Years ago Buck made a tentative inquiry about whether there might be room in the garden for a horseradish plant. Just the thought of it made me shudder.  This weedy, fast growing, wildly spreading nigh on to invasive plant’s main claim to fame is its fiery tasting, stinking roots.  I know, this sentence needs editing, but I just need to make it clear that the last thing in the world I want for my garden is horseradish.  Fresh horseradish is hot as hell, and is well known for its ability to burn the inside of one’s nose-this part I can live with.  But a plant that is not dug every year for a harvest of roots, and a replanting of a piece will annex every yard of ground within its reach.  Every day it goes unchecked is a day it becomes more impossibly entrenched.  Once you have horseradish, you will forever have horseradish. Plastic tubs and concrete bunkers-I have seen horseradish break out of them with every bit the vigor of bamboo.  Like I said, I shuddered, but I gave Buck no outward hint of my distaste for the idea.  I just changed the subject.  Once he had brought it up for the 10th time, I felt guilty.  What was the the matter with me, denying him his horseradish?  On other occasions he had asked for tomato plants-I said no.  My property is small; I was selfishly unwilling to give up any plant or lawn space for tomatoes. I gave in.

I bought him a one gallon pot of horseradish for Father’s Day.  The only way I could stomach the purchase was to make it a gift from  Howard and Milo.  He was predictably delighted.  The pot sat on the driveway for a month-where would I put it?  I only watered it when it seemed on the brink of certain death.  I probably could have left it on the drive for several years without any ill effect-but the time did come when I planted my new perennial garden.  I picked a spot for the horseradish, out of view from the kitchen window, and have not looked at it since.  I am quite certain Buck has not gone out to look at it either.  Did I encase it in plastic or steel?  No.  After the first frost, my plan is to stand over Buck while he digs it up, shaves down the roots,  and replants a snippet.  This part he does not know about yet-no sense getting him all riled up way in advance of the event.  While he is doing his maiden horseradish dig, I will be giving him tips and pointers about how to handle the yearly culling of the roots.  Owning a horseradish has a good deal of responsibility that comes with that ownership.  I know he is thinking of his previous home.  He had evergreens, grass, and a horseradish- on his 3 acres.  I cannot imagine how much land that plant has overtaken in the last 8 years.

We haven’t spoken again about the horseradish until last night.  He began the conversation with a synopsis of a chapter of a favorite book he is rereading-Bird By Bird, written by Anne Lamott.  Buck writes short stories now and then; Anne Lamott is a writer who also teaches writing.  She has this idea that every person comes with an emotional acre all their own, standard issue.  Every person has the right to do with their emotional acre what they please. They can plant it, or not.  It can look like a garage sale, or a junk yard, or a stretch of unblemished beach.  If people come through the gate of your emotional acre, and do harm, or try to make changes to it, you have the right to ask them to leave.  As a writer, it is important to know what the interior life of a character looks like in order to write convincingly about them.  I don’t know when it dawned on me that he were not talking about writing short stories.  He was talking about the horseradish plant.  He finally told me that he knew that my garden was not just a garden.  It is my emotional acre.  That I did not need to explain or defend that.  It came with me, standard issue.  He appreciated how I had planted something just for him on my acre.  And how much that meant to him.  It does not seem now like there will be any need to dig the horseradish this fall-or ever, really.  Let it go for broke.  When it gets out of hand, as it most surely will,  I’ll be thinking about what is important in life, not a horseradish plant.

The word cool suggests plenty.  Cool may imply chilly temperatures in the fall, or early spring.  Cool might just as easily be an apt adjective for an unexpected design solution, a truly original landcape design, that product or place which is hip, current, timeless, or easy to fall for, no matter the time or circumstance.   Cool might be an entirely involuntary expression given exposure to an extraordinary and surprising individual expression.  The word cool may be a low key response that just pops out there, given an expression that is shockingly hot beyond all belief.

The cool expletive has been in my vocabulary for decades-it was especially popular in the 60’s and 70’s.  I hang on to my history for all I am worth-this seems fairly normal.   A sisterly and equally energetic expression-far out.  I get curious stares when I use either expression today-the winds of popular culture shift faster than I can take a breath. It is hard for me to believe there are people who were not alive in the 60’s and 70’s. Those post mid century post 80’s people have their own culture, and a language to go with all their own. Monica, the mainstay of our office, shot a 46 for 9 holes of golf yesterday.  Her husband trailed behind-whoa.  Her son of 29 years says to her: “You played lights out, Mom.”  ??  What does lights out mean, pray tell?   But back to cool-What exactly do I think is cool? 

