We’ve all heard the adage, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.’ And we also know it’s a big, fat lie. I am not sure where the saying originated. Who cares? Because it is oh so wrong. Of course I have a story to share, and while I suffered no bone breakage, it did forever change my love of gardening.
Prior to moving into my traditional Colonial house in Clayton, my family lived in a Tudor-style house in Webster Groves. It had two huge, sloping gardens that abutted the house and four window boxes. I always considered myself a rather gifted gardener. I planted perennials and then filled in the rest of the garden with annuals. I did it all myself, and with two kids and a full-time job, it was something I really looked forward to even though it was a lot of work. Well, until this happened.
My husband and I asked a landscaper to stop by for a consultation. He had done work in the neighborhood and we liked the results. As we started talking about what we wanted, I asked, ‘What do you think of the gardens?’ I expected him to comment on the colorful flower boxes, or perhaps mention the nice mix of perennials and annuals. Or even ask who ‘we used’ to make it look so beautiful. He didn’t. Instead he said: ‘You have what we call a hillbilly garden.’ Dumbly, I asked what that meant. ‘Oh, you know, just one where everything is thrown together: no symmetry, just kind of haphazard.’ I was crushed, flattened, gob-smacked, stunned—you get the idea. My balloon was popped. I wasn’t a gardener, much less a gifted one!
As a result of that one comment, I spend an unusual amount of time each spring planning my garden. First, I look at magazines, then the Internet (specifically what is suggested for flower boxes and potted plants). Next up is color scheme: What would look good against the brick of the house, or with the color of the pots, or the color of the rose bushes? I then visit a number of nurseries to see what’s in stock. And finally, I decide what to buy. Once I have the plants, I determine which pots will be grouped together and make my final, final decision on which plants will go in each container. Then I start potting. I spend time repositioning each pot, fluffing each plant in the flower boxes and strategically lining up each plant in the garden so a hole can be dug. Everything must be perfect. I have spent more hours over the past 15 years obsessing about my garden that I now hate gardening. The fun is gone. All because someone called my beautiful, non-conforming garden a name I didn’t like.
Hmm. I am sure a therapist could explain what this says about my personality. Yes, I am obsessive compulsive. Yes, I need other people’s approval. But the truth is that man, whose name I have long forgotten, had no idea his words would stay with me forever and hurt me. I am sure if he did, he would have smiled and told me my garden looked great. I know it sounds ridiculous, but sometimes feelings are ridiculous. So, this year, I’m done. I am going to recapture my love of gardening and plant whatever I want: no rhyme or reason, no color theme, no symmetry. I might have a hillbilly garden, but I will finally be a happy gardener again. And if you happen to walk by, feel free to call me gifted.
Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.
