“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything.”
–Gordon Hempton (b. 1952), acoustic ecologist and advocate for the power of natural silence.
My Mother told the world, especially anyone who would listen, that I was born smiling. I can just hear her now–well, obviously I can’t, and certainly I don’t remember it from when I was a baby, but you know what I mean:
“Oh, look. Mama’s Little Mr. Sunshine is lighting up the Coal Camp already.”
Her regular reinforcement, of course, kept me smiling, smiling, and smiling. I never stopped. I guess I don’t know how, even though people are always wondering what no-good nonsense I’m up to or what I know that they wish they did.
What my Mother didn’t tell folks is that I was born talking. All right. Fine. Have it your way. Maybe I wasn’t born talking out loud. But I am certain that I was born talking quietly to myself. And when the time came–and I am fairly certain that it came precociously sooner rather than belatedly later–and I heard words roll off my tongue like orchestral notes at the New York Philharmonic, I vowed to keep right on talking, talking, and talking. I never stopped. I guess I don’t know how, even though people sometimes give me looks that seem to say:
“Shut up. Won’t you please shut up. You’re exhaustive and exhausting.”
Like I said, sometimes they give me that look, but luckily, they never come right and say so. If they do, I don’t hear them. I guess people need to learn to speak up, especially if they expect to be heard while I’m talking.
I guess you might say that I’m one of those extroverts who make it a challenge for people who value quiet to be around. Of course, I’m just guessing. But every now and then, I seem to catch a glimpse of someone giving me a look that seems to be a plea for silence. But I don’t know. Looks are just looks. And the more that I think about it, I don’t think any of those people who suffer my loquaciousness in silence–even the many who have suffered sufficiently to be worthy of sainthood–have ever come right out and asked me to be quiet.
Recently, though, I might have been closer than close to that “Please-be-quiet” threshold. But then again, I might not have been. Who knows? Maybe. I’m not really sure. I’m just guessing.
If I really was close to crossing that threshold, Gary was polite enough and gentlemanly enough not to say anything. I’m not talking about my neighbor, Gary. I’m talking about my Gary from Tennessee. It’s not that he’s the quiet type. Actually, he’s quite the talker, and when he gets going, I’ll swear that he could talk out the entire book of Genesis without leaving out any of the beseeches and begats. Of course, he doesn’t talk in Old Testamentese like that, but when he talks, what he says is rich and robust and layered with details known to Adam and Eve and all of their descendants since the Garden of Eden, including me.
At the same time, I know fully well that Gary appreciates quiet. So far, though, that has not stopped me from talking. When he’s here and he’s doing his thing and I’m doing my thing, little dramas might unfold thusly:
Gary: Weeding. Not looking up. Not saying a word.
Brent: “Just ignore me. I’m just going to the compost heap. What you’re doing looks great. What do you think?”
Or, later in the day or perhaps earlier in the morning.
Gary: Reading on the deck. Looking right at his book. Not saying a word.
Brent: “Isn’t this quiet great? So peaceful. So relaxing. The only sound you can hear is the quiet song of a bird singing from time to time. Oh. Listen. Hear that one? Robin? Cardinal? OMG! Now listen. It’s the crow that lives in the pine tree midway up the mountain. See? I can just barely see it. Can you?”
I don’t think my chatter bothered Gary. It must not have. If it had, he would have said something. But he didn’t say anything. Not one word.
Still, I imagine that when he got in his Mazda, drove down the rutted mountain road, and headed back to Tennessee, he sighed a sigh of relief, verily saying aloud to himself:
“Peace. Quiet. Thank God.”
I’m sure, though, that it was a short sigh because it didn’t take too long before he sent me a text message. Or did I send one to him?
Who sent what to whom and when doesn’t really matter, does it? Either way, texting is talking. Right?
I think so, and the message–whether coming in from Gary or going out from me–found me sitting on my deck, listening to the birds, and thinking to myself:
“How incredibly quiet. I can’t believe how peacefully quiet it is, sitting here, me, myself, sipping on my coffee. Sipping. Sipping. Sipping.”