Any person for whom a garden is a way of life.

Any gardener who takes the stewardship of a property seriously. 

Any garden or landscape that is home grown. 

 Any garden or landscape which is clearly stamped “individually owned and operated”. 

 Any gardener who will tear out and redo, given a new idea. 

Any gardener who will not walk away from trouble. 

Any heartfelt expression. 

Any gardener whose vision has been expressed clearly enough to move me. 

Any garden with a story to tell.

Any gardener who keeps coming back for more.

Any great book. My favorite book about gardens:  The Gardens of France by Anita Periere and Gabrielle van Zuylen, published in 1983.  This book includes stunning black and white photographs of my most favorite garden, La Mormaire.  Very cool.

Beautiful garden ornament-new, vintage and antique.  No matter the country of origin, the age, or the material, beautiful is beautiful.

On a lighter note, I find the following things equally as cool:

Dog-friendly gardens and landscapes.

A patch of grass big enough for said dogs to roll around on.

Vintage concrete garden ornaments, including but not limited to birds, angels, dogs, frogs, squirrels, rabbits and hares, trolls, gnomes and snails.

bins, wood crates and string of any description.

As for far out, I have lots of things on my list.  Here are but a few:

The northern lights, the blue moon, a good soaking rain, friable soil, spider webs, buds, flowers and seeds, the change of seasons, shells, twigs, clouds, the ocean, bulbs of any description, ancient breeds of cattle and sheep-as in Jacob’s four-horned sheep, mosses, lichens and fungi, you get the picture.  Most everything in the natural world-very far out.  There are a few exceptions.  I have a tough time with slime mold, woodchucks, Japanese beetles, slugs, shrews, and death. 

There are lots of cool things in the world of landscape and garden-who could begin to name them all?  There are even more far out things-most of those come courtesy of the natural world.  The distinction between cool and far out?  Who needs to make a distinction?  The relationship between talented designers and gardeners in conjunction with the natural world-the subject of a long essay about cool, and very very far out.  Most gardening discussions involve lots of issues. Any good gardener-they handle lots of issues.

In my opinion, participation should be a recognized Olympic sport.  Just like you, I have watched the gymnasts push strength and flexibility to astonishing limits.  The skiers hurtling down steep slopes that would scare me half to death-how do they do this?  The swimmers gliding through water as if it were air, at record breaking speeds.   The ski jumpers,  high jumpers and long distance runners-could I in any way be related to them?  The luge competition-how does anyone come to love to hurtle down a winding path of ice at incredibly high speeds?   

Should the Olympic commitee decide to revise their list of sports, I might be game to try out in a few areas.  The “water until you are blue in the face” contest, I believe I could qualify for the American team. The “plant,  maintain,  mourn, and replant”  sporting event is right up my alley. The endurance digging event-I would have a sporting chance to finish in the top 20.   I cannot believe I would not be a contender for a gold medal in hand wringing.  I might even consider the pruning competition.  The world series of annual planting, which would of course take place over 4 months-this I might try out for.  My trying out for any of the aforementioned sports implies that I have a big dose of the persistence gene.  Those people who run the 60 second dash, and the marathoners or triathalon people could not begin to compete with me over the long run.

I participate in my garden.  When I am not participating-I see all the signs.  Most things that languish or fail-I am to blame.  I am too tired to water.  I do not take the time to figure out what isn’t working.  I let this or that slide until I have a problem right up close and undeniable.   But in general, I am really persistent.  I still love planting and growing-I have been actively involved in this pursuit for 36 years. 

 But all of my persistence with a landscape project involving a client does not amount to a hill of beans, unless I have a partner/client who participates.   It is not their job to know how to participate.  It is my job to make an outline, coach, and communicate.  But I know my limits.  I cannot force anyone to participate-nor would I want to.  There are those who have no inclination to participate; this I admit, reluctantly.  Nurturing a landscape relationship that is about to catch fire is much different than mounting an eloquent defence.  I hate defending.  I like connecting about a goal to be determined.

 The gene for participation has to be there.

This participation gene is a big and easily recognizable gene.  I saw it all over the place, all day long, at the garden tour last Sunday.  Who else would pay so much for a ticket to tour in 93 degree heat, but those people who readily participate in gardening?  World class participators-each and every one of them.  I saw so many sweating faces, taking pictures, asking questions, and saying thank you-the melt down conditions aside.  We were all participating.  Participation in gardening takes many forms.  There are those hands on gardeners.  There are those gardeners who are older, who hire help to keep a landscape and garden in good condition.  There are those young people with an idea, and not much experience or disposable income.  There are those people from every walk of life and persuasion for whom the beauty of a garden constitutes a way of life. 

