week for 6 months straight. I never took time off or a vacation during the work season. I just worked. Like Ron did. The way I see it now that I’m older is that it’s not an ego thing, or an identity you wear on your sleeve, or a pile of things you know that elevates you. It’s just an evolution of skillsets and refinement. Of remaining curious and humble enough to know what you don’t know. I keep trying things. Keep watching the gardens change over time. Keep in time with it. Always wanting to imrove my care.  Continually tuning in. To never want to arrive. Learning anything new takes time but learning about the plants and the seasons and the ways of the earth and putting it all together takes a lifetime. And it starts with observing, and doing. A lot of doing. A lot of practice. I hope I never get there. I’ll never get tired of sweeping paths, of mundane garden tasks.  They continue to inform and inspire. In the words of Thich Nhat Hahn, “Washing a dish, planting a seed, cutting the grass, are as beautiful, as timeless as writing a poem”