In that nanosecond, Kay Ryan’s “Shark’s Teeth” talked its poetic way into my quiet:
Everything contains some silence. Noise gets its zest from the small shark’s-tooth shaped fragments of rest angled in it. An hour of city holds maybe a minute of these remnants of a time when silence reigned, compact and dangerous as a shark. Sometimes a bit of a tail or fin can still be sensed in parks.
And I sat there, sipping my coffee, cup held high in mid-air—my morning salutation to quiet, my morning celebration of quiet, my morning realization that much of life is framed by quiet.
In art, it’s the white that lets the red pop. The space the eye travels through to find what matters. The breath between brushstrokes. Without it, everything would shout. And nothing would be seen.
In music, it’s the rest that gives the chord its ache. The pause before the resolution. The silence that says, wait. And because you waited, you feel more.
And in me? Despite the smile. Despite the gab. Even I need the quiet that I so often deny others.
Not just to appreciate it— but to let it hold me, steady me, remind me that I belong to the silence, too.
The kind that doesn’t ask for attention. The kind that lets the world be. The kind that lets me be, too.
A crow calling far off. A weed pulled in rhythm. A breath drawn but not spoken over. A book opened without comment.
Gary nearby, not needing to say a word. And I? Nearby as well. Listening. Savoring quiet in silence.
–Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; American novelist and essayist renowned for her contributions to science fiction and fantasy literature; from her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness.)
Every now and then, a Silly Notion finds its way inside my head and takes up residence there. Try as I will, it won’t move out, even when I threaten it with eviction notices.
The Silly Notion that I can’t get rid of now is that I might be happier if I were to move away from my mountaintop oasis and find myself a lower-maintenance oasis downtown in a fabulous city somewhere. This Silly Notion has been living quietly in my head for a long, long time. I’ll give you an example.
In the fall of 2019, my late partner and I spent a week in Brattleboro (VT), where I was the keynote speaker at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. I had been to Brattleboro many times before, but it was Allen’s first visit. He fell in love with the mountains and the river and the funky downtown, a little San Francisco rolled up into a few blocks.
When it was obvious that our Brattleboro love was a shared one, we had some serious conversations about packin’ up and movin’. I was a little surprised that Allen–a Floridian–would even consider such a northerly move, especially Brattleboro’s average snowfall of 56 inches. However, I didn’t even have to bring up that topic. Allen settled the whole discussion when he gave me his coy, twinkly-eyed angelic smile that only he could give:
“Sure, we’ll move to Brattleboro, but we’ll have to airlift our gardens if we do.”
I laughed. We had had similar conversations before, and I had heard Allen’s response before when we visited Asheville (NC), Charleston (SC), and Savanah (GA). He and I loved the downtown vibes of small cities.
Obviously, we loved our mountaintop oasis more. Obviously, too, I still love it more because I’m still here, but that Silly Notion of moving is still in my head, too. Here’s what’s really funny. The notion is so silly that it actually thinks that I could sell my mountaintop home rather quickly. Hmmm. On reflection, I probably could. One of my neighbors told me once that if I ever sold, he’d like first dibs on my upper lots.
“I doubt that I’d ever sell just a part of my property. If I ever sell, it will be a total package, and I come with it.”
I guess he didn’t like my on-the-spot, standing-up proposal because he didn’t accept. Too bad. He would have gotten a damned good bargain.
I imagine, however, if I approached him now with the opportunity to buy–knowing that I’m no longer part of the deal–he might give it some serious thought. He should. If he didn’t, I’m sure some city slicker would, just as I did when I became a DC refugee. City slickers would love my Shenandoah Valley heaven. They could trade their car horns for my bird songs and their traffic jams for my stargazing escapades. My serene landscape and tranquil nights would woo even the most urban soul. Plus, and I’m not boasting, my oasis has one of the most commanding views anyone could ever hope to find in this part of the Shenandoah Valley.
