(Plant and) Rock Stars

TBT - Written in early 2008, before reality television was so ubiquitous and earning a show would have been an real accomplishment and was a goal of mine. I did radio but I'll stick to print, now thanks.

After reading Anthony Bourdain’s accounts of life in the trenches of a New York City restaurant, I was filled with sardonic pride for a career filled with hard work and camaraderie, but no, I am not a chef. I am a landscape designer. I’ve worked in both industries and know that they can each be full of lazy drunks and hot-tempered artists, having to rely on a colorful immigrant workforce. Neither requires a college degree and both are often the last resort of the nearly un-employed. Real self-sacrificing, love it or leave it kind of work, we didn’t get into this for the money.  Both are low-paying professions that cater to the rich. As Mr. Bourdain pointed out, many chefs could not afford to eat regularly in their own restaurants, I too have designed and managed residential projects that cost more than my home. Where chefs wield knives, we wield shovels and backhoes, equally dangerous tools. That is not the only difference though.

We can all relate to food, it is a daily necessity, but landscape is a luxury. While an extravagant meal may cost hundreds of dollars, but even a simple landscape will require thousands. Some people hate to spend time outdoors, but few actually hate to eat. 

I know of no maintenance superstar with his own line of pruners and soil amendment “essence”, no garden center bearing the name of a celebrity horticulturist and no network featuring the installation of landscapes by the most famous designers. Only a few landscape architects are even recognized by name outside of their peers.  I am jealous frankly at the glorification chefs have gotten for their work. 

Why did chefs become rock-stars while the landscape professional still toils away in anonymity?

I think much of it can be attributed to the understanding that no industry has a bigger identity crisis than the landscape profession. If you tell someone that you are a chef, they will know that you work with food. Tell them that you are a landscaper and they may ask if you cut lawn, plow snow, pour concrete or arrange flowers. It is a hard title to define. On any given day I may be asked to diagnose a sick plant, design a lighting system or co-ordinate the flowers to the furniture. But by and far when I explain what I do, most respond that it sounds like fun!  So where are our fans?

We also suffer from the timeframe of our work. Dinners take hours to prepare, a landscape may take weeks or even years to develop.  It has been said that a house never looks better than on the day it is built and a garden never looks worse. The same analogy applies with a plate of food, “BAM” just doesn’t cut it when unveiling a landscape. Even when using large plants (and I always suggest using the largest available and affordable) a new landscape can look diminutive. That costly 10” caliper Zelkova, planted with a tree spade is still a few years off from shading the backyard and the groundcover needs to grow before it can actually cover the ground. In this industry “before and after” could be better portrayed with time lapse photography, maybe “before and three years later.” We have drama, it just doesn’t happen quickly. Materials are delayed, weather is unreliable and ideas must be re-considered in the face of reality, occasionally we even fight, curse and break things but that is not what you want to see in your yard!

When I first made the leap from cooking to designing, I was frustrated by the on-going nature of the work. A restaurant patron never returns weeks or months later to tell you that he is no longer full enough, each day the process just begins again. Homeowners though have tracked me down years later with a new employer to tell me a tree has died or a shrub has just not lived up to its potential. Of course some of their complaints are the legitimate result of a learning curve early in my career and I appreciate their observation and constructive criticism, but I honestly hate the fact that my bad choices can live on for years. Frank Lloyd Wright once said that “A doctor can bury his mistakes, but an architect must plant vines.”If that is the case, a landscape designer has nowhere to turn.

Beautiful garden also require maintenance.  I have watched in despair as some of my best designs have been abandoned to face drought, weeds and overgrowth or even worse, pruned by the maniacal Edward Scissor Hands himself. Chefs, thankfully, do not have to see what becomes of their efforts.

So why aren’t the channels filled with multi-tasking designer divas and their loyal talented crew of misfits? I long to follow in the globe-trotting footsteps of Anthony Bourdain as he scours the world in search of the perfect meal. Travertine Limestone is quarried in Turkey, fine garden tools are manufactured in England, rare and exotic plants are cultivated worldwide and I am really longing to visit the source of Mexican beach pebbles, surely someone would be interested in tuning in to watch a sarcastic landscape designer critique the famous gardens of the world. Soon we too may have our own network.

HGTV has offered us a nod of acknowledgement with “Designers Challenge,” but frankly that sort of attention is unwelcome. Nothing dissolves my inspiration faster than a client who informs me they are hiring three companies then choosing their favorite design. Why would I give my creative best when there is a two out of three chance that I will see it being executed by someone else? Of course you should interview several firms, get referrals and look through portfolios, but you should choose a designer you feel comfortable with before they begin to draw. There is a designer for every comfort level. Whether you want a dominating designer to insult your ideas and dictate how it should be done or a coddling, hand holding brown-noser to affirm your brilliant taste. Somewhere in between are many talented designers capable of combining your tastes and needs with their knowledge to create a beautiful, comfortable and usable landscape.

But alas, landscaping is not a glamorous career. We need to understand our importance first and take pride in what we do. Even the lowliest landscaper gets to be outdoors in the sunshine and fresh air. Of course he often has to be out in the snow and rain too, but we should take pride in that too. Like the chefs and kitchen staff who have come realize a burn can be a badge of honor, a calloused hand is a secret sign of allegiance to all who those who scrape beauty and a living from bare soil. 

Where the Wild Things Are

The other day I was asked if I would ever return to landscaping. My gut reaction was a resounding, "No." I am just the kind of person who likes to keep moving forward. Whether it is relationships or employers, it has been my experience that once you leave, it's best not to look back. That's not to say I have burnt bridges everywhere I've been - no, I've stayed on good terms with all of my employers and most of my ex's - it's just been my experience that whatever prompted me to make a change, has likely...not changed. So when it comes to landscape design: I've been there, I've done that and, even worse, the break-up was a bitter one. I was fortunate to be offered a position in the publishing industry but the decision to leave my business was not easy. Oh, how I cried and lamented to anyone who would listen, you would have thought I had lost a job rather than having just earned one - and in a way I guess, I had. For 15 years I had been working towards a higher position in my field and suddenly was walking away from it all.

