by Carolyn Bastick
Dedicated to my beloved sons,
Adam and Harry
Mary was
the previous owner of my new Minneapolis home. I learned she had died that autumn,
only sixty-nine, taken quickly by cancer. She was a gardener. An Army
photographer. Her photograph filing cases (disappointingly empty) were to be
left in the basement, too heavy to move. I was happy to allow them to remain in
my keeping.
My
move to this new home in 2017 was not planned. I was not supposed to be in
Minnesota. The daughter of a British Army officer accustomed to the upheaval of
military life, back in 1981 I had barely given a thought to the consequences of
marrying an American and moving to the Twin Cities. Yet for over thirty-five
years, I held England close to my heart, waiting for the day I could return.
And
finally, it was time. As I prepared for this long-awaited repatriation, the
father of my children assured me he approved of my departure. His doctor had
declared him to be a veritable poster child for chemotherapy, surely, the
ultimate positive prognosis. “Go to England, I’m fine!” he told me.
So, I
went. With his perceived blessing. I did not understand then that his words
were the hubris of a dying man. I had trusted him in this weighty matter
because I had no choice. For to doubt him would be to accept the unacceptable—that
my children would be left fatherless. That I would no longer simply be a
divorced mother, but a single parent, with sole proprietorship of our boys as
they stood poised on the brink of adulthood. Even after the divorce, we had
raised our children collaboratively, equally involved in their lives. I could
not imagine taking on this great responsibility alone.
Now,
less than twenty-four months later, his death had brought me back to Minnesota
in a rush. Even with my training, two transatlantic moves in as many years was
brutal. A decision that had been in the making for over three decades was undone
in a heartbeat. I deserted my partner and my English family to be close to my
grieving sons. Insecure and isolated in this unfamiliar single parent role, I
would need to create yet another American home. I would have one more northern
garden to nurture.
My
first foray into gardening came decades before after we bought a very special
bungalow in Minneapolis in which to raise our family; a neglected 1917 Sear's
kit house charmingly called The Ashmore. Learning about its history and
attempting to restore some of its grandeur rapidly became an obsession.
The
Ashmore was built in the
Craftsman style. It possessed an organic nature. Brown hues, low to the ground,
a chimney and garage constructed of field stone. It sat nestled in its urban
lot begging to be surrounded by beauty. I believe it was the blandness of The
Ashmore’s landscaping that spurred me on to take the plunge. Move that hosta.
Dig out the soulless rows of shrubs, eradicate the plastic edging and weed
control mesh. Make inroads into the lawn. I never looked back.
Americans,
in my experience, hold this charming belief that if you are English and you
create a garden that is pleasing to the eye, it is due solely to your heritage
that it grows as it does. As if gardening is in the English DNA. I wish it were
so!
Everything
I know about gardening I have learned in Minnesota. Through trial and error and
an unhesitating approach to moving plants. During my brief tenure in England,
finally in a climate where I could grow year-round, I struggled in every
respect. The garden centers, replete with their expansive gift shops and tea
rooms, displayed rows and rows of sumptuously eye-watering plants and shrubs. I
recognized virtually none of them. The English universally use botanical
plant names. Common names, when applied, are frequently entirely different than
those used in the States.
It
took me months to understand that there was a reason why local retailers only
offered a few varieties of daylily (my favorite plant.) I discovered to my
horror that without being able to depend upon extended periods of hot weather,
they were unreliable bloomers. One of my greatest joys starting in early
summer is to rise at first light and see which of my lovelies have opened
overnight. I greet them like old friends, exclaim at their beauty, then
deadhead their spent compadres. Extraordinarily therapeutic, I could hardly
bear the idea that this ritual was not going to be available to me in my
long-awaited English garden.
And
while hosta love the English climate, so do slugs and snails. They would
decimate complete plants overnight. Eventually, I just gave up on another of my
once-dependable garden companions.
The
old adage "the grass is always greener on the other side" could not
have been more apt!