§ § §
Selling my home, then, isn’t the challenge. The challenge is straightforward: where would I go? I have lots of options. So that I don’t show my leanings and inclinations–Scorpions like me, after all, like to keep people guessing–I’ll talk about them in alpha(betical) order.
Asheville, NC.: I’ve been to Asheville countless times, and the idea of living in that vibrant city is enticing. It might be wonderful to return, immerse myself in its artistic culture, and walk around the neighborhood where Thomas Wolfe lived. I could stand on the Square where Grover stood in Wolfe’s “The Lost Boy,” listening to his thoughts:
“Here,” thought Grover, “here is the Square as it has always been–and papa’s shop, the fire department and the City Hall, the fountain pulsing with its plume, the street cars coming in and halting at the quarter hour, the hardware store on the corner there, the row of old brick buildings oil this side of the street, the people passing and the light that comes and changes and that always will come back again, and everything that comes and goes and changes in the Square, and yet will be the same again. And here,” the boy thought, “is Grover with his paper bag. Here is old Grover, almost twelve years old. Here is the month of April, 1904. Here is the courthouse bell and three o’clock. Here is Grover on the Square that never changes. Here is Grover, caught upon this point of time.”
Aside from the literary appeal is the culinary one. Cúrate’s thriving treasure troves of Mediterranean food and wine would beckon me for regular lunches. I could take in art exhibits at the Asheville Art Museum, shop at all the funky shops, and enjoy chocolates at French Broad Chocolate Lounge. The sound of street musicians and the sight of quirky art installations would inspire and heighten my own bursts of creative energy. Add to all those joys the high of hiking Mount Mitchell and DuPont State Forest.
Let me check out some condos. Wow! I would have lots of options–to rent or to buy–but I am gobsmacked by the amazing condo that I just stumbled upon. It’s in downtown Asheville, above Ben and Jerry’s, near parks, shopping, dining, and all the action. 2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 1,130 square feet. OMG. It has a cozy balcony with views of Pritchard Park and Haywood Street, a working brick fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and tons of windows with mountain breeze. It’s my reinvention dream come true. Say whaaaat? $749,000, plus monthly condo fees! Hmmm. Next time, I’ll look at the price first before my soaring hopes get sore.
Even if I could find a less-expensive condo (and I’m sure that I could), I wonder. How long would the initial creative rush of downtown Asheville continue to nourish me?
Brattleboro, VT: I did as I said that I would do. I looked at the price first: $279,000! I’ll tell you more about that gem after contemplating the treasures that Brattleboro offers. Those who know me well know that I love Brattleboro. I’ve been visiting there since the 1970s when I started my research on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, who launched her acclaimed literary career while living in Brattleboro and captured the spirit of the town beautifully:
“Oh how wonderfully beautiful it was in Brattleboro. I used to walk to the head of High Street, and stand and look at the mountain in winter. The beauty in Brattleboro made a great difference in my life.” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)
Every time that I’m in Brattleboro, I explore the streets where Freeman lived and walked. If I moved there, it would be a real boost to my ongoing Freeman research. Aside from that perk, Brattleboro is a delightfully charming town. I always refer to it as Vermont’s own Asheville. It’s artsy, and it has a bohemian vibe with free spirits roaming freely. It’s nestled along the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the other side.
But, whoa! You’re not going to believe the gem of a home that I found there. Picture this: a charming pergola, a delightful stone terrace, and enchanting gardens. It’s like stepping into a world that beautifully blends Old-World charm with the vibrant vibes of downtown living. And here’s the real treat–not one, but two porches that would allow me to admire those picturesque gardens and stonework. But the icing on the cake has to be the view. I can soak in the breathtaking Wantastiquet ridgeline and witness the moon climbing up the mountain just as Freeman did:
“The memory of the moon rising over the mountain causes the same surprise, the old leaping thrill of wonder at unexpected loveliness. […] I cannot now rid myself of the conviction that it was a special moon, rising nowhere else in the world. Its glory would fling out its road before it, then the first gleam of celestial fire would show over the mountain summit, and an elderly woman, for whom the good of her soul the old remained new, would call out: ‘there it is, the moon.'” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)
This place really might be a dream come true. Oh. My. Yes. If I moved to Brattleboro, I would become a citizen of Vermont. I’d be a Vermonter, and I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for my friends or benevolent groups or the governor himself to bestow honorary citizenship.
