How many of us can point to a moment in childhood when we began to become who we are today?


In the mid-60s after the breakup of my parents’ marriage my dad and my brother and I moved from a small town in Southern California to Seattle. I was five, my brother was three. Dad was 25. The three of us lived in a basement apartment at my Aunt and Uncle’s house where even as my world was turned upside down, I always felt loved.

The climate was more chilly and damp than I was used to, but that didn’t keep me from playing outside every chance that I got. I snitched chives from the neighbors’ backyard and scribbled in crayon on the trunk of an old plum tree. It was a banner day when I discovered that by zipping my fingers down a stem of cotoneaster I could strip the tiny round leaves and toss a kind of foliar confetti. Obviously, even though I was drawn to exploring I was quite hard on the landscape.

See rhodies behind my brother & I.

One year I picked every bud that I could reach from the stout rhododendrons in front of our house. As I recall I was playing store; the buds were to be my currency. Aunt Nancy must have seen me plucking away through the picture window in the living room and quickly interrupted my unwitting vandalism. Plenty of gardeners would have been upset, and rightfully so, if they found a child nipping, quite literally in the bud, any chance of that year’s seasonal (and singular) moment of glory.

With immeasurable grace, Aunt Nancy taught me that when left to nature, buds become blooms.
I probably didn’t think so at the time but I’m pretty sure in that moment I became a gardener.

Instead, I remember my aunt walked me up the block and around the corner where she showed me a rhododendron blooming with clusters of colorful funnel-shaped blooms, some nearly the size of my young head. With immeasurable grace, Aunt Nancy taught me that when left to nature, buds become blooms. I probably didn’t think so at the time but I’m pretty sure in that moment I became a gardener. It was simply karma that I grew up to own a small specialty nursery where actual currency (and the weather) determined my seasonal success, further evidence that the Universe has a sense of humor.

As buds are beginning to bloom throughout my garden, I dedicate this essay to Aunt Nancy who died last week. I’m not sure how much she understood, but I’m grateful that I got the chance to thank her for tending to a young gardener who has marveled at the natural world ever since. 

 

I wrote the above essay this past spring and had the privilege of reading it at Aunt Nancy’s memorial service. The gardeners of tomorrow are just kids today, filled with wonder and mischief. Be an encouragement, our world needs more gardeners.