Photo: Adam Wallacavage
Cowboys and cowgirls of the old West didn't have time for gardens.
They were too busy stealing land, rustling up cattle and feeding
mouths.
Though I am no cowgirl, I do come from a pioneering family - rather
than rustling cattle, my dad rounded up ailing C-130s for repair
and my mom herded Air Force wives to our base house for Tupperware
parties. Because we had to move every two years, gardens weren't
our specialty. By the time we planted and nurtured seeds, we'd
be off to the next base. Even the Chia pet my brother gave me
for Christmas died. Besides, I had no patience for a garden: I
grew up making instant friends, eating instant dinners and drinking
instant Kool-Aid.
Still, I've always longed for a green thumb.
Just a year ago, I moved to a three-story house in the Fairmount
section of Philadelphia. Though it smelled like a large dog had
once lived there, I rented it anyway. It had a grand 10-foot-by-10-foot
cemented back yard; perfect for my first foray into gardening.
I daydreamed of late spring. Sunrise: drinking my first of six
cups of coffee next to a yellow rose bush and an herb garden.
Sundown: reclining between the hibiscus and juniper with a glass
of wine and a trashy magazine.
When I began my recent horticultural endeavor, I needed a crash
course in gardening. I bought The City & Town Gardener (Random House), by Linda Yang, a necessity for the horticulturally
impaired. Reading it in 20-minute increments on the route 48 bus
to Center City, I spent much time on the section titled "Plants
With Minimal Water Needs." I was drawn to the beauty and simplicity
of the many species of cactii.
Then I found out about Annie Oakley, the sharpshootin' cowgirl
who could nail targets dead on while riding a bicycle. How would
she have had the time to nurture her career if she was on her
knees tending yams and cabbage? And upon seeing Joan Crawford
kick ass as Vienna in Johnny Guitar, I decided to transform my back yard into the Wild West.
Keeping in step with my choice of easy-to-take-care-of plants,
I would need the right containers (cowboy boots, cowboy hats),
matching accessories to cover the cinder block walls (steer skulls,
fringy leather garments, lassoes, red bandannas, holsters), knick
knacks to pepper the soil (spurs, old horseshoes, old pop guns),
and something to sit on (a horse).
The first pair of cowboy boots came easy. The brother of a friend
was moving, he had a pair of authentic Tony Lama boots (made in
El Paso, TX), didn't want them, gave them to brother, who gave
them to me.
I spent the next few weeks scouring flea markets, thrift stores
(and trash piles) for Western gear, without much luck. All I found
at South Philly's American Thrift was an embroidered United States
state flower map and an old Johnny Cash LP. Philadelphians must
like to hold on to their cowboy paraphernalia.
I lucked out at a suburban flea market, at the table of a Colorado-cowgirl-turned-Main-Liner
named Arlene. Buried underneath a pile of footwear relics from
the last four decades - all size 9 - was a pair of brown leather
Wrangler cowgirl boots. When I brought the boots to her table
she reminisced about her rodeo days. "I rode in 18 rodeos in those
boots. They were my show boots." She wanted $4 for them; I didn't
haggle, it was worth it just to hear her stories.
Finding horseshoes wasn't nearly as hard. A horse-loving photographer-friend
simply referred me to her stable-owner friend, Mark, who lives
in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. "Yeah," he said, "I've got plenty
of old horseshoes. Any particular size?" No, I said, just whatever
you've got. I was scheduled to drive to his house one night after
work.
My mother, Elaine, warned me before I set out that Tuesday night:
"People are strange in the Pine Barrens, Jen. Be careful."
With the exception of a tailgating souped-up pickup truck, I didn't
encounter any ax murderers, psychotic farmers or overzealous cops
on my 45 minute nighttime drive to Tabernacle, NJ.
The real horror was at the Frank's, a lawn and garden center in
Springfield, PA. With the handbook and a to-buy list in hand,
I entered through the automatic doors. As I pushed the metal cart
toward the garden tool section, the wheel skittered and made a
clack-clack noise, drawing attention to me and the puzzled look
on my face.
I picked up the necessary tools - a hand trowel and a hand fork
- and moved on to the outdoor section. I was bombarded by words
- hardy perennial, tendrils, espalier, vermiculite, and potash
- whose meanings were not entirely clear, and pricetags which
did not fit my budget.
As I wandered around the foliage supercenter, I was suddenly overpowered
by a feeling. It wasn't an itching to plant seeds, nor was it
a desire to turn compost. I had to pee, real bad. And I hadn't
even picked out one plant. Racing up and down the aisles I grabbed
a juniper here, a dwarf Alberta spruce there. Then I sped into
the herb and flower tent. Though basil is my favorite, I had no
patience; there were too many species. Instead I grabbed mint
and creeping thyme.
The pressure subsided as I galloped into the flower section; I
was able to carefully choose the pink and white sizzlers and the
pink sundial flowers. On the way out I picked up English ivy and
40-quart sack of all-purpose potting soil.
With only enough plants to fill up a corner of my cement yard,
my garden is not as grand as I had planned. And since it would
be cruel to confine an actual horse in the back yard, I'll start
looking for abandoned hobby horses.
And I'll keep reading, planting, watering, and turning compost
until some roots take hold.
born-again
My Own Private Nevada