My Freeman research would keep me enchanted, just as it has for five decades. But I wonder. How long would the other creative rushes of Brattleboro continue to nourish me, especially during the heavy snows of winter?
Savannah, GA: I must confess. Of all the places that my Silly Notion keeps making me think about, Savannah seems to have the least charm. It’s not as if I don’t like the city. I do. I’ve stayed there on several occasions, once at the awesome Planter’s Inn, in the epicenter of Savannah’s historic district and just a stone’s throw from River Street and the Savannah River. Another time, I stayed in a gorgeous historic home facing Forsyth Square, an enchanting urban oasis adorned with centuries-old oaks, cobblestone paths, and a mesmerizing central fountain. Living there, I could explore each of its historic squares, enjoy its coastal charm, and feel a sense of timelessness.
As for finding a condo there, I just stumbled upon an extraordinary gem. Actually, it’s an absolute dream. How about a 3-bed, 2-bath waterfront unit with exposed brick, hardwood floors, and iron detailing. The real showstopper? It overlooks the majestic Savannah River! The open layout is bathed in natural light. But wait for it… the price tag? A cool 1.1 million! Gasp! I forgot to look at the price first.
Well, I need not wonder whether Savannah’s charm would see me through the long haul. It’s a certainty: I won’t be going there. Now, all that I have to do is make the Silly Notion in my head understand my decision.
Washington, DC (Capitol Hill): Capitol Hill is awesomely significant to me. After all, I lived there for a quarter of a century, working at The Library of Congress, in whose hallowed, marble halls I grew up and became a professional. It was at the Library of Congress that I got turned on to research and decided to pursue my Ph. D. in American Literature. After I earned the degree, I returned to the Library of Congress, where I enjoyed a glorious and life-changing career.
Even though I’ve been away from DC for about as long as I lived there, when I return for daytrips, nostalgia and belonging wash over me. Even after the passage of so many years, when I visit the iconic Eastern Market, many vendors still remember me, and I am reminded of the neighborhood’s small-town, vibrant community spirit. Living at the heart of a dynamic city, where history, culture, and politics converge always made each day an exciting journey for me, and I am sure it would do the same once more.
Wait! Wait! Here’s the clincher that might just make moving to DC a no-brainer. I’ve just uncovered a condo conveniently situated right across the street from the prestigious Hart Senate Office Building and various other Senate offices. Natural light pours through oversized, brand-new windows. The modern, white kitchen features granite countertops, a gas range, dishwasher, and microwave–perfect for whipping up my culinary masterpieces. The updated bathroom is a retreat with its soaking tub shower, a stylish vanity, and a generously sized window with lots of sunlight. The entire unit has been tastefully updated, freshly painted, and boasts new flooring throughout. But here’s the kicker: no full bedroom! Where in the world would I catch some Zs? Holy smokes! But it’s only $385,000. Trust me: I know how to bloom wherever I’m planted. I see an outlandishly elegant Murphy Bed in my future.
Without a doubt, DC is as close to home as I can ever hope to be. I know that living there again would stimulate me intellectually, culturally, and socially. But I wonder. Would all of its parks, the Botanical Gardens, the Tidal Basin. Rock Creek Parkway, and the National Zoo give me the soul food that I get here on my mountaintop oasis when I do my down-and-dirty gardening?
§ § §
Well, let me say simply what Scarlet O’Hara would say:
“I can’t think about that today. I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.”