So,
on a bitterly cold January day when I found myself viewing what was to become
my next home, the garden not at all apparent under the snow and ice, my heavy
heart was lifted by a single thought: I can once again garden like a
Minnesotan!
Mine
was the sole offer despite a strong seller’s market, the discounted asking
price, and that the property sat directly across from Folwell Park. Observed
from the right angle, you could believe the park was an extension of the
garden. I found this irresistible. It was as if this place had been waiting
just for me. Because I desperately needed somewhere to call my own. Because I
could see beyond the achingly sad shabbiness of this 1925 bungalow. Because I
am a gardener.
My
new home was located in north Minneapolis. When I first moved to the Twin
Cities, I learned to navigate this foreign land thusly: North was bad. Always.
South was good. Always. West was affluent suburbia where I could ride
horses. East was the direction of travel required to get to our twin, St. Paul.
I
bucked the system early and moved into neighborhoods that alarmed everyone within
my newly-acquired social circle. I made money every time I sold a house.
Gentrification was my friend. You will hear gunshots every night said a young cop
I consulted prior to making my latest home-buying decision. I went ahead with
the purchase anyway; gunfire was no match for my track record.
He
was right. Calling 911 has become integral to my lifestyle. In the beginning, I
called often out of sheer disbelief at the crimes and various wrongs unfolding
in front of my white privileged eyes. Now, I am more likely to call out of
anger and outrage. I have developed a set of 911-worthy standards. If drug
dealers are selling to adults, moving on quickly, I am inclined to give them a
pass. But the guy terrifyingly tearing down the street on the illegal 4-wheeler
turns me into a crazy woman, and on principle I pick up my phone.
I
confess that, sometimes, I have left it to others to react when gunshots stutter
out in the middle of the night. I worry that I will fall prey to the
complacency and cynicism that infects many of my neighbors. Fear and distrust
of local law enforcement is deeply rooted here on the Northside. I am almost
relieved when another event triggers the now-familiar heady cocktail of fear,
fury, and desire to right a wrong and I reach for that phone.
It
was a wimpy winter by Minnesota standards. The snow was gone by March and the
thaw revealed the true extent of the neglect that I had inherited. Like the
Sear’s kit house, it was clear I was going to have to engage in a little
digging and destruction to rejuvenate Mary’s little house. Yards and yards
of odd little retaining walls, now tipping over in all directions, had to be
removed. As did the business end of an ancient washing line that was serving as
a bird feeder rack. A non-functioning Narnia light was randomly placed where I
could envision a flower bed.
Then
I waited.
Spring
stampedes into Minnesota—a wonder to behold if you have lived through one of
these winters. Even after gardening here for over two decades, I am amazed that
anything survives the depth of the deep freeze. Yet once all danger of
snow has passed, in a matter of weeks everything is covered in a haze of green.
You become adept at identifying plants (and weeds) from the barest tuft of
growth, the blessed relief and thrill when your beloved bits and pieces show
signs of life.
But
even as you are welcoming the return of your garden, Mother Nature is
whispering in your ear ... Hurry, hurry! Waste not a minute. Come November,
the snow will fly. All you hope to achieve must be accomplished in Minnesota’s
short-lived growing season. Gardening in the Upper Midwest is an intense
experience. For me, a powerful driving force.
That
first spring, I confess I was especially excited as I waited to see Mary's
garden. Mary was a gardener. Everyone told me so. In the meantime, I found some
of her treasures scattered throughout the beds, stored in the garage and
basement, many of them not to my taste. In the past, I would have rehoused these
items. Yet now I did not. A pink Dollar Store kneeler has proved to be
invaluable. A cracked garbage can is perfect for weeding as it tips neatly
inside the requisite paper lawn bags. And buried deep under layers of
decaying leaves I came across a stepping stone, orange and black koi swimming
around its edges. It lives next to a newly-dug pond, much safer than the real
thing who would almost certainly become midnight snacks for marauding raccoons.
This
was the start of a fresh approach to making a garden. There were budgeting
constraints. What could I recycle, re-purpose? To re-use Mary's leftovers in
unexpected ways seemed both practical and respectful. It gave me permission to
be more relaxed as I set about building something livable and lovely. My world
had been turned upside down, the perfect time to break through those
self-imposed creative barriers.
