I already knew by then that gardening wasn’t for me. It began when my parents made me weed the little garden at the side of the house in New Jersey when I was a kid. They probably tried that only once or twice, because my phobia of spiders and intense fear of any insect that appeared—in case it might turn out to be a spider or centipede or some other horrible species—made me useless for the task.
So I wasn’t optimistic when Adrian planted his vegetable garden in Kentucky. But I was pleasantly surprised by the flourishing zucchinis and tomatoes that resulted. I loved cooking fresh vegetables.
Going out to pick the ripe vegetables was the only interaction I had with the land surrounding our house. Adrian tended the lawn and the garden. I focused on the inside—that’s where my studio and office were—and that’s what interested me.
When we bought our first house in Ithaca in the spring of 2000, Adrian hired a plant expert to review all the plants growing around it and to give us advice about caring for them. I did actually help him with some weeding once or twice, but each experience was awful enough to keep me from trying again for a long time.
Is there anything more backbreaking and less rewarding than weeding?
But I was happy enough to cut the blooming lilies and lilacs to put in a vase on the dining room table. I always appreciated a garden’s finished products.
The house I live in now was built eight years ago. Adrian and I planned it together and made the decisions together, though mostly I worked hard at getting what I wanted—a big studio with north light.
And I got it, though I had to compromise on everything else in order to stay in budget.
The house just happens to be on a three-quarter acre lot in the country. Most of the original trees were cut down by the builder in order for a house to be built. By the time he was done leveling the ground and putting in grass seed, I thought it all looked fine.
I’d be spending my time inside the house and studio. If I wanted to experience the outdoors, I’d sit on the screened-in porch or drive to a nearby trail for a hike. But Adrian wanted more.
The first plant people he hired put in some bushes and a few trees. They had to be the kind that deer dislike in order to survive here, so they weren’t exactly my favorites. We also had to spray them regularly, just in case, to keep the deer away.
There is a deer epidemic here. The dedicated gardeners build high fences to keep them out.
Over the years, Adrian added more plants and trees, and got more advice about what to plant. I mentioned liking the tall grasses at the Cornell Plantations one visit, so he planted some in front of the house. He even planted a hardy cactus because he knew I liked them.
The small raised vegetable garden he planted in the back yard a year before he died never amounted to much. He was not in good shape by then, and couldn’t take care of it properly.
In the last months of his life, the spring of 2011, Adrian was too frail to garden. After he died, I became responsible for the outside as well as the inside of the house.
You’ll want to read now about how much I love every single plant and tree that Adrian left me with, how tenderly I care for them, and how even weeding has become a meaningful act for me.
This could have been a transformation story, but it’s not.
I’m the anti-gardener.
Last year I had the grandkids help me pull out all those bushes in front of the house. We sprayed RoundUp to kill everything that remained.
This year I’m having a local nursery put decorative stones in the empty plant beds – stones that require no maintenance whatsoever.
But I’m not a thoroughly heartless bitch. I weed around the cactus plant. I’m keeping the tall grasses.
It’s the best I can do.