Right now, I have to think about other things. Clearly, I have some idyllic cities calling out my name. It’s equally clear that I’d be able to find a buyer for my mountaintop paradise.
But I’ve moved several times in the past, and I know what I have to do to prepare my home for the market. I realize that it will be a wild ride, so I need to start thinking and planning.
The Great Stuff Purge: I’ll start with the hardest part first. After all, I have kept everything forever. Now I wonder why. Who on earth cares about all of my canceled checks from the first one until I shifted to electronic banking? Who on earth cares about all of my tax returns going back to the first one heat I ever filed? Who on earth cares about all of the personal letters and cards that I have ever received? Those are only three categories of things that I’ve kept forever. I need to get rid of all that stuff. Then, I’ll tackle my loft, chock-full of Shenandoah Valley collectibles bought at auctions down through the years. OMG! I just had a marvelous idea. I acquired most of that stuff at Laughlin Brothers Auctions! I’ll sell it back to those guys. Then my loft will be empty, and I can convert it into a Zen-like meditation room. Dark hardwood floors. Light-colored walls. Wall-mounted light panels made of Himalayan salt. Meditation cushions. It will create a perfect ambiance, especially with an Anjali Namaste Mudra Buddhist Monk statue standing at top of the stairs bidding a prayerful welcome to the inner sanctum. What an asset that will be when the house hits the market. (I know. I’m brilliant. Thank you, for reminding me.)
The Deep Clean Extravaganza: This won’t be too bad because I’ve been deep cleaning since the Covid Pandemic started. I’m sure that you remember how “My Imaginary Guests” helped me keep my home spic-and-span clean. But I’ll arm myself once more with a mop, a feather duster, and a metaphorical superhero cape (purple, of course), and I’ll tackle dust bunnies and cobwebs with unmatched determination.
The Decor Remix: Honestly, I like my decor exactly as it is. It’s a perfect mix of antiques and modern–old and new. My guests always feel at home, so I imagine prospective buyers will, too.
The Garden Magic: I have been working diligently to restore my gardens into the pristine beds they once were. If I time everything just right, I can have the house ready for showing by mid-May 2024, when my peonies will be in bloom, ready to steal the heart of anyone who takes one look.
The “Fix It” Finale: Luckily, I fix things when they need to be fixed. Just yesterday, I had the plumber expertly snake my sluggish kitchen drain. It swirls around effortlessly and melodiously now. In a week or so, my new double wall ovens and my new stove top will be installed. I’ll probably go ahead and replace my inefficient electric water heater with a space-saving, more efficient, on-demand, gas water heater. The major fix-it, however, will be the road. Right before the house goes on the market, I’ll have crush-and-run put down so that prospective buyers will have a smooth ride up. I want the first one up to want to stay here forever!
Photoshoot Mania: I love to take photos, but I’ll need a professional photographer who can make my home and the spectacular surrounding views blush with flattering lighting and expert angles.
Baked Goods Invasion: Nothing makes a home smell better than freshly baked bread and pastries. I’ll be baking every day that my agent plans to show my home. I may even leave a gift basket of goodies on the kitchen table.
§ § §
I believe that’s it, but bear with me while I give the above pre-sale preparations a quick review. I don’t know what you think, but I think I have laid out a wonderful and workable plan.
“Would you two just knock it off! I’m trying to think.”
I guess I had better explain. You know all about the Silly Notion that lives in my head. However, I haven’t told you about the Sensible Notion that also lives in my head. Usually, they coexist peacefully on opposite sides of my brain, but right now, they are having a major squabble. Geez! I can’t get any peace at all.
Silly Notion: Butt out. This is my brilliant idea, and you have absolutely no right whatsoever to show up now.
Sensible Notion: Of course, I do. Remember: I have exclusive life rights. All you have is a towering stack of eviction notices.
Silly Notion: Scoot over. I don’t want you encroaching on my side of his brain.
