Jersey Shore Magazine

J e r s e y s h o r e • s p r i n g 2 0 1 5 66 HOME PORT Taking Root: A Love Story by Christine Menapace I t was a simple enough question on the Garden Walk form: How long have you been gardening? And there was a simple answer. I could specifically remember my first garden, where I was living, where I was working. I was in my twenties, residing in a shabby, half-submerged base- ment apartment surrounded by dirt. I did the math and realized it had been twenty years ago—dear God!—since I first dug a hole in the ground and put in something pretty. A little token of beauty, a little act of faith. A small mea- sure of ownership in my world of rental living. But something bothered me about my answer. It was too finite. Soulless. The answer wasn't a number, it was a story. For a love of gardening came not as a sudden epiphany, but rather as something latent, dormant, wait- ing, that when given enough air and sunshine, was ready to bloom and steadily grow in me. Yes, I was in my twenties, liv- ing in a leafy suburban complex of rolling lawns and trees. You descended a few stairs to my lit- tle apartment, and on either side of this entrance were depress- ing patches of bare earth, devoid even of grass. Indeed, I some- times couldn't escape the distinct impression that I was living a bit like a prairie dog, coming and going from my underground bur- row and peeking my head up from time to time to sniff the air and feel the sunshine. But most days, I came and went with little notice of my surround- ings, busy with the frenetic business of being young. I was always on my way somewhere. Ready for the next thing. Restless in the present. Yet despite my hurry, one day something couldn't help but catch the corner of my eye. Something had started to grow in the dirt! Was it a weed? I didn't know. Within a few weeks the plant was covered in sweet purple flowers. I was immediately enchanted. It reminded me of the vines that encircled the trees of my childhood home. And it was my favorite color! Unfortunately, the bare patches of soil surrounding this purple anomaly now seemed even more bleak by compar- ison. How could I not fill the void? Especially when such bright, riotous swathes of blooms stood as easy enticement at every grocery store entrance. Deep velvety purple petu- nias, tall pink and white cosmos, and stunning yellow and orange snapdragons. I know their names now, but at the time I happily grabbed whatever I thought pretty with the blissful exuberance of the totally ignorant. Requirements of heat, shade, sun, and soil never thought to cross my mind. Fresh from years of college art appreciation classes and a summer tromping through European museums, I went about the task of planting with the neurotic precision of a master artist. The orange in the back, the blue to the right, and a splash of yellow in the corner. No, no. The blue in the back, a splash of red to the right and... Oh, but then the yellow is next to the pink. It was like a Rubik's cube of plants. With each combination, I would stand a few feet away and critically eye my creation, fussing and fretting over achieving the optimal balance of color and texture. Finally, at long last, I was ready to dig, and darn—if it didn't look pretty fantastic at the end! I was surprised at just how rewarding an afternoon could be! But over the weeks, reality set in. Things needed watering, some plants had stopped blooming, and some had grown taller than the ones planted behind them. Clearly, transforming my little plot of earth was no one-shot deal encompassing a single after- noon. I probably would have given up if it weren't for the inordinate amount of pride and pleasure I found in my initial creation. Knowing I had the capacity to transform something ugly into something beautiful was empow- ering, exhilarating, and inspiring. And thus, the siren song of gar- dening had started to take hold. It had gotten its thorns into me. So I began to pay more atten- tion, to ask more questions. Some plants are annuals and some are perennials...what?! Clipping off old blooms is called deadheading? What a nice reminder of college friends! Clematis is, thankfully, not a disease to be feared, but instead a rather nice climbing vine. Mint, once planted, will not only overtake your garden but will likely survive an Apocalypse. I was learning more every day. One day, while covered in sweat and dirt, listening to raucous music through my windows and using all my strength to rip out some tenacious roots, I had a moment. I realized I was totally focused, totally present. I felt alive and connected to something. This was not just the stuff of serene elderly women clipping rose blooms in voluminous sun hats. This was intense and suited my twenties demean- or perfectly. And yet, gardening was nevertheless a calling card for those foreign to my generation—like seniors and children. Or maybe it was the simple accessibility of someone who spends a lot of time outside. But soon I became the dar- ling of the rather large senior citizen set in the complex. continued on page 65 The author's garden. Christine Menapace

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