Yesterday was Rosellen’s birthday. We had already done the formal celebrating a few days earlier when our daughter Adina was visiting, so the wining and dining were behind us. Instead, we marked the occasion by visiting the greenhouse where we buy the plants and seedlings that populate our plots in the community garden and our back porch.
We had cancelled two earlier trips because the weather was uninviting, but we seized on a rare 70 degree day to finally make the trek to the suburbs to drown ourselves in the lushness of Pesche’s Garden Center where the spectacle of color and green health quickly erase the details of the arduous trip. In the outdoor areas, the flats of petunias, snapdragons and marigolds rest on tables under hanging pots containing colorful arrays of flowers that must have been fun for the resident gardeners to design.
Inside a greenhouse probably the length of two football fields, seemingly endless sections of geraniums and other plants I can’t even identify create the kind of dizzying panorama that I would drive here to see even if we weren’t on a buying mission. The geraniums we purchase are with us for the whole year. When the weather turns cold we dig them up and transplant them into pots that occupy every window sill in every room of our apartment, until they get too leggy in their quest for light and render them less attractive than they were in their ancestral greenhouse.
While Rosellen is our flower tender, I am the practical farmer drawn to the vegetables. They have their own kind of beauty, but they are also “friends with benefits” when they yield results that adorn our summer table. So, I’m attracted to the rows of vegetable and herb seedlings that occupy their own outdoor turf adjacent to the greenhouse. I push my cart down aisles containing astonishing variations on the tomato, the pepper, leafy vegetables and herbs. I can resist impulse buying in the supermarket, but not here. I find myself dropping into the cart far more little pots of vegetable seedlings than I will have room to plant in our two 10X10 plots.
One of the reasons for this undisciplined buying is my undisciplined record keeping. I recognize the names of some of the tomato and pepper varieties from past years, but my memory isn’t good enough to remember which were more or less successful. The style is not quite as random as the currently popular style of “chaos gardening” where you buy random seed packets, mix them together, sow them on your plot, cover them with soil and see what comes up. (That may produce results for flowers, but I can’t see how vegetables can flourish without a bit more structure. Undisciplined though my gardening style may be, I would say I’m still batting better than .800 in crop success.
When we checked out at Pesche’s, the bill ran close to $250, which is only a portion of what the garden costs us each year, when you add fertilizers, potting soil, tools, additional seeds to grow from scratch. Is it cost effective? Not at all, but how does one put a price tag on the satisfaction of watching something we’ve nurtured come to fruition and the pleasures of being out in the summer air, using our now diminished muscle power, but testifying to the fact that we’re not done yet.
Right now, there’s a candle burning in a small glass on my kitchen counter. It’s called a yahrzeit candle in memory of my father who is gone 40 years now. What am I to do with the realization that when he died, he was close to the age that I’ve reached now? I’ve always measured myself against certain milestones in his life. I wanted to surpass his retirement age, which I did. He was 71, while I made it to 74. I’m sure he would be rooting for me to outlast his survival age as well.
My father had his faults, but on this day, I’d rather celebrate him for the greatest gift he bequeathed to me. Max Hoffman modeled a man’s right to show and express his feelings. He was not a crier, but he demonstrated his love, both verbally and physically. When we walked together, he held my hand well into my teens. Nothing could be further than the warrior mentality that prevails today in too many circles. I would like to think that his gift has made me a better husband, father, teacher and friend. A belated thank you, Daddy.