Sensible Notion: Well, excuse me. I’ll graciously give you all the space that you want. Fortunately, I don’t require much space. With just a smidgen, I’ll work my magic and make him forget your delightful silliness and return to his senses.
Have you ever heard such a racket in all your life? I can’t enjoy a moment’s silence even within the domain of my own brain. I think that I feel a headache coming on. Oh. No. I think it might be a migraine.
Whew. It was neither as bad nor as lingering as I initially feared. An apple cider vinegar cloth applied to the temple always works wonders.
As I reclined on my sofa, allowing the vinegar vapors to perform their enchanting alchemy, I suddenly had an epiphany. It was yet another option, perhaps even more dazzling—if such a thing be possible—than the ones that previously danced around in my head, demanding to go on stage right here in my blog!
Let me explain. I will charge ahead with The Great Stuff Purge, The Deep Clean Extravaganza, The Garden Magic, and The “Fix-It” Finale. When I get all of that done, my mountaintop oasis will be transformed into a pristine paradise, so incredibly paradisical that I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought of moving.
But wait, here’s the pièce de résistance. Since I won’t be moving, I won’t have to fork over a hefty commission to a real estate broker. Instead, I can squirrel away those substantial savings and treat myself to several weeks (or maybe even a full month) each year in my cherished duo of cities that will forever hold a special place in my heart: DC, and Brattleboro. Who knows? I might even sprinkle in some vacation time in Asheville, Charleston, and Savannah.
Who says I can’t have the best of both worlds? I certainly can. My plan lets me live in my luxurious and enchanting mountaintop world for most of the year and, for a month or two each year, I can savor the richness of my favorite metropolitan worlds. You bet. I had to do some hefty packin’ up and gettin’ ready, but I ain’t movin’ nowhere (at least, no time soon anyway).
Lessis more has been around since 1855 when Robert Browning coined the phrase in his “Andrea del Sarto,” a dramatic monologue inspired by the Renaissance artist having the same name as the poem’s title. Nearly one hundred years later, architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe made the phrase really popular when he adopted it as a mantra for architecture, art and design. Today,less is more is more popular than ever because minimalism is gaining more and more traction.
I get it. I guess. Well, actually, I guess that I don’t get it. To prove that I don’t get it, I had to Google some examples of less is moreso that I could include them here at the start of this post. I can’t believe that I couldn’t come up with any examples on my own, but I couldn’t.
Fortunately, I found a lot of examples on the Internet. However, only one or two of them found me nodding in agreement.
I really do understand that putting less focus on material things–consumerism–allows us to focus more on things that really matter and that bring us lasting happiness. Got it. Endorse it.
And I really do understand that minimalism can help the environment by reducing our carbon footprint. Got it. Got it. Endorse it twice over.
Those two concessions are about as far as I can go. Some of the other less-is-moreexamples leave me shaking my head.
Sleek, smaller design, often in a black and white scheme. Nope.
Decluttering. Nope. Nope.
Digital decluttering. Nope. Nope. Nope.
(If you desire a full understanding of why I dissed sleek design, decluttering, and digital decluttering, see “OHIO on My Mind.”)
Having scoffed at those examples of less is more, you can rest assured that I would never consider less is more when it comes to gardening. That’s when I draw the line in my compost heap and step across it to join sides with Robert Venturi, one of the major American architects of the twentieth century, who proclaimed that less is a bore.
As for me, I want my garden right now. No. I want it yesterday or the day before, and I want it to look as if I have been enjoying its lushness for years, if not forever.
Hear me and hear me well. Less is not more when it comes to the way that I garden. I garden, I garden my way.
I want nothing–absolutely nothing–to do with seeds. They take days to sprout, more days to grow, still more days to selectively thin, and even more days to bloom.
I want blooms, blooms, blooms. Glorious blooms. And I want them instanter.
“Those 4-inch pots are gorgeous! Look at all those blooms.”
“You must like them a lot to be buying fifteen each of three different annuals.”
“Oh, my. Yes. I love mass plantings.”
