
Two decades ago, just before my husband’s favorite cousins Mal and Marge moved from the Westport, Conn. house where Mal had raised state-of-the-art rhododendrons, we were invited over to dig some up, in whatever size and quantity suited us.
At the time, I had barely wrapped up my freshman season as a weekend gardener, and thus was, let me just say, pretty green. I was also concerned about appearing greedy. So rather than choose the large robust bushes that Mal generously and wisely urged on me, I airily went with half a dozen tender specimens, all about the same age as our toddler children. They’ll all mature together went my thinking.
Transplanted to a slice of land just off the driveway, the rhododendrons have flourished only intermittently despite my diligent ministering (for the record, my now grown offspring are doing just fine). But I don’t mind. Well, I don’t much mind. Whenever I walk past them, I think of the late Mal and smile. Every serving of the soil nutrient Miracid that I dish up is a small tribute to him.
Part of the attraction when I began gardening was the scope for solitude; it was a mindless escape from husband, children and work. Wheelbarrow outfitted with trowel, loppers, rake and tiller, I’d head up a path perpendicular to the stone wall to yank up the rocks and roots that were getting in the way of my ambitious if vague beautification plans.
sign up here. Follow us on Twitter: @nytrealestate.