Gardens run in our family. First generation, second generation and third, there was always a garden, obsessively tended to over the years, some large, some small, some architecturally important, some inconsequential. All the result of a passion for the natural world that lies in all of us.
My sister falls directly in that lineage, and when she had the opportunity to make her own garden she jumped in with all the passion and energy she has. Her garden is Upstate, on a rocky piece of land at the base of the Shawangunks. She looked hard for this place and fell in love with Upstate a long time ago. That was before the farm to table, Brooklyn meets the country life that now characterizes our part of the world was even a glimmer in our collective imagination.The hot spots to hang out in her drive-by town of Kerhonkson were the local taxidermy and bait shop, and a sweet mini golf meets NASCAR ice cream stand where the kids could blow off steam.
She found her own little slice of paradise on a 75-acre deeply forested piece of land. A former hotel called the Brookside, it featured a beautiful pond fed by the clearest of spring water, which offered possibilities of skating in the winter and fishing in the summer. The hotel, the remnants of which were buried in the remains of its defunct swimming pool, was long gone, but the spirit of that Catskills camp remained. She fell in love and over time raised three children there, and created heaven on earth, where one feels miles away, at peace and surrounded by a very special kind of natural world.
The land here is not friendly to the shovel. I’m talking boulders, massive rocks that can be moved only with heavy machinery. I am writing this from there, with a view of that rocky landscape. This was a garden not easily imagined at first.
My sister is determined, though, and when she has a vision there is nothing that can stop the forward momentum towards its achievement. And she had a vision. With shovel and watering hose in hand, with passion and years of summer day trips to the local nursery, she conquered this place, creating a flowing garden that weaves and winds its way through the landscape, offering surprising texture and color at every turn.
She never loses interest in the cultivation of this garden. Wielding hoses throughout the summer, she tends and frets over each and every plant. They are all beautiful as a result, thriving in the unlikely environment in which they have been planted. Their roots making their circuitous journey underground through the rocks and stones that lie beneath.
Our mother created a similar garden outside of the bounds of the formal garden she inherited. It was inspiring. A series of organically shaped beds that rose up the hillside above her house, within view of her bedroom window. Planted with native plants she loved, and knew all the Latin names for. The yellow blooms of the Alchemical Mollis and Common Yarrow are what I remember most, along with spiky grasses that punctuated the landscape, a rose garden and a majestic bed of rosemary that cascaded over a stone wall. Hers was a classic California garden, planted with an eye toward what would grow there.
She spent hours there. We were always welcomed home from our far-flung lives with a tour of her garden. I can see her still, worn work shirt, baggy pants, sensible shoes and canvas hat, speaking to her plants, judging their success, making plans for what would evolve in and out from one year to the next. As the years passed and she could no longer work the way she used to, the garden offered her solace. It was a place of her own, of her creation, imagined over years of garden class, visits to the nursery, and, most importantly, being present, attentive and patient.
Like our mother’s garden, my sister’s garden is inspiring. Planted with a combination of low growing east coast natives, her beloved coneflowers, a mass of bee balm in the distance. I know she hears the voices of previous generations in her head when she’s out there, finding quiet and time for herself in the birdsong of the morning.
Yesterday evening to my delight she offered a tour of her beautiful garden. Unfolding across acres of untamed landscape, textural, colorful and with the punctuation points that give any good garden structure. I asked questions about plant choices, what thrives and doesn’t, the questions all gardeners ask each other. We reflected on the work, the sheer physical labor of it. And there we were.
Another generation devoted to the garden. Pass it down.