That’s a typical conversation as I make early spring pilgrimages to local garden centers, always to be reminded right after I have made my purchases:
“Keep ’em indoors until the danger of frost has passed.”
No big deal. I’ve never minded dragging a gazillion potted plants day after day–from mid-April to mid-May–in and out of my home, kitchen to deck and back again. Hey. Like I said. I want my garden yesterday or the day before. And either way I want it looking like it’s been there forever.
If you think that I have a bad attitude when it comes to seeds, I have an even worse attitude when it comes to saplings. (Think of me as a modern-day-Mae-West gardener: “When I’m good, I’m good. When I’m bad, I’m better.”)
If I’m going to plant a tree, I certainly do not expect to sit under it from the get-go and be shaded–Hmmm, that is something for me to think about–but, at least, I want it to be big enough and bold enough to cast a shadow.
When it comes to how many plants and trees I consider to be enough, it’s really simple.
For specimen plants and trees, I’m fine with one of each.
For all others, if one is good, then three, five, seven, or nine have to be better, especially since I garden in odd numbers when it comes to layout and design.
In fact, my odd-number planting rule struck me as perfect when I decided to plant bamboo. Nine clumps. Not to worry. Non-running.
That rule seemed equally perfect for my hardy bananas. Three groves. They were so small when I first planted them, that I hoped my neighbors would not notice. Trust me. They didn’t. Bigger is better even when it comes to bananas. But these days my neighbors get whiplash as they drive past, and it’s not because of our well-rutted road. Groves of big banana plants on a Virginia mountaintop make heads turn and make cars turn around.
Let’s see whether I have anything else to prove that less is not more when it comes to my gardening. Goodness! How on earth could I forget English ivy. Well, I nearly forgot it, no doubt because for once I broke my cardinal rule of planting in odd numbers. I planted the ivy in twosies. I needed ivy to hide not only a humongous and hideous stump just below my driveway but also to hide the rock wall that I built to hide the stump.
It worked so well there that I decided some ivy would soften the stone wall surrounding three sides of my Koi Pond. The fourth side, lest you think that I slighted it, is a dramatic waterfall, cascading from a height of five or seven or nine feet or so.
I wouldn’t want the world at large to know this–and I know that I can trust you, Dear Reader, to keep what I am about to say to yourself–but in my insistence on having my gardens look as if they have been around forever from day one, I confess that I may have made a mistake or five.
Mistake #1. Planting things too close together. Let’s face it. Too close is too close.
Mistake #2. See Mistake #3. My mistakes come in odd numbers only.
Mistake #3. Not paying close enough attention to how big things will grow. Double disaster. Too close and too large.
Mistake #4. See Mistake #5. My mistakes come in odd numbers only.
Mistake #5. Not fully understanding that gardeners like me who nurture and care for their gardens end up with plants and trees that are much larger than expected. Miracle Grow grows miracles.
In case you’re wondering how my less-is-not-more approach to gardening played out over time, let me share with you.
Year One. Oh, joy. This is gorgeous. This is proof. My garden looks as if it’s been here for a while. It almost has that old-garden look. So there! I knew from the get-go that less is not more.
Year Two. See Year Three. I garden in odd numbers only.
Year Three. Oh, joy of joys. Everything is so lush. The garden really does look elegant and established.
Year Four. See Year Five. I garden in odd numbers only.
Year Five. Joy to the fifth. Cheers! This is an English garden at its best. Blooms, blooms, blooms. Glorious blooms everywhere. Everything in the garden is touching. I can’t even see weeds between the plants. Maybe there are no weeds. Better still, even if the deer have been in the gardens, I can’t tell what they’ve eaten.
Year Six. See Year Seven. I garden in odd numbers only.
Year Seven. Well, if I must say so myself, the stone walls really do look mysterious hidden beneath the English ivy. Here and there the sunlight bounces off a stone. For all that I know, what I’m walking past might be the foundations of ancient Roman ruins awaiting an archaeological dig. And I am rather glad that the manicured borders around the garden beds have disappeared. Too formal was a tad too much for a mountain man like me.
