The gardening gene

I firmly believe that we all carry a gardening gene. The proclivity to garden is rooted deep in us and is situated somewhere between the desire to be liked, admired even, and the desire to order and embellish our surroundings.

I resisted what I now recognise as an intrinsic trait for as long as I could. After all, I never had hands-on experience with things that grow. Except for a very short spell, and even then it was only to fetch growing things because the adults ordered me to go and fetch them.

When I was five or six, my family lived in a flat in a two-storey building. Across the road was an undeveloped patch of land. With or without the permission of the municipal authorities, the people in the neighbourhood decided that it was a shame to let all that land lie unutilised, divided it into small plots and stated growing vegetables there. It so transpired that we, children – little me among them – were often sent across the road (very seldom used by cars) to fetch tomatoes, spring onions and other stuff for our mothers to make the lunch with.

I remember reluctantly walking away from the serious business of playing some game with my mates when my mother’s voice, coming through the open window, rose to a dangerous pitch and, head hung down in mute rebellion, set off under the summer sun over the scorching hot asphalt and into the dry soil of our plot to pluck some tomatoes and spring onions. Even though seething with resentment at the time, I can still remember the heady scent of the warm ripe tomatoes and the more pungent one of spring onions.

Ever since then, I my only encounter with growing things was when my parents went away and I was left in charge of watering the house plants. Even that stopped when I moved to my own flat (no pots for me, thank you).

Then I moved to Johannesburg and, after changing several flats, landed in a townhouse with a small back yard, a mere handkerchief ten metres long by four metres wide. The previous owners were tenants who did not do much with the yard. It had a so-called lawn running that took up all the space except for a narrow flower-bed that ran the length of the south facing wall and contained three bushed of day lilies, two clumps of agapanthus. And yes – a wonderful climber that covered the whole (very high) wall.

It was a pleasure to look at that green, living wall every time I woke up, but further than that I rarely even ventured into the back yard for a whole first year, except occasionally for a braai.

Then the powers to be (the trustees of our complex) decided to have the walls re-painted, and as a consequence I lost my climber. Just like that. One day it was there, the next day it was gone, cut down in order to allow the workers to paint the wall.

Disgusted, I stopped looking at my backyard. Then came spring and something in me pushed me to go out and buy a hose, a shovel, and several plants.
I planned to make the back yard just a little more appealing, but one I got started – there was no ending it. A garden is not a project that you complete and then sit back and enjoy it. It is a never ending work in progress.

You’ll never find a true gardener just sitting in the garden. You find her walking around and doing things: bending to pluck out a weed, pruning overgrown plants and dead-heading the spent flowers… When she’s not doing any of that, she is plotting. About whether to move this or that. Or whether to introduce this or that novelty. Or whether to depose of this or that, be it a plant or a garden decoration. As soon as something is moved or introduced or disposed with, the whole picture of the garden is affected and everything has to be adapted to the new order.

And so it goes on.