Someone said, “In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”  The idea of resuming contact with the dirt after a long winter seems so obvious, one wonders why anyone bothered to write it out loud.  But today I am happy someone said it.  I spend a lot of time in the winter reading the magazines that came in the mail, and got set aside for reading during a less busy time.  I like my magazines, as I believe my eye or my heart or both will be educated and intrigued by what I see and read. I greatly value photographs of anything I cannot see in person. I am reading now-the winter sees to that. Though I once believed that with perserverance, I would be able to read every book that had ever been written, I know the foolishness of that now.  But for the annotated and largely visual version of the world, I would be exposed to very little.  I subscribe to magazines written in languages I cannot read or speak.  I like them as well, and I draw from them as much as any English language magazine.  I cannot really explain this. I read everything I can get my hands on, this time of year. However, I can explain why the dirt quote is on my mind today.

 There is no need to name names and cite specific articles, but I am amazed at the number of garden magazine features that seem to have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with gardening. I am sure you have seen them.  The immaculately dressed host is graciously serving smart starters and a chic wine to guests on the rear terrace next to the pool.  In the distance, a view from a movie of a vineyard, or the craggy cliffs in Corfu,  or some equally stunning natural and temperate wonder.  No one is perspiring, or shivering.  There are no bugs, no dirt.  I have to strain my eyes to see that the landscape and gardens have not one leaf out of place-as the garden is not really the subject of the article. The garden is a background for an effortless and lovely lifestyle, beautifully captured on film. Not that I need to, but I will repeat-no sign of the dirt.   

Make no mistake, I entertain in my garden.  I design for others with the idea in mind that they will have company. I live in anticipation of those perfect moments, when they show themselves; this may or may not happen when I  have guests. I do fuss about this and that, when I think to have friends to the garden-I do want everything to be just so.  No one could ever enjoy my garden as I do, but this does not mean I do not go for company gold.  I do.  But little of what goes on there even approaches perfection.  I am always leaving my cocktail someplace, as I need to pull a weed or pick up sticks.  I do this while I have company-my friends are used to this. 

 Gardening is about something else all together than the magazine articles I am reading now.  It is not about a chic lifestyle, nor is it an alternate version of my living room.  My far view is of M-59, a very busy 4 lane road.  There are days when the motorcycles and fire trucks provide the soundtrack for my outdoor dinner parties. We are likely to be driven indoors later by the mosquitos.  Gardening is a dirty, sweaty, and mostly solitary business that does not translate well into magazine spreads.  It could very well be that a garden will improve the quality of your life, but not in any predictable or sterile way.  The magazine articles are notable for what they leave out, or ignore.  Plant catalogues would have you believe that every plant requires little and delivers a lot, year after year.  Well, some do, but most do not.  My friend Marianne once commented that some garden books seem to be about photography and not so much about gardens. I love beautiful photographs as well as the next person, so this does not bother me particularly.  But when I read a garden magazine, I am interested in the garden, not the movie version of the garden.  Even the how-to horticulture magazines do not capture that which comes from working the dirt. Formulas, recipes and how to’s draw the life out of that primal experience.  Work the dirt, plant some seeds, experience the miracle that transforms a seed into shoots and roots, sprouting. There is not so much more to talk about really.  Watching a plant grow, or spotting that it has grown- only a gardener would find this amusing or entertaining.  Though Buck is way up there on the indugent scale, he sometimes does roll his eyes.  Just like I do, when he is debating a dinner menu.  To each his own obsession.  No kidding, I can imagine the smell of dirt so vividly in late February I believe I am actually smelling it. Few magazine articles are able to trigger this.   

A garden is so much about how it engages all the senses.  I will put my hands on all my plants over the course of a season.  How everything smells after a good rain-delicious.  The first sign of spring-the birds resume singing their songs. As for how I smell-I have choices.  I could smell fresh, or musty. I can wash up, or not.  I can perspire, in reaction to that which moves me.  I can shower, and cool off, and sit out.   As for what I like to smell-I make choices. Fresh is ok, as long as there is some natural scent hovering.  The fumy smell of compost-delicious.  Mown grass-the perfect perfume. Rosemary or lavender, equally perfect.  Much of the beauty of a garden comes from how it smells.  Basil, the ultimately perfect perfume. Wear it or eat it-take your pick, or do both. 

I grow vegetables and herbs at the shop. I invariably have plants left over at the end of May; we grow them on through the summer.  I can water and eat tomatoes at the same time-this is how I like them best.  Warm and ripe from the sun. Unsullied by any fancy preparation.  Corn and tomatoes are a staple of Buck’s late summer menus-all else is window dressing.  My vegetables at work have yellow leaves, bug holes, and can look scraggly, but they taste fine. Everything in the garden looks good to me, in one genuine way or another. 

