A Word in Edgewise: From My Winter Garden

In 2005, I did a piece for Lavender 256, “Mulch Ado About Nothing,” on local gay gardeners, some members of gay gardening clubs BIG (Boys Into Gardening) and Bearded Irises. Many had lush and lovely swathes of land, one, an annual Spring rush of daffodils stemming from a faux stream of rocks running through his backyard. Members plotted, planned continuously, tweaking their vegetal décor to the season.

I till at a more modest scale. My Winter Garden is much like its Summer self, confined to a 17-foot ledge of southern-facing window three stories above actual dirt. Narrow in scope, yet I believe I share with other tillers of the soil (the actual terra firma) similar issues of joy/despair; hopes risen/hopes dashed; amazement at the hardiness of vegetal life/rage and bafflement at its contrariness. 

Like people, plants do not obey every wish, or fulfill every expectation. For years, I accompanied a friend on his Christmas tree shopping jaunt, which venue also sold pots and potted plants. Each year I’d pick up something. One time, it was a darling little pot with four tiny cacti of varying heights, the tallest perhaps 6” high, the smallest perhaps half that. Perfect! How fast could they grow? How often, if ever, would I need to repot? The biggest is, to date, a bit over a yard tall, the whole ensemble a threatening affair to even move. 

I’d always loved bonsai, certainly the idea of bonsai: the gnarled, tiny ancients in glossy photos, the majestic, dwarfed stands of birches, staged on mossy, rock cascades. You can even buy them already like that, for thousands or tens of thousands–and up. I started with a little 8” boxwood. I watered every several days, careful not to overwater, as was my tendency… and it died. I wrote seller Eastern Leaf, and they very quickly replied to remind me that the deceased had been a tree, not a houseplant, probably a good eight years old when it arrived, and needed some 8oz of water a day. I bought a second, which is turning its second year, alive.

I’ve even kept a bonsai fir alive well over a year, wincing as I deluge it daily. I’m proud of a Ficus tree (not Bonsai) that’s about 4’ tall, grown from a cutting, that’s weathered shifts from Boston to Alabama to Minnesota. A green houseplant (whose name I forget) obtained shortly after I moved to the Twin Cities twenty-two years ago, although retiring to its fainting couch several times decided to thrive, is being pursued by its robust clone via its own leaf cutting. 

Many cited in the 2005 article sang hymns of praise to working outdoors–under the sun’s rays, against the wind’s lash, through drench of rain; invigorated by thrusting their fingers into the very soil whence their labors bore fruit. I admire that resilience; I truly do. I salute you all.

But, I have also gardened. In Alabama, with a perfectionist partner who insisted on raised beds; lovely concept, yes, but these were 4’ x 75.’ Four of them, arched by iron vine trellises, holding enough imported topsoil (the Alabama ground is red clay and rock, all the way down) that required a Troy-Bilt 280cc tiller’s urging. While I’d been anticipating Sweet-100s cherry tomatoes in a Hameau de la Reine; he’d been constructing Versailles. 

My 34-square-foot plantation shall suffice.