Lately though a few conversations have opened my mind to the idea of returning; one of my favorite clients called to let me know she and her husband have finally begun construction of a large addition they had been planning and wanted to know if I would redesign their landscape, and I had the opportunity to interview a contractor who understood the importance of design. I was so thrilled to discuss it that I could barely stay on topic for the article. My exuberance on the phone prompted my editor to ask what the craziest job I had ever designed was. I told him about the cemetery we designed; the folly we built to disguise a hot tub; the time I squeezed a tiny pool into the setbacks of a ridiculously small property; about the clients who requested a professional horseshoe pit; another whose property had to accommodate a go-kart track; a dog rescuer who wanted a habitat for her huskies; and some disturbing requests to bury pets, relatives ashes and childrens' afterbirth (we would dig the hole, I said, but they were on their own to place it in).

A folly built to offer privacy for a hot-tub in a tightly packed development

A Tuscan-themed patio for a townhouse as seen from the vineyard planted on the hill

A patio designed around a 12' fountain the clients purchased before deciding they needed a patio

A patio built to allow the clients access into the hot-tub from their backdoor without any steps

A patio built to offer three distinct use spaces for a busy family of seven

Of course many of the projects I was involved with were crazy simply due to their size, scope or outrageous budgets, some of the wildest though are those that never were. There have been many in my career that failed to come to life - the multilevel patio on Maple that they never built, the firepit in Cranberry that we overbid, the terraced steps and rill on Foxcroft that were eliminated to meet zoning requirements, the vanishing edge pool which I left the company before seeing built - and the sad thing is that I know where each of them "should" have been and what they "would" have looked like. I keep their designs, I drive by to see if any work has been done or what another's end result was. Two of the most recent such failures though cut especially deep because they were lost when I was operating my own firm. It is easier to excuse the loss when you are just a cog in the wheels but when you are the driver, well, you only have yourself to blame.

The first one was a lesson hard learned early in my business. I was contacted by a builder whose client had asked him to solicit a landscape project along with some work he was doing. I met with the homeowner, made suggestions they like and was told budget wasn't a concern (first mistake). When the design was complete I gave it to the contractor for mark up (second mistake) but was told he would be meeting with the clients without me (final mistake). The contractor came back with word that they were shocked by the cost of everything they requested, I offered to make revisions but he said they were still considering it. Weeks went by without an answer and I was helpless to communicate with the client. Finally, I was told the client had chosen another concept. Fine, I said, just give me back my design...again weeks went by....and again I had to ask.

You are a mean one, Mr. Green.

Eventually my design was returned but several months later as I was standing at a suppliers counter watching photos scroll by on their computer screen I saw my design - or rather the landscape constructed using it - slide by. I never found out who the offender was, the clerk at the counter only knew the images were provided by another customer, but I was sick to my stomach over it. I had been used, lied to and cheated in only my first few months in business.

My isometric sketch may have been crude, but there was no mistaking the photo on screen

I experienced heartbreak again in my last year. A woman contacted me looking for something different, something unlike her neighbors, something with unusual shapes and high-quality materials, a fireplace, an outdoor kitchen, a pergola and a pool. I designed a project with all that - and it even met her budget! The sun deck was placed to allow tanning outside the large shadow cast by the home, the patio accommodated the 12-person table she special ordered and the raised beds meant no railing would block the views. I was actually scheduled to present some additions she had made to the proposal when she returned from a trip overseas ...but she never did or at least she never returned my calls. I have no idea what happened to her and to this day nothing has been built in her yard. In this case, I'm not even sure if I did something wrong, I just know that it would have been beautiful.

I hope one day you get that beautiful patio, Dr. Rim.

These stories put me right back on the fence about my career as a designer; on one hand I was able to create beautiful ideas, on the other I lost them to competition, cost or mis-communication. See, that is the thing about being a designer, you are not able to just be an artist - you are also a salesperson, an estimator, a logistics expert, a weatherman and sometimes a counselor. Your best ideas can be rejected, your process is dirty and in some cases your medium can die. Frankly, I'm just not sure I am ready for that again.

Wren in Rome

We have been experiencing bone chillingly cold weather here in the Northeast these last few days, the kind where code blue alerts are issued and the newscasters tell you to keep all companion animals inside. Our home is not known for being particularly well-insulated - it is nearly 200 years old with windows as thin as a silver dollar, in fact, the other morning I awoke to a thick layer of ice on the inside of the one window not sealed with plastic for the season - but on these nights as I snuggle into bed with my four dogs and a cat surrounding me, my heart goes out to anyone with less, be they human or animal.

My mother called to tell me that the other night my dad found a dead cat  frozen in one of their barns. It was a stray but it still upset my father who, though he is a hunter and farmer, would have done everything he could to provide a warm bed and food for this animal had he known it was in need. I know the feeling; if I could welcome every deer, rabbit and fox from the fields into my home on these bitter cold nights, I would.

Common sense, of course, tells me that is not possible, save for one little bird - sometimes as many as three - who have decided to call our home theirs. Peer into the rafters of our porch most any night and you will see them nestled together, out of the wind or rain and as warm as any wild creature can be. We call them the "Tuckies," as in, they tuck themselves in each night but they are properly known as Carolina Wrens.

Thryothorus ludovicianus 

These cheerful little song birds seem to enjoy the company of humans or at least not mind it much. We first met on a spring day several years ago when one decided our patio heater would make an excellent nest box. It stands roughly 7 feet tall, is constructed of steel, kept on a screened porch and not used so it really was a practical choice. Day in and out we watched as the little bird filled the enclosed basket with twigs, string and dog hair. Being from a patriarchal family I assumed the nester was female but soon found out home decorating was a duty handled by the man of the species, as was singing.