Year Eight. See Year Nine. I garden in odd numbers only.
Year Nine. The season of the slow awakening finally came. I looked out my windows one day, and I realized that it was gone. All gone. To be certain, it’s all there, but now it’s all so overgrown and all so close together that it looks like an Impressionistic study in shades of emerald green.
From afar, it’s rather dramatic. But let’s face it. Gardening cannot be done from afar. Gardening requires down and dirty.
Recovery from my initial Impressionistic shock was slow, and I confess to having been in denial for a year or three. It was a downer. I felt overwhelmed by the “muchness” of it all, just as Frost’s farmer felt in “After Apple-Picking”: “For I have had too much / Of apple picking: I am overtired / Of the great harvest I myself desired.”
But I started to take heart when I started ripping out enough English ivy to fill five, seven, or maybe nine forty-five-gallon yard bags.
I got really hyped when I discovered the stone wall surrounding the red-leaf Japanese maple. Now, though, the maple has overgrown its stone wall boundaries. Joy!
“Mr. Gardener, tear down that wall.”
I did, and I rebuilt it sufficiently far away from the mature maple–exactly where I should have built it to begin with.
Then I repeated the ivy demolition on the three sides of the Koi Pond. Wow! What rocks I have! I can’t believe that I dug those stones out of the ground using just my pick and then managed to position them so expertly. They are stunning. Simply stunning. And with all that ivy gone, the pond is every bit as big as I recall it.
In case you’re wondering about the bamboo, let me just say this. Those nine clumps have an impressive diameter of six feet. Each. Non-running? Right. This bamboo is leaping! I have renamed it Bamboozle Leptomorph! (Patent pending.) I’m still trying to remove as much of it as I can from my gardens, while leaving the original clumps intact. They are gorgeous. Nonetheless, Dear Reader, if you would like to gift your best enemies with some of my bamboo, please leap out to me. You can assure them, if they ask: Clumping. Non-running. Caveat inter vivos.
No doubt you’re wondering about my bananas. Of all my less-is-not-more gardening ventures, the bananas might be my greatest success. A recent visitor commented that they reminded him of Peru! Imagine that! My own piece of Peru right here in the Shenandoah Valley. Rest assured: I’ll keep the bananas. Even though they are hardy, I have to work hard at wintering them over. When they start to outgrove their allotted space, I simply overwinter smaller sections of the groves. Or I dig up perimeter pups and give them to friends. (Enemies get the Bamboozle Leptomorph, sine caveat.)
The annuals? Never a problem because at the end of the season, Voila! They’re gone. If I want more, I’ll plant them again next year.
No doubt you know exactly where I am. That’s right. I am ripping out lots of my gardens that have exceeded by far my wildest dreams nightmares.
This fall, just as an example, I’ll be lifting and replanting 55 or so peonies that have been anchored in their spots since 1998 when I planted them with fierce determination to make them look as if they had been there forever. Trust me. These days they look as if they have been there forever and a day.
The same can be said for all of my gardens.
As I move forward with these gardening challenges opportunities, I will be gardener enough to own up to the fact that “Less is not more until it is.”
What worked great for me for so many years is now simply too much. And too much is just too much.
But, as I own up to the shortfalls, I am seeing wide open expanses opportunities that I have not seen in decades. At the same time, I am seeing metaphorical steel and copper plant markers nudging their way up through the soil here and there and everywhere: “Gardening Opportunity.” “Plant Tomorrow, Today.” “Just Plant It.”
Yep. I will savor the landscape’s openness through fall’s brilliant blaze and through winter’s snowy silence.
Come spring thaw, however, my unrepentant self and I will be right back at all the local garden centers. In all likelihood, I will do it all over again unless I somehow discover that sweet spot, somewhere between less is a bore and less is more.
The Wired Researcher 