Life and Death in the Gardens

This past month, in the gardens and in my life, has felt like a time of toil, sad endings, and new beginnings. To be fair, August has never been my favourite month to garden, as it is more often than not, too hot, too dry, and everything looks like it has seen better days. It is the time of summer when the garden beds look tired, and I am woefully behind on deadheading. And, while the vegetable garden in August is generally abundant, picking vegetables in 90-degree weather doesn't generate the same joy that it does in the newly sun-warmed days of June or the cooler ones of September. This year, August took too hot and too dry to the extreme, with many days in the 90s and over five weeks with no measurable rain. Much of my time in the gardens was divided between keeping the terraces and the vegetable garden hydrated while watching the rest of the gardens seemingly turn to dust. Unfortunately, it is neither practical nor sustainable to water all of the gardens, so beyond the core, the rest must fend for themselves.

Generally, this works well, but not this summer. The gardens are not accustomed to long stretches of dry weather and are planted accordingly.  As they are situated over ledge, the plants only have so much reserve to draw on, so dry weather quickly impacts them. Given this, the extended dry spell was devastating, and watching things shrivel was heartbreaking. Additionally, not watering things that I have planted and nurtured with such care felt akin to abandonment. I dearly hope that prolonged dry spells do not become the new normal for the gardens, but if they do, I will need to make my peace with it and adjust my planting accordingly. This is a sentiment I express stoically, but through gritted teeth. I HATE dry weather and climates. A childhood of drought in the Dakotas has permanently prejudiced me towards temperate climates with adequate moisture; the type of climate that Vermont has historically had.

All was not dust and desiccation, however. I did manage to finish the new koi pond and waterfall. Working around so much water in such a dry spell was both surreal and refreshing. I have to admit that I joined my daughters for more than one swimming session after the end of a hot day moving rocks and building terraces in the heat. Another highlight was my mother bringing some large goldfish to break in the pond until the point it is time to move her koi here.

We have very much enjoyed their antics, and my youngest has named them all, though the realities of nature were brought front and centre when she saw a red-tailed hawk swoop down and make off with one for its breakfast one morning. Living alongside the wild as we do can be both awesome and devastating (as when a bobcat took one of our beloved garden kitties last autumn). I am all for living in and as part and parcel of nature, but I sometimes wonder if everyone advocating for rewilding understands fully what that means. To borrow from an iconic Disney song, it is all part of the "circle of life", but it can be hard to swallow at times. In response to the hawk (and several herons we saw flying over and eyeing the pond), we quickly installed two metal cranes that we move around the pond daily, and some floating netting that will hopefully limit any further predations. Now I am just hoping that no bears decide to go swimming.

Now that the pond is finished, I am working on the surrounding terracing. I still have several terraces to build, but I have made good progress and have begun to plant the ones I have finished with the seedlings that I have been babying all summer in the greenhouse. As for the greenhouse itself, the beds that I finished late this spring are coming into their own and beginning to look like something, which serves as inspiration every time I begin to get tired of moving rocks as I build the pond terraces.

All of this, however, was a backdrop to the rest of my life, which is both intertwined and separate from the gardens. My husband's father, who has been through a number of health crises the past couple of years, after several remarkable recoveries and subsequent relapses, entered hospice this month. While this may not on the surface seem directly tied to the gardens, it is intimately so, as the gardens are where I go to relieve stress, to find solace, and to centre myself. Over the past couple of years, in between emergency room visits, long days at hospital, interminable doctor's appointments, therapy appointments, etc., I would come home to the gardens to ground myself in the earth and to take out my frustrations on weeds. Two autumns ago, I planted hundreds of daffodils while wondering if he would be around to see them the following spring. When he was, I couldn't help but think of them as his daffs. Spending time walking the woodland gardens this August, with the water-starved maples prematurely dropping leaves, while other plants shrivelled and died, felt both painful, and somehow in sync with the long days in the hospital.

Much as I did not want the drought and in the moment did not appreciate the correlation, the gardens still seemed to be able to offer me lessons on life and death, and change. Funnily enough, despite how tied his recent health and the gardens have been in my mind, gardening has never really been his thing. I don't think he has ever understood the amount of time and effort I spend on my gardens. Whenever he calls to talk and he asks what I am doing, when I respond that I am gardening, it is always met with an exasperated "of course you are, where else would you be!" He has always, however, enjoyed sitting with us in the gardens and will nod out at them approvingly, periodically asking what something or another is. Sometimes he nods off in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers. At the moment, he is still with us, though he grows increasingly tired. When we are able, we bring him from his hospice facility to spend time with us in the gardens. Recently, he has asked to have some of his ashes spread amidst the apple trees so that he can continue to spend time with us, at least in a way, even after he is gone.

This approaching ending has also been combined with new beginnings, as two of my middle children have moved to Ireland for university. They said their final goodbyes to their grandfather amidst tears, and he looked on with pride as they left to start the next phase of their lives, understanding that it was unlikely he will ever see them again. I went with to settle them in and have spent a week basking in the rainy Irish weather, amidst shopping trips to stock them up with sheets, plates, etc, and of course some houseplants to make sure that they have all of the essentials that they will need.

The day we left for Ireland, the rains finally came back to the gardens, and I will soon be back as well. My oldest son has been on watering and caretaking duties and assures me that he hasn't killed anything yet and that the rains have slowly been reviving the rest of the stressed and desiccated plants. I am hopeful that things will look better when I return than they did when I left. I am hopeful, too, that, while they are numbered, there are still at least a few days of sitting together in the gardens, listening to my father-in-law grumble about how much time I spend pottering in them, while he plays a hand of cribbage with my son and reminisces with my husband. There is currently much sadness, but also laughter and yes, joy, and being able to experience this mix of emotions cocooned by the birdsong and green of the gardens is a gift that we are all grateful for.