For weeks he would stand on the lawnmower or grill just outside our window and warble his heart out, "teakettle-teakettle-teakettle," in search of a mate. He must be a multitalented fellow because before long there was a brood of chicks requiring constant care from both mother and father. To and fro they flew, bringing in bugs and taking out waste. Once the little fluff-balls learned to fly (that was an adventurouse day for our dogs) we assumed our empty-nesters would move on but they stayed for the summer and then into fall, never seeming to mind our, or our dogs, comings and goings.

We worried about their fate during hurricane Sandy until - I don't remember why - one of us looked up into the rafters high above and saw a familiar fluffy form. We continued to see them on and off throughout the following year and through another nesting cycle. One evening after a long absence of sightings I was watering plants out front when I heard the familiar song. He/she serenaded me from the fence - not more than 10 feet away before flitting up into the front rafters. We were delighted to know they were still safe, and had simply moved from back porch to the front for the summer. Many nights we would creep out to peer up in the rafters, and sometimes quietly cheer the arrival of new visitors. 

Winter is upon us and the Tuckies can again be found on the back porch each night. They have realized we are the sort of neighbors that don't "lock our doors" and have found some way to enter another of our porches, this one enclosed in glass. At first we thought it was a mistake, that one had flown in through an open door and become trapped, but this weekend they had to be released on several occasions. The porch, slightly warmer than the outdoors must be a favorite hibernation location for the plethora of spiders and insects we suffer from as the Tuckies can be seen repeatedly hopping into the rafters and snatching up some tasty morsel. The last time I opened the door, my guest could not be persuaded to leave. He/she paid me no mind as I stood mere feet away holding the door like a dutiful Walmart greeter. After finishing a meal it found its own way out again and I suspect it won't be long before they are sleeping on that porch during the coldest of nights (don't tell my cat). "Snow birds" indeed.

I cannot tell you why but it does my heart good during these brutal nights to look up and see these tiny birds huddled into the eaves of our home. I often think of a Bible passage particularly meaningful to me, being both a gardener and a worrier: "Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." Matthew 6:25-34 

Even as I worry about the lack of work, frozen ground and the next fuel bill I am reminded that someone, somewhere is looking after me just as I look after these little lives and I am overjoyed to fit into the grand scheme if only through the shelter I can offer.

Gardening Angel

“My dear friend Maci …”

My coworker laughed at my use of this quaint sentiment but there is no better term to describe a friend old enough to be my grandmother, yet youthful enough to be my closest confidant.

I met Maci when her son and daughter-in-law purchased a house just down the road from where I was living with my parents. They lived in California at the time, so she took it upon herself to ready the home for their arrival. She hired my dad as a handyman and me—just 19 and on winter break from my horticulture studies at SUNY Alfred—to assist her with caulking and painting the nearly 200-year-old farmhouse. I was thrilled to be making the unheard-of sum of $10 an hour, but getting to know Maci was the real reward. She was a wonderful cook, a gardener and an avid learner who took classes at the local Athenaeum, but she was hardly limited to the “grandmotherly arts.” As readily as she shared seeds from a favorite perennial, she also provided her critique of Tarantino’s “Jackie Brown.”

The three of us often had lunch at the local diner, and it wasn’t long before she was also acquainted with most of my dad’s friends, whom she called “the boys.” Our friend Ollie was especially smitten. Still an attractive woman, Maci had short silver hair and a rather large chest. She was also a terrible flirt. She delighted in wearing a T-shirt that her granddaughter, an anthropologist, brought home from the Galapagos Islands, proclaiming her the “Home of the Blue-Footed Boobies.”

She was a fashion risk taker in other ways as well, but always stylish. She once gave me a beautiful pair of leather pants that no longer fit her. I am almost embarrassed to admit they didn’t fit me either, as it demonstrates how much less fashionable I was than my 70-year-old friend. I easily adopted some of her other styles, though, including her panache for accessories. No matter what she was doing, Maci’s arms were ringed in silver bracelets that made the most beautiful sounds as they struck one another.

She certainly appreciated the finer things in life. Her husband was a successful entrepreneur and workaholic over whom she constantly fretted. They shared a lovely little home where the pantry was wallpapered with the labels from fine wines they had enjoyed and collected over the years and filled with years’ worth of Bon Appetit magazines from which she often cooked for him. Despite her fun-loving nature, Maci was a true lady and a hopeless romantic, who—much to my embarrassment—once introduced my boyfriend at a holiday party by referring to him as my “lover.”

My mother, though originally offended when her own husband and daughter continued to rave about this other woman, grew to love Maci as well. It was hard not to; she was always so gracious and had this way of making people feel special. Maci was always sending luxurious little gifts that had reminded her of the recipient. Each year she made dozens of pounds of “Christmas Crunch,” a chocolate-covered toffee that once sustained my father and me during an extended road trip through New England. When I returned to college she gave me a basket full of Crabtree & Evelyn Gardeners soap, hand cream and floral design books, and when I moved to Pennsylvania to begin my career after graduation, she sent the makings of a dinner, including homemade dried pasta, imported Italian bread sticks and woven twig placemats. Her gifts were memorable not only because they were luxurious but also because they were so deeply personal. She would just as likely pass something on to you that she had owned and enjoyed but that she knew would mean even more to you. In addition to her gifts, she frequently sent me note cards written in her beautiful staccato penmanship. We corresponded often and talked frequently on the phone about all matters of work and life.

