t started about eight or nine years ago when Brooke, the little girl next door, began yelling at me from her porch. “That’s a hydrangea,” she’d shout as I slaved in the yard. “Robins use them to decorate their nests.” “If you put that there it won’t get any sun.” “Those are seeds. If you shove a couple in the ground, they’ll come up all over.” Gardening was supposed to be a solitary opportunity to concentrate on Mother Nature’s wonders; instead, I was be- ing bellowed at by a nine-year-old Master (Sergeant) Gardener.
I
Brooke had watched me pull weeds, sneeze up a storm and attempt to kill my lawn for years. Eventually she mustered the courage to walk through the hedge that conveniently separates our properties and make additional inane observations, but at much closer range. Pointing out particularly colorful butterflies or helping untangle a hose, Brooke was just helpful enough to keep me from shooing her off the lot.
“I think we should start a Garden Club,” she mentioned one day. “Can you make a meeting on Saturday?” I told her I like to keep my weekends kinda wide open, mainly so I can sleep in. But this was a particularly
persistent sprite.
“How about noon?” I finally relented.
“That’s a lot of sleeping. See ya there!” The meeting was set. * * *
At precisely twelve, Brooke skipped over and plopped down on an overturned pot. I reclined next to her on a lawn chair with an iced espresso in hand. Like a seasoned Shriner, she immediately took charge of the meet- ing. We proceeded to take a roll call (my idea), discussed some rules (mandatory attendance), and elect a President (she won unanimously). We talked about what flowers we liked, why spiders don’t make their webs higher off the ground, and the seminar (thankfully) seemed pretty much over when Brooke demanded we end with a closing ceremony: “Take this dandelion, and I’ll take this one. OK – now blow it really hard and make a wish – which you have to tell me!” My first impulse had to do with the lotto, but I substituted it for a prayer that this little person keep her positivity for years to come. Brooke’s wish: that we keep the Garden Club meetings going – “Till infinity!” “Infinity,” I echoed. “That’s a very long time.
“Well,” she replied, “this garden’s not going to take care of itself!”
The next few weeks went by without a meeting (rain delays and several hangovers prevented me from toil- ing in the yard…). One day, on my way to putting out the recycling (she had the schedule down pat), Brooke pinned me for the following Saturday. This time the President was prepared: we had roll call, discussed the state of the garden (pretty good, but my lawn refused to die), followed by a brief ivy removal project. Then Brooke announced it was time for a neighborhood “walking tour” that would feature a number of local gardens. I was hesitant. “Ya know Brookers,” I began, “my theory is that tall fences make good neighbors.” After a long pause she laughed, dismissed my anti-social behavior with an eye-roll, and continued with her grand plan. Taking my hand, we visited several neighbor’s yards, and I was introduced to people I’d lived next to for years but never spoken with. (That’s actually how I wanted it, but Brooke was breaking down more than a few barriers… and opening me up to the remote possibility that youngsters were more than hyper-active noise machines.) Brooke pointed out features in other gardens that I could incorporate into my own (proper tools, sheds, water features, fruit trees, solar lamps edible herbs, etc.). It was then I realized this child had been studying gardening for years and might be a genuine resource on the subject.
* * *
As time went on, Brooke came up with all sorts of agricultural projects. One day it was taking soil samples: “Not good!” she shouted at the Tupperware test tube. “Too much clay, too many potato bugs.” Another day was all about aphid spotting (and killing). Though it made her sad, she sprayed the suckers like Al Pacino in Scarface. (The meetings were not without humor: When pondering the reason aphids seemed only to chow newer leaves, Brooke responded, “You wouldn’t eat old chicken.”)
Winter/Spring 2012
greenwomanmagazine.com 15
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