I hadn’t been to the garden center, one of my favorites, in awhile. It’s out of the way on a country road, and I’d missed it. They always had air plants and succulents I like, and I needed miniature plants for a 1/12 scale conservatory I recently finished, so one day I stopped by.
As soon as I pulled into the driveway, I had a feeling something was different. The landscaping was unkempt, containers were overgrown, greenhouse doors hung open. I had a sense of dread, wondering if anything happened to the horticulturalist. I’d learned so much from visiting her gardens over the years; she’d walk through the greenhouse showing me how to propagate cuttings, sharing my love for container gardening. She wasn’t very old though, I didn’t think she was much older than me (55).
I rejected obvious clues that the business had closed and approached the greenhouse where the air plants and succulents were. I walked inside, stepping over a tangle of vines on the ground, and gasped. First, it was nearly 100 degrees outside based on the heat index, so the temperature was higher inside, but the heat wasn’t what shocked me. Seeing the neglect that had befallen the beautiful spot shattered me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I thought back, maybe it’d been a few years since my return? It was like a scene from the old zombie game Left for Dead (or more modern show The Last of Us). There was something almost hauntingly beautiful about the way some plants still grew: cactus of course didn’t mind the heat or lack of water, plants that were favorites of mine like lantana had taken over the fussier, high-maintenance plants that had perished long ago. The building had become a study in what I’ve always called my lazy-survivalist gardening method, Darwinian Gardening. I stood in the heat with tears streaming down my face in this dichotomous beauty, sad at the loss of a favorite business, worried at the reason for the loss.
I drove up to the farmhouse. I figured the horticulturalist could tell me she was out of business, and having seen that overgrown air plants and succulents were somewhat accessible, I wanted to offer her some money to perhaps try to put a flat together.
I was greeted by her husband, an older man with a beard and baseball hat wearing overalls. I asked what happened. With a laugh he simply told me: “We retired.” He kindly offered to allow me to gather some plantings, following me back down to the greenhouse in a golf cart. He told me that his wife, the horticulturalist, 70, suffered from dementia. He was patient as we chose some plantings, bringing me a pair of shears so I could cut back the insidious Virginia creeper that chokes out everything in its path, gently telling me I didn’t have to cut back all of it (I never would’ve stopped).
There’s a certain beauty in protecting and appreciating things that are able to thrive in complete neglect. I’ll leave my therapist to analyze the parallels to my abandonment and savior complexes for another day.
I’d told the farmer about building my conservatory and why I was looking for more miniature scale plants, showing him a photo. He told me he didn’t have a smartphone, but that it was the best photo he’d ever seen on a phone. The paradoxical compliment and fact that he seemed proud of my work was meaningful.
The farmer welcomed me back anytime. I offered to spend time with his wife in the greenhouse when the weather was cooler; maybe she’d enjoy weeding in the space where she’d spent so many years, or it’d be helpful to her. I know I’d be happy to return, and help hold back the hands of time.