When I met the man who would be my husband, she couldn’t have been more delighted. Upon our engagement she gave me a rather gruesome pink-and-red glass vase, declaring to us that she chose it because it looked like a heart—literally. At my wedding shower she gave several baking sheets and a treasured old edition of the “Betty Crocker Cookie Book,” with her favorites marked. That fall, Maci offered to create the centerpieces for my wedding reception; pumpkins filled with autumnal flower arrangements. I bought the pumpkins, while Maci brought a friend from her flower-arranging class, along with bags of dried grasses, flowers and seed pods from her garden. We took my Jeep out into the fields around my parents’ home so we could collect wildflowers, leaves and vines. When completed, the arrangements were beautiful.

The following year, just before Christmas I received a call from Maci’s son to tell me Maci had passed away that morning. It was December 21, the winter solstice. I have since heard from those working in eldercare that it is a common phenomenon for someone to pass away in their sleep just before waking. The body follows a circadian rhythm to rest and rise and sometimes, as it begins the waking cycle, it simply gives out. Perhaps the beat of the rhythm was too strong on that solstice.

We couldn’t comprehend the loss. Though nearly 50 years my senior, she was not old and she certainly was youthful in spirit. Her death was particularly hard on Ollie, who was the same age as Maci. December 21 was also his birthday.

Tragically, her grandson drowned several years later on Thanksgiving Day. On that cold evening I was out hunting the grounds near my parents’ house when I heard someone shouting. I thought perhaps it might be my mother calling the dog in, because sound can travel for miles in the hills up there. When we returned at dusk, though, she told us a neighbor had phoned to tell her the child had fallen through the ice and died. A chill ran through me as I realized it was not my own mother I had heard calling but his.

To my father, Maci’s sudden passing now made sense: He felt that she—a woman so brokenhearted over the loss of her elderly cat that she would never adopt another—could not have bore the loss. My mother looked at it in a more positive light, feeling that God had called Maci home ahead of the boy’s death so that he would not have to enter heaven’s gates alone. I comforted myself with the fact that she died the sort of noble, quick and painless death we all hope for. Good for you, Maci.

She always was very practical. Years earlier, when I marveled at a Victorian cloche filled with taxidermied hummingbirds and preserved butterflies in her home, she told me she would like to give it to me but she already had her children and grandchildren in to mark the things they wanted so that she could divvy them up in her will, as she did not want any fighting after she was gone. When they cleaned out her home on Nundae Boulevard later that year, so her husband could move into something smaller, her son was kind enough to think of me and give me a few items of hers: a beaded belt, a denim jacket, which still carried in its pocket the wrapper from an Andes candy she had eaten, and a comfy taupe sweater. The spring day he delivered them was surprisingly cold. I had not packed enough warm items for my visit and took comfort in that sweater. I told my mom it was just like Maci to look after me in that way.

The sweater was nothing special but it still smelled of her perfume. That year when I seemed to keep getting poison ivy on the same spot of my wrist, I realized it was coming from the sweater. The last time she wore it she must have been gardening. I cried when I finally had to wash the sweater to remove the oil from the ivy, knowing that at the same time it would lose her scent.

There was no funeral. Instead her family held a celebration of her life later that summer. If memory serves me, it may have been on the summer solstice. Dozens of us gathered in an orchard owned by a friend of hers. We shared music and stories, followed by a meal. She had told each of us so much about the others that it was easy to “recognize” one another. Thanks to Maci, we were all friends.

In the years since, the solstice has been my day of solace: a moment to take time out from the busy season and cry. This year was no different; I looked fondly over her letters and gifts and thought of the dear friend I have lost. One of the last things she ever gave me was a jointed, wooden Gardening Angel figure. It still hangs on my porch on with a tag that reads, “Merry Christmas. Love, Maci.”

Good Gardens Never Die

I first visited Bethlehem, PA with a friend some 8 years ago for Christkindlemark - a month-long German holiday marketplace held annually in this Moravian founded city about an hour north of our home in Bucks County. My now ex-husband had been telling me how nice and affordable the area was, but 40 miles seemed so far from where I had spent the last 8 years establishing my career and friends. Though once we drove through bucolic countryside past stunning homes, then descended the steep hill into the city, drove past the rough and tumble row homes, crossed the steel trussed bridge and strolled the historic town center I knew I had finally found my "home." Here was everything I wanted: diversity, beauty, decay, art and crime - hell, it even had it's own public radio station - all in one tiny city with a shining star on the hill. It was so full of promise.

My husband and I bought a house there in 2008 - 8/8/08 to be exact - we closed on it just two days before the bubble burst and the credit market began to dry up; friends of ours lost their financing. We had been the "lucky ones." It was an adorable Cape Cod with a slate roof on the hill overlooking the city. In fact, it sat right behind the 50-foot lighted star on South Mountain in a mid-century development known as "Star Village." (Fellow fans of the show Gilmore Girls will understand how excited I was to have my own "Star's Hallow.") August was an incredibly hot month that year - sweltering. I took a month off running my business to clean out and prepare the house, the elderly couple we purchased it from were entering a retirement home and as part of the deal left us with everything they had accumulated during the last 50 years, including a carpeted bathroom and 4 couches in the basement. Alone I struggled and sweated and scrubbed, filling a dumpster with their stuff and slowly filling the house with ours. We moved in September 1st - just in time to celebrate our 6th wedding anniversary.

Bethlehem was everything I had hoped and it welcomed me with open arms. Before long I had met my neighbors, including three generations of the same family who lived in three houses on my street raising some 60 different varieties of apples. I took my dogs for walks to the star and I enjoyed the many festivals, museums and culture the city offered. Late that winter I saw an ad for a community gardening group that was forming, inviting potential members to meet and brainstorm ideas for reclaiming a neglected patch of city property. It was being spearheaded by a wide-eyed college student interested in "permaculture" and filled with her professors, friends and leaders of various community groups. As a landscape designer, and a bit wide-eyed myself, I immediately offered to be her right hand.

