An English In Kentucky


















Saturday October 14th 2017Tim Candler9


     Probably best to think of Gardens Past, do away with the nail biting tensions of tomorrow when I'll attempt to daintily broadcast ground cover seeds ready for what could be an afternoon rain shower, possibly a thunder storm ahead of a cold front. When I think of the gardens I have worked in, they mostly belonged to three categories of property owner. You got the New Rich, the Old Rich, and the Little Old Lady. The New Rich, in my view, should never be permitted to go anywhere near a garden picture book or magazine. It's not good for them, gives them unnatural ideas, and as a gardener you'll come away deeply disappointed in any definition that gives a relationship between success and brain matter, and this is especially the case if there is a dramatic difference between the ages of the male and female sides of the pair. I remember the hours and hours and hours I spent installing a garden, only to be told by my employer that she didn't like to see earth or mulch between her plants. The idea that her plants would in due course grow together, become as one, in a glorious passion of color, shape and form failed to impress her or the Adonis with a tennis racket at her side.



     The Old Rich, and by Old Rich I mean the often eccentric grandchildren of long ago titled or diligent money grubbers, they don't like to pay their bills and have what I can only think of as the Mollusk's view of our planet. I remember once digging up and transplanting English Boxwood for the younger daughter of  a somewhat tyrannical propertied gentleman who'd been on his death bed for getting on ten years. There seemed no rhyme or reason to it, and because of the age of the plants their chances of surviving the transplant were next to none. It was explained to me that once Daddy was gone and the will read, the older brother wouldn't let his younger sister have the Boxwoods. Nor did she really care if all the Boxwoods died, which they did, slowly over time. Little Old Ladies are the darlings of a gardener's world, they have less to prove I guess. They had a fondness for remembering how much they'd forgotten and often had an intimate knowledge of their garden plants which but for old age and frailty they would have attended to themselves, so woe betide a gardener with any kind of newfangled notion of how things might be done. My favorite, I remember her name, would tell me to add two hours a visit to the bill, not because I was special, but because her son actually paid the bill and he'd committed the crime of marrying an "Unsuitable Gal."



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