Having the chance to smell like dirt in the spring-I can hardly wait to put the magazines away.

The timing of Valentine’s Day could not be better for this cake and candy girl. What do I mean exactly by “cake and candy girl”?  I like my garden lush, my soil warm and rich with the texture and unforgettable fragrance of on-going composting.  I like rain in almost any form, also hot sun and cool shade.  Puffy clouds moved along by a good breeze-excellent.  I like the sweet smell of hyacinth, tulip, mown grass, petunia, rose, and phlox.  I like the sun-warmed taste of tomatoes.  If there is a better perfume than basil, or rosemary, please let me know.  I like my clay pots cooly dark and saturated with water.  The process of evaporation-symphonic.  I likewise look forward to my gravel crunching under my feet.  I like a garden good enough to eat. 

However, my thermometer has been glued on 24 degrees for days; the fogged sky is that color that ought to be known as Michigan miasma grey.  Once in a while a dispirited snowflake falls like a lead sinker out the window. Restless doesn’t begin to describe that itch of mine that cannot be scratched.  If you are a gardener, you will not think me excessively dramatic-just pitifully righteous.  The dawn of Valentine’s Day-I am so ready.  I am up at 5am, wondering what Buck has planned to dispell the winter gloom. 

 I must confess that I have certain preconceived notions,  about which you should be advised. In my opinion, women have a sap gene that opens and rises every day and month, every year, regularly, predictably and reliably.  Everyone they love gets caregiving, encouragement, nurturing, time, attention, genuine interest-pets regular as rain.  In spite of this notion, these ideas do not wholly apply to my life.  Buck is a man caregiver extraordinaire-he knows in an instant if my breathing changes; he goes on to ask what’s up.  Likewise my landscape superintendent Steve-he notices everything, and better yet, he addresses everything.  Sometimes with words, more regularly with deeds.  So take my bluster about women with a grain of salt-there are more than a few good men out there. 

But back to my day.  I realized by 10 am that Valentine’s Day had never crossed Buck’s mind.  In all fairness, he has been pretty busy looking after me.  I know now why lots of people who get a knee replaced go to a rehab facility for a week or two.  It is a lot of work, enabling the day for an injured person. He has taken time off, and committed to being spot on.  He is available-he helps me-day in and day out.  I see this all the time-in my community, in my country-but I have this at home now.  Wow. He is busy, looking after me. I do not remember how Valentine’s day came up, but the shock on his face was clear for a moment before it disappeared.

He asked me what valentine would most make me happy-I could tell he was ready to deliver.  This was easy-caramel ice cream and caramel sauce.  A treat for this cake and candy girl.  He came home some time later, hauling the caramel upstairs-but in his left hand, a dozen pink and white bicolor roses wrapped in waxed green tissue.  I took a deep breath.  My winter world is hard-oak flooring, plaster walls, porcelain sinks, stone counter tops, paint on canvas-you get the idea.  Those roses, fresh and fragrant-they made my heart pound.  Buck made me recut the stems myself.  This is a good thing-no matter whatever knocks you over, any gesture to get back up and going is a good idea.  I am back on my feet-sort of. These gorgeous roses now drinking in a vase in my office-divine.

Buck told me our local little florist some 4 blocks away was jammed today.  Harry opened his shop on Valentine’s Sunday.  The place was jammed with men, thinking at the last minute to rise to the occasion.  Harry had chocolates, cards, and stuffed animals, in addition to his roses.  Hilarious; Buck says he was doing a land office business today. Buck confessed he was just one of many men who were out today, shopping.  For once, it amused him, and engaged him, to be in line to check out. He had company and community.

Aside from Buck’s floral shop experience, I am the delighted recipient.  My dozen roses smell delicious, and are beautiful to look at.  The buds are just opening; burgeoning.  The foliage is glossy-live to the touch.  These roses are so beautiful, I could weep. They are very different than the roses I grow in my garden.  They hail from  South America; it is a variety that grows well and blooms reliably under glass.    No matter my skill as a gardener, I am grateful for my community florist. That entire industry made it possible for Buck to bring roses home to me-mid winter. 

When Buck brings flowers home for me, I get animated. He is not the least bit discouraged by my gardening history. He has no problem bringing flowers home from the florist-why should he? I so love that he does this.  Some friends are afraid to send me flowers-as I grow them. Though I live eat and breathe the flower world, one could never have too many.  Please note-I love flowers.  Any time.  Any occasion.  Did I say, for any reason?    