The Maze Garden, as it was known, was on the working-class side of the river on a highly visibly corner populated by college kids, drug addicts, neighborhood families and overlooked by city hall. We plotted the garden, purchased fruit trees, tended vegetables, served them at soup kitchens and hosted pot-luck dinners. I met local politicians and artists, homeless men who slept on the benches at night and children who didn't know where food came from. The garden was a community unto itself. It spawned unlikely friendships, forged business networks and served to connect volunteers from many local organizations. Suddenly it seemed I knew everyone in town and was helping to steer the city's reinvention. I even grew bold enough to corner the mayor when I spotted him out in a local bar, plead the garden's case and try to force him to promise the city would never sell the land on which it sat.

My marriage began to fall apart at the end of that summer - by  8/8/2009 I had left my husband - but the roots I had put down in the garden were even stronger than that. I continued to drive the 40 miles each way several times a week to tend the garden, attend community meetings and serve on the boards of several organizations. I even had the Star of Bethlehem tattooed on the back of my neck.  The following year the college student transferred and I assumed leadership of the garden. Enthusiasm waned but we still hosted events and raised hundreds of pounds of produce, we even managed to refurbish the garden pond with the help of a local business - an event that gained us coverage by the local television station and newspaper. Two weeks later someone slashed the pond liner... a month later the building next door burned to the ground. It hurt. I felt like I had failed. I was too far away to protect my garden, to detached from the community to effectively rally supporters around it. I had to let it go and with it, unfortunately, my connection to the city, my membership in its future and my dreams of a "home."

That wasn't the end of the story though, the project was taken on by a Leigh University professor and the South Side Initiative, the Bethlehem Citizens Academy picked up its cause. Some of the wonderful people I had met through the garden kept me up to date on it's continued growth as the city re-connected the power line damaged during the fire, the mayor dedicated a bench in it and the garden celebrated its 15th anniversary. This summer - its 17th - volunteers continued to plant, tend and harvest. On my way to Musikfest - 8/8/13, by the way - I stopped and admired the jungle of flora it had grown into. Like a proud parent I knew it was no longer "mine" but that I had helped to make it what it was.

I just received a memo from the SS Initiative, inviting people to attend a vote regarding the city's sale of the Maze Garden property to a developer. If they cannot halt the sale, they are asking for a piece of replacement real estate. I'm not sure yet if I am sad. I long ago stopped pining for the house on the hill and a community I belonged to, though I don't ever think I will replace those feelings. I knew the garden was on borrowed land and on borrowed time. I have to admit that two vacant lots, no matter how beautifully planted, may not the best use of a prominent corner in a city rebuilding itself through tourism. No matter the decision tonight though I know I helped to plant something that continues to grow to this day; The community is stronger because of that garden, strong enough, in fact, to realize that a community is not a place, it is something you carry within you and take where ever the winds of fate send you to replant and regrow.

This is something I learned from the garden too. When I found myself back in Bucks County I decided to create my own community. I searched out like-minded people and together we planted The Sandy Ridge Community Garden. After three thriving years it has also reached a turning point, but I am wiser this time. I realize the community garden is not mine to claim. It is a part of all of those who tend it, who enjoy it and who are inspired by it to go out and create their own.

After Life in the Garden

This can be a depressing time of year to be a landscape designer. For those of us connected to the earth, winter has long been synonymous with death: the dark days, the cold nights, the metaphoric passing of dormant plants and hibernating animals. In fact, ancient cultures often assigned their duties to the same god. In these cases though spring returns life to the leafless maple, spurs seeds to sprout and wakes the groundhog from his metaphorical death. True physical death is much less forgiving and yet, even it clears the way for new life to thrive. In the garden death is not just part of the cycle – it is part of the landscape.

Every gardener knows that decomposition is the root of good soil, which is after all why we compost, but a new movement seeks to allow humans the option to return to the earth as well. These so-called “green burials” are done without the use of toxic embalming fluids, caskets or markers. In some cases these communal burial sites become a sort of park where the living can go to remember their dead or even to celebrate life itself.

The idea of cemetery as park is not so new. Laurel Hill in Philadelphia, WoodlawnCemetery in the Bronx and Mount Auburn outside Boston were all some of their city’s first dedicated green spaces. In an effort to relieve the overcrowding in church burial grounds these new non-denominational cemeteries offered beautiful grounds to not only honor the dead but also stroll, picnic and socialize. Much like a sculpture garden, the monuments and mausoleums in these cemeteries are beautiful works of art positioned among beautiful vignettes.

Rotunda-like Mary Baker Eddy Monument, designed by Egerton Swartwout, reflected in Halcyon Lake.

It is not uncommon to plant something of remembrance on one’s grave. Old cemeteries are often the source of heirloom rose varieties, lilacs and spring bulbs but I also recall an article in National Geographics years ago that described how in another country, land was so scarce and precious that poor families in urban areas would use their relatives graves to grow food. I couldn't find any current reference to this practice but is it really so different from growing flowers there?

I, for one, would be much more comfortable with the idea of returning to the soil, having people picnic on my grave or even grow food on it than I am with the thought of spending eternity in one of the of high density, easy to maintain plots available these days with their flat, uniformly sized markers and time limit on the display of flowers.

If you have enough money though, there is apparently another alternative. A client of a company I once worked for hired us to landscape his prominent Main Line family’s cemetery plot. We designed a grandiose arch bearing the family name, which we were having fabricated by Haddonstone – a very pricey English garden sculpture company - and planting mature trees. What I found most pretentious about this man’s plot though is that he chose the location specifically to sit above that of his business competitor’s so that he could “look down on him for all eternity.”

