I guess that most everyone who loves to garden can point to a childhood experience that has galvanized their lifelong garden passion. My mother has a gift for getting exciting about little things: trees, flowers, thunderstorms observed from the apartment window over the Verrazano bridge. Growing up in Brooklyn, my mother pointed out the ubiquitous Alainthus trees (weeds, really) that were my first exposure to growing things. As we walked to school or to the market, my mom would point out the weeds in the sidewalk cracks, and we'd enviously scrutinize the showy front yards of the few private houses that were wedged between giant apartment buildings. From the perspective of our Brooklyn apartment, gardens seemed very exotic. My mother was upset about Dutch Elm disease that was wiping out the tree population in Brooklyn; I didn't know what an Elm tree was, but I learned that one could feel very sad about bad things happening to growing things. My mother, who had always lived in a city, brought an exuberance to all things nature. We would spend Summers in the Catskill mountains at a bungalow colony that backed to woods and fields. We'd pick blueberries, catch salamanders, and marvel at the funny trees with long string-bean like pods that fell to the ground. From my mother I learned what it feels like - and smells like - to stand in the middle of the woods with the tree-filtered sun creating patterns on the pine needle covered ground and how the sun-baked grass in a field smells. I learned to love wind, bad weather and, especially, thunderstorms. My mom would make me necklaces from lilac petals, and bracelets from blades of grass. We'd visit the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens and see the Japanese Maples, and the Cherry Blossom trees.
I might have become a farmer, or a naturalist, if not for the New York flower show. I don't remember much about this, beyond it being a magical outing each year for my mom and me. We'd anticipate our trip as much for the togetherness as for the show itself. We'd look at beautiful displays, have lunch, and bring home a miniature rose bush that would bloom for at least a couple of months. Years later, my three-year-old and I took the train into New York City for the same show, but it lacked the magic of my mom. To this day, there seems to be something missing from all flower shows; none can live up to my childhood memories (although, admittedly, Philly comes close). That rosebush became the genesis of my garden.
My mother pointed out that the ability to sit on the grass without thinking of the ants was a sign of good mental health. To me, it's the hallmark of a gardener. Thanks mom.