Smitten I am, today.  By flowers. By beautiful landscapes.  By gardens.  By gorgeous garden ornament.  By Buck.  By my hope for spring. Spring-soon.   I so love my Valentine’s day roses; thank you Buck. The gardens-my garden-six weeks out.  Spring-only six weeks away. Like I say, the timing of Valentine’s Day is good.  I’ve had a little mid-winter thaw.

Just six days ago all that was on my mind was a hopelessly deteriorated knee that was scheduled for replacement the following morning at 7am.  Though my surgeon insisted that some terrible injury had paved the way for an arthritis that had only worsened over time, I am quite sure the many years of gardening had made my knees old before their time.  I did not make the decision to replace it with a titanium prosthesis lightly-I had tried everything else.  There did come a time when the backslide became a backward landslide.  Stairs, and construction sites weren’t difficult-they were impossible.   Buck installed railings on both sides of the basement stairs so I could pull myself up, and stop myself from falling, going down.  A bad situation had become intolerable.  I have three really good girlfriends who persuaded me to say yes.  Two are respected professionals at the hospital who would do the work-the third an optimistic and gutsy girl that had both of hers done at the same time-when she was 69.  They made the appointment with the surgeon, and scheduled the date for me when they decided I was stalling.  They loudly and enthusiastically coached.  How lucky am I to have them?

Taking a major surgery to the bank may seem like a contradiction in terms up front-but I was not really prepared to give up my garden, or my client’s gardens.   As Buck put so succinctly-“Keep foremost in your mind your faith in the beauty of science and scientists, and your complete respect for the scientist who will be in charge of designing, executing, and insuring your future as a gardener.”  Another very good friend advised me a week before to try to put my ability to focus to work on my own behalf.  Time does go by; you will be swept up and deposited on the other side in a week’s time-swim with it.  On  her recommendation, swim I did.

An amazing number of clients and contractors broached the topic with stories of  their own experiences; it had become obvious to them it was time for me. Lots of people have knee replacements. Gardening takes its toll on everyone who loves it. Like every other gardener,  I have been stung, stabbed, poked, and bested more times than I care to admit-but I always came back for more. I have fallen and wrenched both of my knees, and both of my ankles.  I have strained my back, sunburned my neck, and broken my leg- obliviously stepping into an 18 inch drop in grade accomodating a giant drain. Every finger I have has quarter inch deep splits in the spring from wet soil.  I have cut myself with my own pruners lots of times.  I always came back for more.  Whatever you come back for, is worth fighting for, yes?  Faced with the prospect of do, or give it up, I put myself in someone else’s hands.

Should you be a gardener whose history has worn your knees to that excruciatingly painful grinding point, I would tell you this.  The level of medicine available at your local hospital is formidably, unbelievably good.  My knee is criss-crossed with lines made from a marker; such a companion computer program exists to enable a surgeon to implant the new knee exactly in the proper cross hairs.  A knee that sits right underneath your body in the correct spot-not close to correct.  A knee made for your sex and size.  A knee that will work for a long time.  Wow.  Just four days post op, I would tell you that there is a good gardening life ahead of you should you be stopped in your tracks with a knee no longer working-you only need to risk it.  I attended no classes, nor did I read anything about this procedure on my computer.  For me, there is such a thing as too much information.  Knowledge of every detail doesn’t help me-it overwhelms me with doubt and worry.  The surgical details I did not need to fret over-they would only keep me in a state of poorly controlled panic for the month I had to wait.  I had a program clearly outlined by the doctor, all of which I did.  I avoided everything else except well wishes and encouragement.   

I will admit the half hour I spent alone in pre-op before my team got up and running almost did me in.  I could feel my resolve slipping.  I could feel tears welling up, and I thought to run for my life.  Finally, my anesthesiologist.  He has a smile that made it seem like the sun was shining in the room, and a clearly confident way of explaining how what he would do would make the process go smoothly and unobtrusively for me.  I noticed a giant head of hair stuffed up under his surgical cap; I asked him about that.  He took the time to get a picture out of his wallet-the most gorgeous black and silver dreadlocks in a pony tail I have ever seen. He took the time to focus me on something else other than my own dreadlock.  He managed to be handsome, sunny, but  completely and competently in charge of the pre-op shop, and he took the time to treat me as a person.  I went gently into that good night.