It seems the egos of some will long outlast their body ...

 http://www.nationalgeographic.com/pyramids/khufu.html

Landscape Lament

This is the time of year I do NOT miss being a landscape designer any longer. As the weather turns cold and the days dark, I feel a familiar old panic descend upon me. To me this is still the time of year to cut back - not just ones waning perennials - but on life itself. Winter brings heating bills, insurance renewals and payments on equipment sitting idle. The three months ahead were lean times with many hardships and little reward.

In years past I would now be struggling to eke one more job out of my client's whose attention was fast-turning to the joyful holidays ahead, and one more job from my crews who, after a long and hard-working nine months, look to the coming season of layoff with relief. I knew that any jobs not yet complete would stretch into the winter and too often drag out longer than their prescheduled payments could support them. Each day spent on the job would be cold and wet with each task taking three times as long as it was planned to. In the Mid-Atlantic states winter alternates between ground too frozen to dig and too wet to work.

Snowfall is a mixed blessing; landscape companies have the vehicles and labor needed to remove it, but the act itself requires additional insurance and equipment, including plows and salt spreaders. These take a toll on the equipment which one depends on for their livelihood the rest of the year. Each season, each storm, is a gamble. A company may call in its work force, prepare its vehicles and position its crews for the impending storm, then never see a flake fall. Other times the blizzard comes and the team is out for days on end.

Winter has had its rewards too. When I was a junior designer working for a large firm that saw much of its income from the retail garden and gift emporium, I enjoyed a year-round salary and looked forward to winter almost as much as our video-game loving crews. With no one in the office I was free to catch up on the books I had been gathering all year, file important  articles for reference and attend continuing education events. Winter, then, was a time of creativity and preparation.

Today I am no longer sure how to feel about winter. As a magazine editor my job follows monthly cycles of stress and downtime. The seasons mean nothing aside from the special advertising sections. I once again enjoy a salary, though with my partner yet active in the world of landscape these months still take their financial toll. I do love Christmas and relish a good snowstorm, but I have yet to embrace the winters here.

This year I am finally looking forward to doing some south-bound travel. I have friends who winter in Tampa, FL and a college roommate in Austin, TX who I have not seen in years. Another good friend of mine was recently sent on an assignment in Brazil and my fingers are crossed for an invitation. Perhaps this year winter and I will reach an uneasy peace, though I am still hoping for the groundhog not to see his shadow.

Clan Shaw - Heraldry and Tribal Totems

I was lucky enough to be able to accompany my grandmother on a trip to England, Wales and Scotland (our ancestral land) nearly 20 years ago. Already interested in gardening, I was looking forward to seeing the lush and tended lawns of Chattsworth House, the flowers sure to be encircling each tiny yard and the thick hedges along every twisting country lane ... Sadly, I was there in the midst of the driest summer since official records-keeping began sometime in the 1500s. The lawns were brown, the fountains turned off as a conservation measure and the early fall temperatures in the 90s. None the less, I still did see plenty of flora. I also learned to appreciate the hardy thistles, heather's and stone that make up the harsh Scottish countryside.

One of my fondest memories was a rare afternoon when I escaped the tour bus during our carefully choreographed visit and hiked into the hills of a glen (I forget which one now, it has run together with the names of many fine scotches I have enjoyed in the years since) There, I sat beside a small stream trickling through the boulders, admiring the golden grasses and tiny alpine flowers, and felt a shared connection with generations of Shaw's before me. I have ever since admired the tenacity of those plants and the Scottish heritage they represent.

I recently visited a website featuring my Clan heritage and was surprised to learn that each Highland Family had a designated Suaicheantas, or Badge Plant its members are suppose to wear in their bonnet or helmet to indicate which clan they belong to. According to the site:

"This continuing tradition of having a venerated or lucky clan plant symbol or badge again goes back to the early Dawn Religions that held that certain plants contained a stronger essence or lucky spirit. Strongly connected with the environment, in mind, body and soul, our ancestors felt the tribal spirit was enhanced by a near worship of the sacred or lucky plant or tree." 

Apparently Clan Shaw is identified by the Red Whorleberry (Vaccinum vitus-idea) which they know as "lus nam braoileag" and though I can't say for certain if there was one nearby, maybe there was something more to the way I felt that day. The botanical connections of my Clan do not end there, the site goes on the describe the importance of totem plants and animals (ours is the wolf) in the ancient Scottish Law by saying:

"Since the dawn of humankind, our ancestors' inherit links to the environment go well beyond the obvious physical and tangible aspects necessary for mere survival. Whether as nomadic hunter, gatherer or from pastoral/agrarian family groupings, each primitive clan or tribe also had many strong spiritual and emotional links to the earth and nature. One consistent aspect of this earth oriented "reverence" is evidenced in all tribal cultures both ancient and modern throughout the world by the adoption of significant animals or plants as symbols or totems. It was felt that some of the beneficial, powerful or protective properties of the adopted item would shamanistically flow into the individual person or collective clan entity."

Of course each Clan also had a Tartan - made using natural plant dyes - and a crest used to identify its members. There are four main totemic symbols of significance that are found in most Shaw Arms registered in the Court of the Lord Lyon, King of Arms for Scotland, the ancient heraldic court of Alba. These are: a Lyon Rampant, Galley, Dagger and Fir Tree on a Mound.

"The "Fir Tree on a Mound" represents Rothiemurchus Forest, the original tribal homeland of all branches of Clan Shaw. Rothiemurchus was rich in fertile Speyside farmlands and timber resources as well as being in a strategic geopolitical position. The 'mound' is also thought to represent The Doune of Rothiemurchus, the ancient timbered hill-fort once occupied by Shaw ancestors, that guards a strategic ford over the oft flooded Spey. The Doune is now held by the Clan Grant Chiefs (as well as the Bodach an Doune)."