By
May, I had a better feel for the garden itself. Frankly, I was disappointed.
There
was much evidence that no-one had been picking up the litter that is endemic to
the north side of Minneapolis. The primary bed was not full of whimsical
plantings as the jaunty brick edging might suggest. Just some very ordinary hosta
and phlox, a wire Easter egg basket thrown in for good measure. And a carpet of
weeds and saplings from the street maples. The allium, though plentiful
and most welcome in the spring, were jammed up against the back wall, their
early-season impact lost in the shadow of the building. The "nice
hedge" (so described by the uninspired Realtor selling the house) was
pruned to within an inch of its life. In contrast, the one mature tree, a messy
ash, was gasping for a trim, more dead than alive.
In
front, a lonely hydrangea was parked in full sun on the edge of the
inexplicably lumpy lawn, where it would attract the attention of local dogs and
be bumped and bruised by pedestrians rounding the corner. I didn't understand
how it could still be alive given its harsh positioning.
I
tend to focus my attention on my more private back yard. But it was here, at
the intersection of two less-than-desirable streets in North Minneapolis, that
I unearthed where Mary had created her pièce de résistance. A
single bed. A bed that would accumulate snow, salt and sand delivered by the
City plows. That would suffer the most from accidental foot traffic. That
would collect the worst of Folwell's trash. That would from time to time be
driven over by cars under the influence of their reckless or impaired owners.
Nothing
made sense. I could see the love that Mary had put into this one bed, but I
struggled at first to comprehend why she might have selected this particular
space for what appeared to be her primary gardening effort. Where was the work
of the great gardener?
But
then I reminded myself that Mary was sick. Perhaps she was too tired to tend to
more than this small plot. Could this also have been a mark of defiance on
her part? To demonstrate that you can create and sustain beauty anywhere? Even
at a crossroad that far too often bears witness to human drama and chaos.
Frequently loud. Occasionally violent.
Did
she choose to cultivate here because, near the end, it took her out into the
world and provided an opportunity to greet her neighbors? Have a natter.
Observe the action on the street, good and bad. And hear how passersby
appreciated her endeavors. "I love your flowers!" A beep of
the horn, a smile and thumbs up from a total stranger. Because, I've learned,
this is what happens when you are tending Mary's garden.
I
have come to view this garden as a miracle of sorts. It has yielded many
beautiful surprises and helped me become deeply connected with this sometime
challenging neighborhood. Has sustained me through another difficult adjustment
as an expat. It is our curse to forever be leaving precious people. This part
never gets any easier. My gardens have always eased the pain. Have enabled me
to create a sense of place when I was starting again.
It
has been while tending Mary's flower bed that I have experienced the most
uplifting of encounters. The most humbling, like the freely-given hugs from the
little girls that catch the bus on my corner or the young boy who has blessed
me with his inquisitive friendship, somehow rising above the mayhem of his
cramped and noisy household where a man was shot and killed shortly before I
arrived. For months, I naively assumed the deflated balloons hanging sadly from
the tree on the curb were left over from a kid’s birthday celebration. Another neighbor
unexpectedly pulled up his shirt to show me the tattooed landscape of his back:
tigers, eagles, and flowers. Another nature lover. Our mutual love of the
natural world couldn’t stop the jolt I felt when I spied the .44 Magnum tucked
into his waist band. I marvel at the way a flower or visiting butterfly ensnares
complete strangers in conversation about the wonders of our planet.
Something
that seems unique to Northside living is how on the bleakest of days, when life
on this street seems unutterably hard, someone will express gratitude for the
beauty of my garden, and instantly the world is put to rights.
There
is much need in this community, and I have been graced with many random
opportunities to give to others. I have developed a reputation. I have scoured
the ground for spent shells outside my window in the wake of gun-wielding
truant teenagers fleeing from an unidentified assailant. I bullied the City
into installing a four-way stop sign at my corner and shamed the Park Board
into giving our neglected park the love it had so long deserved. This place has
provided me with a job when I thought I had none.