So I wake up in recovery, thinking nothing has happened yet.  I remember the elevator ride to my room, and the woman’s face who took me. I was alert.   Amazing; not one bit like a surgery thirty years ago.  The big revolution-a spinal anesthesia and a Stryker pain pump. Numbing medication was being dispensed to the nerve governing the outraged knee on a digitally controlled schedule. What did this mean to me? Spinal anesthesia is a lot easier on, and less difficult to come out of  for a human being than general anesthesia.  A pain pump erased the need for narcotics to control the pain.  I was myself, right off the bat.  I came out of the starting block with everything I had at my disposal-to recover.  This is my lay point of view-I am not a doctor.  I only say what I had to do went as if it were my choice all along.

Steve gave me Dominique Browning’s book “Paths of Desire”-to read during my recovery. I took it to the hospital on a lark, never believing I could read there.  But   I was able to read- and reflected on every word.  I did not forget what I had read, even when interrupted. She is a writer whose every phrase and sentence is worth taking time with. You would miss the point, speed reading. I was able to think about her idea that a garden is everything about how it makes you feel.  And how others feel, being there.  It is a story of how rebuilding her garden and her life were one in the same.  The story of why and how she loves her garden put so much into words for me.  She got me to think about how a garden absorbs history and change, and gives back-should you open your heart to it. I was introduced to, and able to concentrate on her writing.  What a fabulous book this is-have you had the time to  read it?  In the process of being introduced to the writing of Dominique Browning, I have a new knee.  The prospect of gardening again  feels really good.  I have a new tool that I know is going to work just fine.

Today is January 31st-if you are not thinking about what you have in store for your garden, and what your garden has in store for you come May, you are unavoidably sidetracked, or sideswiped.  Either scenario-you have my sincere sympathies; this happens to me every year too.  I think I have all the time in the world to dream until the date finally registers with me.  The winter months can fly by faster than you think, in spite of all the endlessly daily grey.  I am corresponding with a grower out west about his large scale espaliers, putting together a list of 12 inch annual basket combinations for Bogie Lake Greenhouse to grow, sketching every possible permutation of a shape for a swimming pool that will gracefully accomodate both a lap swimmer and family recreation in a very tight buildable space, and going over and over in my mind a design for a house only 6 feet from the road, whose flat back yard space is minimal-the rest dropping off precipitously. The shop is completely torn apart for cleaning, painting and rearranging; spring shipments are beginning to arrive. No doubt the best thing about January 31st is that I will not have to live through it again for another year. But it also means I only have 6 weeks to be ready for plenty. 

 What you are planning, and planning now, is of utmost importance. The garden waits for no one.  Gardeners are tinkerers-they have to be. In my zone there is some winter time to choose this over that, make changes, establish an order of events.  The seed loving people have been hard at work for weeks already.  You can’t grow every available string bean or cosmos-or can you?   I could not live in a climate without a winter season; I not only need reverie time, but I like it. I am set in my ecosystem, for good or for ill.  California gardeners-how I admire them. They have something every day progressing or declining-no neutral.  No time out or off. Of course this is my idea of what it is like to garden in California-unsullied by any experience. Where am I going with this?  The planning for a garden informs the work.  Though nature can wreck my plans in a capricious blink of her eye, an investment in some planning time is like a little insurance.  That baby blue spruce that would look so good next to the walk will become a big Mama spruce sooner than you think-how will it look in that spot, 25 feet tall and 10 feet wide?  It takes the same time, sweaty effort and money to plant something in the wrong place as the right one.  This is an obvious example of what is a good idea to think through before you act.  Other design issues are not so clear, and just take time to get the good and beautiful solution.  When I do not have any ideas that to my mind seem worth lifting a hand for, I say so, and take the time to come back. It is possible that one’s first pass at something is the best pass.  Its equally as likely that the 4th pass will be better than the 5th.  You won’t know this unless you take the time.      

  It seems to me that very good design is a significant part of every good product, novel, music, art or cuisine that comes my way.  And that some form of reflection plays a big part in the making.  Beautiful and thoughtful are good together in the same sentence, and on the same project.  It is true that time I give to my garden or yours means that something else does not get time. It could be the most expensive thing about a garden is the time it demands.  Making the decision to devote the time is the hardest part. I meet people all the time capable of imaginative and intriguing ideas.  Committing the time to giving form to those ideas is another thing altogether.  So should you be stuck indoors, or just stuck, play along with my plan if you choose. 

I am never more focused on design than I am right now, on the verge of February first. So that process what I will be talking about.  As this weather leaves me cold, the first thing I do is turn my eyes towards my interior landscapes.  The gardens of my dreams.  Inspiration is everywhere, provided you take the time to let it work you over.  (Yes, my garden works me over.)  I am thinking that if I take the time to look at my process more critically, it will make my gardens better.  It’s a place to start.