Finally, the Clan Shaw crest is accompanied by the phrase "Fide et Fortitudine," meaning "By Faith and Fortitude" (or "Fidelity and Fortitude"). Fitting, I think, to represent a people born to a landscape so harsh and unforgiving who yet managed to thrive and give rise to many poets, writers, inventors (McAdam, anyone?) and millionaires. I like to think of myself as being as tenacious as any of the Scottish weeds - able to thrive no matter what nature throws my way. To this day I cannot bear to cut down a noble purple thistle in my garden and will wait until the flower blooms before removing it (before it goes to seed, of course) in it is the spirit of my people after all.

Excerpts from: http://www.theclanshaw.org/heraldry.html

PS - The other half of my family is German. You may recall from my "Death by Gardening" post how fiercely the tree worshiping Germans of Medieval times punished anyone caught stripping the bark from a tree:

"The guilty party's navel was cut out and nailed to the injured tree.The culprit was then driven around and around the tree until all his innards were wound about the trunk of the tree. The life of a man for the life of a tree."
- From: The Golden Bough, Sir J. G. Frazer, Macmillan and Co. Limited, 1933, pg 110

Admiring Martha

It should come as no surprise that I am a fan of Martha Stewart as, I think, every woman of my generation who grew up with her brand of domestic bliss is. Does that mean I think she is a nice person? No, but I respect her for that; she is a perfectionist, she is a smart businesswoman and she has impeccable taste. 

She bundled together so many of my passions in life - gardening, decorating, food and craft - and she packaged them beautifully. Thanks to Martha I no longer have to hang my head in shame when giving a handmade gift: "That's right, I MADE it!"

So when the publication I work for covered her last year I was really disappointed to learn the interview would be conducted by our South Jersey office (she IS a Jersey girl after all) Even so, my name is on the masthead. I thought that was as close as I would ever get to Martha, that is until this fall when we hired an intern who just this summer interned for MSL Omnimedia. SHE has actually eaten lunch in Martha's presence at an intern luncheon - and, by the way, said she was very nice. 

Just to celebrate this new smaller "degree of separation" I thought I would re-run our article...along with a fan letter I wrote but never sent. And, if anyone ELSE I know is even closer to her...well, maybe she will see it and I can get that signed edition after all. 

M is for Martha

Catching up with the always-on-the-go lifestyle guru

by Peter Proko

Mogul. Magnate. Martha.

Just mention her name and there’s no confusing who you are talking about. But Martha Stewart is more than just a wildly successful entrepreneur; she is an icon in every sense of the word.

For decades, Stewart has been the authority for millions around the world who religiously rely on her expertise surrounding everything from preparing an unforgettable meal to decorating a home in dazzling fashion. The merchandise she endorses can be found on shelves everywhere from Macy’s to Staples. She publishes four magazines and, as an author, she’s penned more than 70 books. Her TV show can be seen on Hallmark Channel through the end of the summer and she has her own satellite radio station.

Seemingly, there aren’t enough hours in the day for someone of her ilk. But, then again, no one said building a lifestyle brand was supposed to be easy; Stewart just makes it feel that way with a homespun approach and her everywoman personality.

We sat down with the Nutley, N.J., native to discuss her latest book, “Martha’s American Food.” It’s a comprehensive collection of some of the most familiar fare you’ll find across the country and loaded not only with the recipes, but the history behind the dishes. Stewart also tells us about her love of gardening, her unique ability to talk to animals, and why she considers herself a teacher above all else.

SUBURBAN LIFE: So, tell us about the new book and the inspiration behind it.

MARTHA STEWART: I’m very excited about the book because there are so many interesting recipes throughout the country that are quintessentially American. We tried to compile them all into this one volume and it really works—the recipes are delicious; the facts and the dialogue are interesting.

SL: In the introduction of “Martha’s American Food,” you cite how much research and effort you and your staff put forth on selecting which foods to highlight. Was it a conscious decision to include the backstories, because while these are all foods people may be familiar with, they may not necessarily know their origin?

MS: It was very much a conscious [decision]. So many don’t know what’s indigenous to America. We’ve been collecting these recipes for a lot of years.

SL: You break down the different cuisines by region. Did you discover anything new about the distinct tastes and cultures across the country?

MS: All the research for this book taught me a tremendous amount about regional flavors, regional crops, indigenous botanical and biological foods all discovered in the Americas. And the recipes that we have chosen for the book include those foods: blueberries, cranberries, wild rice, squash, chilies, various nuts, various sea foods … indigenous, edible species: wild turkey, crab, lobster, oysters.

SL: You published your first book in 1982. Looking back, did you ever anticipate growing such an empire?

MS: I was hoping at the time the subject of living would expand enough to cover a number of subjects; it has proven to be more expansive than I thought. We have done so much with collecting, entertaining, crafting, good food, decorating, design, weddings, and kids … it’s been extremely expansive and rewarding as a result.

SL: You’ve served as inspiration for so many others, but who inspires you?

MS: Every single day I get inspired by artisans, by fine growers of plants, artists, by chefs, every single day.

SL: You clearly state in the new book that trying to define American food is difficult. Does that also make it more exciting in a way, that there are no definitive boundaries?

MS: Totally. Finding a new way to make something, a new recipe for an apple pie or a chili, is always very exciting.

SL: What’s your favorite recipe from the book?

MS: I love the fried chicken recipe, the cioppino recipe; there are a lot of good ones.

SL: Your products are currently in 8,500 different retail outlets across the country. Do you ever shy away from the term “mogul”?

MS: No, I don’t mind it at all.

SL: Does being considered such an icon ever become a burden in any way, in a sense that sometimes you wish there was a little bit of normalcy in your life?

MS: Oh, I lead a very normal life, I do. I raise animals on my farm, grow my own vegetables, I garden, I visit friends.

SL: Having accomplished so much in your career, are you still looking for new challenges in life?