I had
been absolutely determined to transplant the poorly-placed hydrangea that first
year, quite prepared to take the risk that it wouldn't live through such a
move. But thankfully I ran out of time and energy. Because it is a stunner.
Starting to bloom in June, it goes on and on, the blossoms spectacular and
deliciously fragrant.
The
hardy hydrangea is not alone in thriving where it should not. Hosta have been
treated likewise, planted in full sun in thin soil, and in their resilience,
they have spread through chinks in the brick edging, lending a delightfully
haphazard effect to the planting.
I
have never had a garden that attracts so many birds. The garden grows,
seemingly, unbidden. Even the hosta self-seed. The allium planted under the
overhangs of the roof get virtually no moisture. Yet when I dig them up, they
reappear. A mystery rose has popped up in the same barren spot. Diminutive
balloon flowers appear hither and thither in a stone-dry bed where I was sure
nothing could flourish. It was here also that I found what I at first
believed to be some sickly daylilies of the 'Stella de Oro' variety. I
am not a fan of the color or the ever-blooming concept and dumped them
unceremoniously in Mary's boulevard. This daylily is in fact a gorgeous creamy
yellow. And tiny. Like the balloon flowers. Another near miss!
Mary's
planting decisions seemed to defy gardening logic. There can be no other
explanation: these plants bloom for Mary.
I have
of course put my own stamp on the most recent of my northern gardens. I have planted
many trees, some donated by public schemes seeking to reforest North
Minneapolis following the devastation of the 2011 tornado. I have switched
things up and further developed Mary’s riotous color scheme, just as I have made
use of many of Mary's curiosities.
I
gladly accept donations from friends and neighbors with which to fill my
growing garden and am thankful for these living gifts. This is a marked
departure from my former strict gardening self that would have turned down the
likes of the previously-scorned Stella de Oro and the near-neon orange
lilium, beautifully brash, that now brighten Mary's bed. These were a contribution
from the .44 Magnum owner. These plants are tough, easy keepers, perfect for
that dangerous boulevard.
As I
dig and change, I have uncovered 20th century trash: Broken bottles, china
shards, hardware, a tiny Cinderella slipper. I cherish this glimpse into the
generations that called this corner home before my time. Before Mary's time. I
save the best pieces and wonder about their owners. And when the day comes that
I must leave here, they will accompany me on my travels. In memoriam.
I
continue to hear that Mary was quite the gardener. She was very kind, generous,
trusting. Maybe too trusting it has been suggested. Sometimes Mary was a
little, well, eccentric: compulsively mowing the lumpy lawn, trimming that
hedge. I am always grateful for these insights into the woman whose passing
made my Northside life possible. And very often those who knew her ask the
question: where is Mary now? I have to explain that Mary is gone. This has been
an altogether unexpected responsibility. I observe their faces, see the shock
and sadness, the little expressions of discomfort that they should have known.
Mary was their neighbor.
How
can this happen? Because this is Minnesota. The first frost drives us into a
frenzy of preparation for the long cold months ahead. Then we hunker down for
the winter. Children are conceived. People marry. Move away. Get sick. And
die. In the spring, we venture outside and catch up. Quickly. For in just
a few short months, the snow will fly.
Afterword
I have recently looked up Mary's obituary. I
had resisted taking this step for fear that I would learn something that
wouldn't mesh with how I understood her. Instead, I discovered a deeper
connection. Mary was the sister of a man that I had worked alongside for a
number of years. My former co-workers had attended Mary's funeral.
Importantly, I learned that my sense of Mary
was not misplaced. She was a volunteer teacher’s assistant, loved children, was
passionate about the arts. She was pretty.
I have come to feel an affinity and an
affection for Mary. There is much we have shared beyond the plants that
survived her. Ours is a story of two gardeners. And their Northside garden.
"There is something
magical in sophisticating the elements into something livable, something human.
It is as if you are building your own heart."
–Harry Jensen, December 2018
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