Struggling with the garden

Chipping away at the dream

I’m obsessed with the garden again, or the lack thereof, as four-fifths of my back “yard” remains suffocated by concrete. I walk the neighborhoods, peering exhaustively into the gardens I pass, judging, discerning, labeling, noting.

Does that vine work there? Will it get tangled in that nearby tree? Ah, there’s a native. And another. And another. Oops. That tree likes moisture, and it’s planted right near that native manzanita. One of them will die. Or, That oak seems too close to the house, but it’s doing a good job shading the property from the hot afternoon sun and providing a view of charming twisted branches from that front room window. So it works. Right?

I analyze everything. I take pictures. Occasionally, I snap off pieces of particularly robust or attractive succulents to tuck into my pocket.

I’m obsessed with planting the garden in our yard here on Terrace Street, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to shelve the idea again. It’s expensive. And there’s no return on investment. No financial return anyway. Of course, for the lone Monarch butterfly riding the currents of hot air radiating from the cement, there’s a return. Planting the two milkweeds I bought and letting them thrive and multiply provides a return to her.

And to the birds, and the bees, and the critters. And to this stretch of urban Oakland, swathed as it is in so much asphalt and concrete. Turning our yards into gardens wherever possible, in a sort of connected greenbelt, just seems like the right thing to do, the hopeful thing to do. The ethical thing to do.

My son says, “Mom, it’s not financially savvy. And you don’t have the money. Save your money. And your energy. And your time. Forget about the garden.”

Besides, he wants to build an ADU here eventually, and my garden will be in the way. I said, confidently, “Don’t worry. I’ll create a garden without spending too much, I promise. And then we can just put the ADU there when we’re ready. It will be fine.”

Just. Have you ever noticed what a horrible, telling word that is? “Just” is a mean linguistic trick that makes something hard sound easy. Just do it. Take action, don’t over-think it. Just relax, is another good example. When has that phrase ever helped you relax? Just get over it. That implies impatience, annoyance. The word “Just” can minimize the difficulty of something.

And my use of it indicated it was not so simple. It was actually going to be difficult. We can’t just do it, and it won’t be fine.

I know this because a recommended local gardener came by yesterday to quote the cement removal and the placement of what I thought was a “simple” decomposed granite patio and two paths. His price tag? $18,000.

“Four men for two weeks, one week for the cement; one week for the garden,” he shrugged.

That’s prohibitive. And it sent me into a tailspin. I became incredibly discouraged and got really down on myself. What was I thinking? I was flooded with shame, which is an overreaction, perhaps. I took a walk at the UC Berkeley Botanical Garden and tried to defend myself, as my self-confidence crumbled. “It’s not a crime to want a garden!” I wailed to myself. Is it?

Maybe not. But it does feel elitist, oddly enough. Even if I had that kind of money, or could find someone to do the job for half or less, creating a garden will still bleed my money and will still provide little return on the investment of money, time, and energy.

Irrigation and maintenance must be accounted for. What would become of my dream of living in South America or Europe once my dear old dog passes on if I need to stay here to keep the garden alive?

I long to do it, but my son is right. A garden will chain me in place. I already have a looming problem with the baby Pacific Madrone and California Buckeye I planted on the street in front of the building. They need to be watered deeply every week or so until they’re big enough to reach down for whatever streams may be buried beneath the street.

I’m greatly enjoying watching them grow, watching them respond to my care. The buckeye has quintupled in size, but it’s still not even up to the height of my hip. The madrone is leafing out gorgeously, and I love the branching structure I’m beginning to see, but while she’s almost as tall as me, her trunk is only about two inches in diameter. She wouldn’t survive a month, let alone an entire punishing California summer, without deep weekly drinks. Not yet, anyway.

And why does the garden feel so fraught, so urgent, anyway?

I thought I had escaped the empty-nest syndrome, but I’m bereft with my family gone, scattered. Is the garden a stand-in for my kids? My dad? My ex? The feeling I had until a few years ago of an intact family? The kids are in their early 20s; they’re launched and busy contending with adulthood. My dad died a few years ago. Sunday suppers have gone by the wayside.

Perhaps the garden is a stand-in for my vanishing family. I know I need to create an intentional family, but while I’m fortunate to have good friends, it’s just not the same. Long stretches of time pass where I don’t see them. I don’t have the energy to book plans weeks in advance, or I’m simply not organized enough. Sometimes it all seems like too much.

So, yes, the garden feels necessary.

And guess what? I feel hopeful again. Now it’s Monday, a few days after I began this post. Our gorgeous, characteristic San Francisco Bay Area summer is going strong, which means the sun is abundant and clear, the breeze off the bay is fresh and clean, the fog rolls in at night and cools everything down, and anything green grows abundantly.

The Fuyu persimmon I planted in the fall, only six months ago, has something like 30 baby persimmons on it, which is astounding. The baby Violette de Bordeaux fig has three proud little nubs of figs, and the Improved Meyer Lemon is loaded with at least a dozen lemons so round and heavy they threaten to break the tender young branches.

I’m so proud.

I’m also apparently an addict. After resolving to eschew the garden, the idea of the garden—to banish it from my mind—I’m at it again, but thinking more strategically this time.

Of course the quote was $18,000. There are people who can and do pay such prices. There are also folks who do it smartly, in pieces and parts, bibs and bobs, and I can be such a person.

I’ll get more quotes for cement removal. My son said to call companies in deep East Oakland. That’s been his strategy to get great prices on plumbing projects. I’ll mulch the hell out of the patches of earth I gradually expose.

And the patio. Does it really need to be made of decomposed granite? Or can I simply throw a ton of mulch chips down, set four Adirondack chairs on top of them in a circle, wipe my hands, and be done with it?

Can I remove just enough cement to plant what I still have in pots, here and there? The Peruvian shrub that promises to be ten feet high and produce a profusion of pink and yellow booms can go against the fence on the north side. The Mission fig from my friend Claudia can go near the mulch patio thingy. The cockspur coral tree (the national tree of Argentina), with it’s brilliant red flowers can tuck against the stairwell providing some shade to the bottom apartment. The clary sage, also from Claudia, and the two others sages, can be here-and-there. The purple-blue geranium, and the groundcovers also can be here-and-there. The California silk-tassel tree can go in the west corner by the garage. And the olive tree? Can go beside the patio. Done.

This is not too hard for me.

I do not need to be ashamed or daunted. I can forge ahead.

The cockspur tree from Argentina is a symbol of courage in that country. Maybe close proximity will transfer some of that courage to me. Here’s to the journey ahead.