All and every one of these people who participate in the making and maintaining of a landscape and garden enrich my life.  It goes without saying, in my group,  that the participation in a garden takes the idea of sport to quite another level. The natural world is our world.  It enchants, challenges, and astonishes.  The natural world is a real place to live.  Your participation will preserve our planet, and enrich your life.  What could be better?  I would invite you to participate, with what ever means you might have available.

An older garden is bound to have problems.  The maples in my tree lawn all have girdling roots that are beyond surgical repair.  Probably maple trees that grow to this size never should have been planted here- sandwiched in between the sidewalk and the street.  I am guessing they were planted forty years ago; at that time, girdling roots were the last thing on anyone’s mind. My city-they have no interest or means to sustain the tree lawns.  The care of these aging and declining trees fall to me.  Poor choices in the landscape can take many years to come home to roost; old gardens with substantial problems squawk like crazy.  The future can show up a lot faster than anyone ever bargained for.  I try very hard to imagine age on my landscape designs.  Will those designs age gracefully and beautifully, or will careless choices prove to be a huge headache years later?  These old and declining maples-there is nothing I can do to help them.  They have been neglected too long.  

 My 16 year old Hicks yews are also in decline-5 have died.  The five that died are 7 feet tall.  This is a very short sentence about a topic that is making me wring my hands.  No one can figure out what is wrong.  They are not getting too much water.  There is no evidence of disease, or insect infestation.  I went so far as to consult a regionally well known arborist and plant disease diagnostician. He tells me he is rarely stumped, but in this case he is stumped. Once he went on to say that my yews were getting old, I raised my eyebrows as high as they would go.  I am sure if you have not seen ancient yews in person, you surely have seen pictures of them in books-hundreds of years old.  Noting the extent of my eyebrow elevation, he quickly abandoned this line of discussion.   It was a luxury to consult him-it was a bigger luxury to just move on beyond him.  Yews tolerate less than perfect conditions quite well.  Almost every house in my neighborhood has at least one, if not some.  The yew hedge across the street from me is in perfect condition.  I have never seen anyone do a thing to them. 

In general, my trees and shrubs are looked after by Westside Forestry; I have a lot of confidence in their ability, and their tenacity.  They cannot figure out what is wrong either.  Tim wanted to dig up a few of the yews-apparently he thinks something going on underground is to blame.  I hope to hear from him tomorrow.  What it takes to look after an aging landscape can be considerable. But I will do what needs doing. One week to the day from today-the garden cruise.  Out my kitchen window, a dirt space of alarming proportions. I have some plans to plant there this week.

The dead yews-I dream about them at night.  I have been fussing and fretting about an alternative to them.  Why would I plant new yews, even if I could afford big ones at enormous cost, in a place where yews decline and die?  What would I substitute for these stalwart evergreens?  I have lots of questions, and not so many answers.  Yes, the majority of the space will be planted with a perennial garden-tomorrow.  I have purchased way too many plants; how will I place them?  You may be laughing by now-as well you should. 

A garden enchants.  A garden is a beautiful place to be, a refuge, a source of satisfaction, a place to entertain friends and family.  Gardening is good for me.  Given more than 30 years of gardening, I am quite sure about this.  Every plant that I am able to grow successfully, greatly endows my life.   If you are able to garden successfully, I am quite sure you will go on to garden again.  Every plant that I have killed-and there are many-teaches me a litlle something.  The yew business will sort itself out.  I only need to be persistent, and ask the right questions.

 The little luxuries are as follows.  My old garden, besides its yew troubles,  needs not much more than a good washing down before this coming weekend’s garden tour.  Tonight, I am washing down every surface.  I have but one bed to plant, and have made peace with the fact that it will look new.  My older garden-I am happy to stand pat with what I have done over the past 16 years.  That said, I want every space to be clean and fresh; I am washing down all of the stone surfaces.   This little job is very satisfying.  I probably will do it again several times before next Sunday.  I will probably put fresh flowers on the table, wash down the driveway, and deadhead my pots.  These little finishing touches before company comes I greatly enjoy.   

My older garden is a headache, but it is, at the same time, it is a luxury I could not do without.  I cannot imagine not having some sort of garden.  My old garden needs not so much from me, really.  For all my angst, it makes me very happy.  Buck and I were in the fountain earlier, cleaning the stone, and cooling off.  Should you not have an older garden, create a new garden. In my opinion, you will be happier, having it now. You will be more than thrilled to have it years from now.  A garden is a luxury well worth the investment.