MS: There’s so many things. … I have a couple of new businesses that I really want to get off the ground and I want to expand our merchandise internationally.  

SL: Obviously you spend a lot of time in the public eye, but is there anything that people would be surprised to know about you? Any hidden talents or guilty pleasures?

MS: I don’t think people realize how much I really do garden. And I go horseback riding every week. I am intensely aware of the environment and what’s going on and pay a lot of attention. I’m also extremely interested in my Center for Living at Mount Sinai Hospital [in New York]. It’s really an important initiative for me, as it helps people over the age of 65 grow old gracefully and with dignity.

SL: I’ve read that you have a special language you speak with animals. Care to elaborate on that?

MS: I speak to my horses in a horse language, my dogs in a dog language my birds in a bird language. I have lots of ways to talk to people [laughs].

SL: How many pets do you own?

MS: Six cats, three dogs, 25 red canaries, three donkeys, five horses, 200 chickens, geese. … I have a lot of animals.

SL: If you could entertain any five guests in the world, who would it be and what would you prepare?

MS: President Barack Obama, [President of China] Hu Jintao, [President of Russia] Dmitry Medvedev, [President of Brazil] Dilma Rousseff and [President of India] Smt. Pratibha Devisingh, and I would prepare an all-American dinner.

SL: There are so many different avenues you do business in. How often are you approached with an idea that you turn down?

MS: Quite often—some ideas are just too offhand or random.

SL: What’s the one gadget or tool in the kitchen you couldn’t live without?

MS: A very good, sharp knife.

SL: Being as successful as you are, how important is it for you to give back and impart some wisdom to fledgling businesspeople, especially women who are inspired by what you’ve accomplished?

MS: I feel being a teacher is my role in life. I impart a tremendous amount of knowledge.

… I have a channel on Sirius, a very good how-to radio channel. You can learn about food, about gardening, lifestyle, design, decoration and pets. We write the books, we have a well-read website, and of course our daily TV program. Free advice is so hard to come by these days, and I’m in the business of imparting information to the broadest audience.

Originally published in May 2012 Suburban Life, Love-letter - not published:

Dear Martha -

I guess you wold call this a "fan-letter," though that sounds so unprofessional. I have been a 'fan' of yours though since my mother began subscribing to your publication in the early 1990s and between the two of us we have maintained an unbroken collection of Martha Stewart Living - because of you she now raises Araucana chickens. You have been an inspiration to my career, that of a landscape designer and construction company owner and now magazine editor (but also hobbies as a writer, radio host, marketer and community garden organizer.) I admire your vision, ambition, drive and strength as a business woman, the style and clear direction your brand has maintained and the seemingly boundless energy with which you have pursued it all. 

Your name has always portrayed elegance and quality in all things home and garden and made it chic to be a home cook, collector and crafter, all of which I personally enjoy and believe make a woman both capable and diverse. On more than one occasion when asked about my career goals I have said "I want to be Martha Stewart," because, to me, it is a goal that encompasses unlimited topics and forms of media and allows me so many options to pursue. You can imagine, then, my excitement at learning an interview with you would be the cover story for the May issue of our parent publication, South Jersey Magazine. I thoroughly enjoyed reading your responses and am proud to have my name on the masthead. I have sent you two copies and it would mean so much to me to have a signed copy of the edition that I work for (Suburban Life).

Landscaping, Without the Plants

With fall spelling a slow but relentless end to summer it's time to think about what your garden has to offer in the leaf-less seasons. Good structure can be provided by trees, hardscaping or sculpture. The now defunct (except on Facebook)-and personal favorite-magazine Garden Design published an interview with garden antique dealer Barbara Israel last year before its demise. In it she offered some great advice about using sculpture to provide year-round interest in the garden through the use of art.

Pictured: This duo of 19th-century greyhounds is a coveted "true pair" because they are not cast from the same mold, says Israel. 

Just as a work of art can pull a room together, the right garden antique can transform a landscape. Few people know this better than Barbara Israel, who has been dealing in garden antiques since 1985 from her Katonah, New York, property, a lush swath of meadows and gardens in Westchester County. Her inventory includes more than 200 stone, iron, terra-cotta, bronze, and zinc objects, ranging in price from around $100 to $100,000. Israel is the author of Antique Garden Ornament: Two Centuries of American Taste (Harry N. Abrams, Inc.; 1999), which remains a go-to source on the subject, and recently published A Guide to Buying Antique Garden Ornament, which neatly outlines the do’s and don’ts of collecting fine garden wares. In addition to providing indispensable guidance on dating pieces, repainting metal furniture, identifying irreparable damage, and confirming authenticity, Israel touches on selecting the right material for a particular climate. 

Garden Design: Why did you decide to write this guidebook?
Barbara Israel: Frustration. There is such a lack of knowledge on the subject, and a well-informed customer is definitely our best customer.

Q: How can garden antiques enhance a landscape?
A: They add a touch of art to nature. But they can also make a new garden look old, or make a lonely garden welcoming.

Q:  What is the biggest mistake you see buyers make?
A: Misplacement. These are pieces that need to be used sparingly, and you need to make sure they work right in a setting.

Q:  Are there any particular red flags we should know about?
A: Definitely. If a cast-iron piece doesn't have a fairly thick buildup of paint it may be a reproduction. Likewise, if there is rust on the underside of an urn and it’s too stridently orange, the piece may not actually be an antique.

Q:  Is it difficult to find garden antiques in good condition?
A: Yes. We often have to restore pieces that have suffered from being outside. Metal ornaments are easier to restore than stone ones. The biggest problem with cast stone is exposed rebar, which means water has seeped in, and with carved stone, cracks that threaten its stability and allow moisture in. — Meredith Mendelsohn

This article was first published in Garden Design September/October 2012 and can be found at the parent link http://www.gardendesign.com/ideas/antique-mystique