Poetry

In the darkened garden,
lit only by pagoda lights and dancing fireflies,
a roaming tiger cat prowled the flagstone path.
Wind chimes tinkled a merry tune,
and nocturnal life conversed in the trees.

From the flowerbed nearby,
a fragrance wafted to me; out of the past;
familiar, but the perfume had no name until my husband,
the gardener, asked,"Can you smell the four-o'clocks?"

Swiftly I was carried back to childhood,
to a windowbox filled with rich Iowa soil
nurturing petunias, morning glories, and four o'clocks,
whose potpourri entered our house through screened,
lace-curtained windows.

That lusty essence, now renewed, evokes an image dear,
of quiet summer evenings; my mother at her windowbox,
while I, unknowingly,collected scents
that would pass through time,
linking me with yesterday.

*************

From Sand to Sanctuary

When Gary Christensen was growing up in the 1940s, vegetable gardens were needed to put food on the table. Recalling the drudgery of weeding and watering under the summer sun, my husband says, "No one was more surprised than I was when I developed an interest in gardening."

As a Master Gardener, he spent several years improving our Virginia yard. When we moved to Sarasota, Florida, the fenced property presented a challenge; there was only scrub grass, trees, and sand. Gary says, "Our soil is almost pure sand; it doesn't hold water and has few nutrients. I learned to add organic matter (leaves and compost) and fertilizers with essential minor elements."

After completing the Florida Master Gardener program, he planned and executed a garden design. "First, we thinned the overcrowded oaks, dry-stacked a limestone rip rap wall, and began improving the soil for mixed herbaceous flower beds. We wanted a yard that attracted wildlife."

The gardener soon learned that plants grow year around here. "There's never a break from weeds and pests. If you want a perfect garden, adapt to something less or you'll go nuts. Water is precious; we water only when necessary, never in the heat of the day, and we favor drought-resistant plants. Don't fight nature. Peonies and tulips don't do well; use only plants that can handle the climate."

The front yard now features palms, crape myrtle, guava, ixora, Indian hawthorn and night jasmine. A brilliant red bowl with a recirculating pump dribbles water onto goldfish and a water lily. Brightly colored pots holding begonias and geraniums sit grouped along the walkway, above which hang three great blue herons sculpted from copper in an origami style.

Entering the backyard through either of two side gates, one follows a stone path lined with ferns, lantana, pea vines, caladium, passion fruit vines, cycads and palms. At the rear of the house a petite allee offers thyme and oregano growing in the walkway, with crape myrtle and ixora along its length. A brass cup rain chime tinkles in the breeze. Potted plants thriving around the pool include bird of paradise, kalanchoe, and a 25-year-old dwarf schefflera.

Where the two side paths converge in the lawn, a bench invites one to stop and smell the orange blossoms, pick a fragrant sprig of rosemary, or watch Carolina wrens congregate at a birdhouse given by a neighbor whose creations have won county fair prizes. Among other feathered friends visiting are cardinal, bluejay, mockingbird, hawk, pileated and red breasted woodpecker, ibis, and egret.

The natural garden is divided by meandering paths shaded by live oaks. A serpentine wall with fossils embedded in the rock offers warren-like crevices for skinks, anoles, and several species of snakes. One half of the garden is whimsical, beginning with Grace's garden, designed for our granddaughter. A stone bears her name; there's a child-size bench, a mini sandbox, and a stone carving of mother and child brought from South Africa where Grace resides with her parents. A fairy reclines under ferns, impatiens, bromeliads, coleus, and poinsettia.

Along the path, another fairy joins the zebra longwing and Gulf fritillary butterflies flitting between wild coffee, firebush, pentas, and jatropha. Toad Hall shelters wee creatures from the sub-tropical sun. Overhead, gaily decorated bird houses, wind chimes, and a staghorn fern mingle with silver beards of Spanish moss.

The other side of the garden is home to a night blooming cereus transplanted here after a friend's death; the Barney Stone, a grindstone that belonged to a brother-in-law named Barney; and the corner piece of an ancestral tombstone from 1869. Hanging from branches in indivdual wooden boxes, eleven orchids bloom in exquisite shades of rose, purple, and yellow. Seated on the patio, the gardener and guests enjoy a view of the entire landscape.

When darkness shrouds the backyard, lights strung along the herbaceous border and uplighted into the trees bring forth nocturnal wildlife: raccoons, opposums, hoot owls, swamp bunnies, and tree frogs.

Along the fence, carved in a rock surrounded by sanseveria and dwarf mondo grass are these famous words by Thomas Jefferson: Though I am an old man, I am but a young gardener.

Perhaps the boy who toiled in his parents' garden long ago, pausing to admire the stately red hollyhocks or the humble petunias, unknowingly absorbed the idea that a garden is a wonderful place. Not only does it nourish the body, it offers sustenance to the soul and is a sanctuary for all of earth's creatures, human and animal.

The seasoned adult says, "At predawn, when I retrieve the newspaper from the front yard, the scent of night jasmine affirms that all is well in this corner of God's garden."

[This article was published in Mockingbird Journal. We have since moved to a home where the yard is maintained by others. The gardener has retired on Worlud Pond.]