The Song is to the Singer and comes back most to him…
–Walt Whitman from Song of Myself
When you are a gardener, you must consider that friend and foe alike come daily to the gates of the city. The gardener must be vigilant and welcoming, but fearsome to strangers with uncertain appetites.
Like any protector worth her salt, I start daily at the far reaches of the kingdom, just to look around and see what’s what. At the furthest end of my garden, there are four mature lilacs along a fence. I have learned, after almost twenty years in Oregon, that early spring can be challenging here, as well as very beautiful. One day we have sun and spring promise. The next day, it is hailing pellets of ice and the temperature has dipped twenty-five degrees.
Spring is schizophrenic. Lilacs are my cure.
I have planted two deep purple doubles called Glory in the middle of the bed. On one side, my favorite—a triple called “Katherine Havermeyer”—blooms in two tones of light and dark lavender. At the end is “Primrose”, which was supposed to be light cream, but turned out light pink. Just goes to show you.
You can’t count on anything in a garden, which is why people love it as a metaphor for life. The garden will also make a fool out of you on a regular basis. This spring, for example, I planted my dahlias upside down. Why in the world did I do that? Over-tired? Planting in the rain? Brain burp? Poor dahlias—I planted them like the damned in the Inferno. It took a friend of mine to explain to me that the tubers would produce buds all along the horizontal shape of the dahlia and that I needed to go back in there and gently lift them out and start over. Humbling is the only word for it.
Because gardening is so humbling, levity is essential. In my garden, I have a two-foot high, fantastical eggplant sculpture. Standing up tall and ruddy with a tiny flower petal cap upon its head, my eggplant has a rakish demeanor for a vegetable—as though he knows things you don’t.
My friend, Marilyn, was the first to comment. Shading her eyes from the sun, she said, “Hey, great phallus.”
I was taken aback and said with a little sniff, “This is not a phallus. This is my eggplant.”
“Sure, if you say so”, said Marilyn. Did I detect a snicker?
I put my hands on my hips. “Now listen. Do I look like someone who would have a purple phallus in the garden?” I point to my pearl earrings, the fresh pedicure.
“Do I look jam packed full of the goddess? Fertility rites, rain dances, all that?”
Marilyn just smiled. She knows me, and besides I’m not going to reveal any secrets to her. I get corn like you wouldn’t believe. I don’t have to help pollinate those silky strands in a lean year; no artificial insemination around here, no sir. Now I’m not saying my eggplant is responsible for my productive little garden. I’m not going to speculate. Some things are best left unsaid. But maybe, just maybe…I could get out the flashlight some night just to see……Nah.