The Gardening Years
by Mary Ellen Gambutti
Late
snow piled up against the sturdy, metal-framed, plastic-covered greenhouses.
March wind blustered down each row of the range numbered one through six. We
four women part-timers, in our thirties, dressed for the weather. I wore a blue
down vest and a wool cap—and stood at a worktable in the first greenhouse to
transplant seedlings. A large kerosene furnace at the rear of our hoop house
supplied just enough heat to keep the temperature above freezing for tiny
plants in plastic flats lined up on the gravel floor. We worked without gloves
to finesse the new growth from the potting mix into the next larger plastic
cell. It was tedious work, but we amused ourselves with our own chatter and the
sound of a rock station. On sunny days, the greenhouse was deliciously warm,
and we peeled off layers to work in sweatshirts.
At
thirty-four, I decided to pursue my love of plants as a second career. I
enrolled in the horticulture program at the Temple University’s Ambler campus,
which had its roots as a horticulture school for women. I took a part time job
in a prestigious Philadelphia garden center and nursery, Meadowbrook Farms. The
manager, whose name was John, was an expert grower; a six foot tall, wiry,
wry-humored boss with an unsophisticated demeanor. He moved quickly and
decisively as he monitored and recorded plant progress and directed staff. The
main glass-house overflowed with decorative greenery. Impressive collections of
tropical plants, giant begonias, staked lilies, and herbs thickly populated
gliding benches. I was a sponge for the wealth of information John imparted in his
clipped style.
When
the crocus bloomed, plant orders flowed in from landscapers, collectors, and
designers, many of whom would compete in the Philadelphia Flower Show. Mr.
Lyddon Pennock, Meadowbrook’s resident owner, held a prominent place in the Pennsylvania
Horticulture Society, which sponsors the show. John’s grand, yearly Meadowbrook
entry featured double borders, boxwood hedges, a classical English garden
complete with delphiniums, the hallmark gazebo.
I
had found freedom in the garden and nature since my 1950s childhood, when I
shadowed my Nana in her New Jersey garden. I told John I’d like to continue
working that summer, and he offered me a kind of apprenticeship in the wide
double borders. With a sumptuous pallet of perennials at my disposal, I got
right to work. I staked the towering orange helianthus, the seven-foot tall
elecampane daisy of herbal lore, the stiff-stemmed magenta asters, and the
steel-blue globe thistle. I divided overgrown clumps with a sharp spade,
transplanted and replaced. I worked in tiny detail with the embroidery of
alpines at the stone edge. Some sweltering afternoons, I might be found pruning
shrubs along the lush, shady walk, but rarely resting on the iron bench.
Mr.
Pennock appeared, and stooped to admire a plant. He produced his red handled
Felco pruner from his back pocket. From a Philadelphia family of floral
designers, he was tall and slender like John, but had a refined, aristocratic
air, in contrast to John’s impulsivity. Mr. P.’s white hair had a gentle wave.
He wore a bowtie on his crisp shirt, with the sleeves rolled up: a working
artist. His well-spoken, quietly cheerful comments were motivating. “This blue
lacecap hydrangea is a good as any perennial,” he noted, impressing upon me his
high regard for a rare plant, for perennials in general, and, I hoped, my
contribution to their care.
Patrons
became familiar with me as they proceeded down the garden walk. Some asked me
if I would care for their private gardens. I enjoyed exploring those lush
suburban properties, pruning shrubs, grooming perennials, and devising ways to
use existing plants to best advantage. I devoured colorful garden design books,
both classics and current trends. I drew inspiration from Lanning Roper and
Russell Page, two great landscape gardeners, and from Gertrude Jekyll, the
garden artist and writer who used color gradients and large drifts of
perennials. I was captivated by the style of the Dutch landscape designers, who
use enormous wild-looking sweeps of ornamental grasses and perennials that
change color and texture with the seasons.
I
dubbed my itinerant practice, “The Cottage Gardener: Garden Design,
Installation and Care.” I worked in the charming, old-world style Chestnut
Hill, Germantown, and Mainline landscapes, with their stone walls and terraces,
sunken gardens, reflecting pools and fountains, old trees and hedges, flowering
shrubs, and all varieties of perennials. I frequented Morris Arboretum, and
Longwood Gardens, and continued my horticulture training. My strength, stamina
and skill grew, and my creativity flourished in the beauty of these rustic
period settings.
After
several years, my husband and I bought a Victorian home and barn on an acre at
the upper reaches of Bucks County. We carved out our mini-farm, added a forty-foot
hoop house, vegetable plots, double perennial borders, two little prairie
meadows, native and exotic trees and shrubs, and fruit trees. Fancy chickens
and dwarf goats rounded out the bucolic setting. One of my goals was to grow
“specialty” flowers: unusual annuals and perennials for cutting. The frugal
nature and hard work of my enterprise did not outweigh my sheer joy in the
endeavor. I grew row after row of bright hot zinnia pinwheels and mammoth
sunflowers, as well as the chocolate, sunset-hued and yellow varieties. Clouds
of baby’s breath, red and pink Sweet William, and flat-headed golden yarrow
were harvested in buckets with the right conditioner for the best quality. The
glowing beauty of a morning’s masses of flowers was my reward for the pains of
growing.
*
Returning
to the garden was transformative. From office, to classroom, to work at
Meadowbrook and beyond, my life has been enriched by plants. In gardens, old
and new, I have learned that nothing is static; growth and change are life. As
I age, my wish list of plants has become whittled down, but I cannot do without
them. And less is often easier to manage.
* * * * *
"The
Gardening Years" first appeared in Remembered Arts Journal, May 20, 2017.
Mary Ellen writes about her life as an Air Force daughter in the 1950's and '60's, search and reunion with birth family, and survival of stroke at mid-life. She has been published in many fine journals represented in her memoir collection of stories, Permanent Home, planned for early 2019. Her memoir, Stroke Story: My Journey There and Back, is available in softcover and e-book. She and her husband reside on the Florida Gulfcoast with their sweet rescued Chihuahua, Maxwell. Her author blog is Ibis and Hibiscus. Ibisandhibiscusmelwrites.
