Romaine's
Garden
- Garden Stories
- Do you have a short and interesting gardening tale
you would like to share? Maybe it's Funny or Tragic. It may be
Helpful, Memorable, Ridiculous or possibly Magic!
- Please email. me and I will include it on
this page.
- Whenever I fondly remember my Grandfather, I always think
of Tomatoes! No he wasn't an old man with a round, red face, it's
just that tomato growing was his passion. During the many visits
to my Grandparent's farm as a child, on the outskirts of Grenfell,
N.S.W, Australia, he would lead me to the old chook-yard, filled
with what seemed like hundreds of tomatoes. There together, we
would carefully twist the tomatoes from their stems and place them
carefully into the awaiting bucket. When satisfied with our
pickings and the bucket being able to hold no more, we would
happily pick up the swinging weight and share the handle. Next was
the slow, though pleasant walk back up the hill, trudging past the
woodshed and woodpile to the squeaky back door. Thinking back,
it's shared moments like these, that have left me with many happy,
lasting memories!
-
- Romaine
Undery
- St
Georges Basin,
- N.S.W,
Australia.
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
- My wonderful Grandmother Helen and her younger
sister Mary describe their much loved Gardens.
- I had my first garden in the 1920's - composed
mostly of jonquils. My first garden was overlooking the Murray
river and was lovely - Now in 1998 I have my fifth and I imagine
my last garden - what a joy they have all been and all so
different - the garden here is bright with Euphorbia, they pop up
everywhere and are the toughest of plants. Tall and purple
wallflowers - which look after themselves. Masses of self sown
Larkspurs - the Lavender bushes large and small - freesias all gay
and lovely - I am looking forward to many meals of delicious broad
beans - I walk in the garden first thing every morning - pull a
weed here and there and feed my family of Choughs (birds) and walk
on with my hand on my head - as one landed there once - they have
long sharp claws! Very quiet and today and have brought today
their first two babies- very noisy and hungry babies! Perhaps you
don't have Choughs at St Georges Basin! They are the bosses of all
the birds and even have the crows cowed "real larrikins" they are
called in the bird book- they make a mess throwing things about in
the garden- covering the path but do alot of good as regards slugs
and other pests. Outside the kitchen window a top-knot pigeon is
nesting and Puss usually sleeping closely! Much love
Nan.
-
- Helen
Cobham...my Grandmother
- Grenfell,
- N.S.W,
Ausralia.
-
- 1920's
Gardens...It is many years since we lived on the River
Murray near Echuca and enjoyed the lovely garden and the good
times we had at "Merool". In the 1920's when my sister Helen and I
were young (Helen is Romaine's Grandmother) we lived right on the
river and Mother had a lovely garden. There was a long drive in
through the wrought iron gates along the gravelled driveway, on
one side of the drive was the river and on the other side a long
row of standard roses, down the drive and approaching the house
and garden was a big wooden archway covered with American Pillar
roses and Morning Glory - the drive went on past the verandah and
front door and round to the garage.
-
- Mother's garden was very
big with about two hundred roses and along the far side were peach
and apricot trees and several almond trees, there were always
heaps of flowers, my favourites were the hollyhocks, aquilegias
(Grannys bonnets) larkspurs of all colours, we used to make small
garlands from the centres and press them in our books and the pink
picotees grown all along the verandah were marvellous they smelled
so sweet, we used to pick big bunches to take to
school.
-
- Mother was a keen gardener
and she always liked Helen and I to look after our own gardens -
we both had our gardens at the side of the house - I always envied
Helen's garden and felt she had the best but I guess that's the
way younger sisters always feel! Helen had a beautiful closed in
area with a big peach tree at the entrance and a mulberry tree on
the far fence.
-
- There was a path down the
middle and lots of belladonnas, daffodils and jonquils on either
side - there were also nasturtiums and geraniums - I must admit
Helen deserved this garden as she always put in a lot of work, the
garden was just outside her bedroom which made it really
nice.
-
- To get to my garden now, it
was rather more concentrated and just a big square with a high
trellis all round and a small flower bed and in the centre was a
big cleared area where I had a putting green - I can't remember
too many flowers except for the climbing
roses that just grew on the trellis and maybe a few nasturtiums
that came up - I think I was keener on the putting in those days
than working in the garden! Iv'e always liked making beds for
veges and loved sowing seeds and usually forgetting to water them,
the radishes were good as they came up so quickly - there was a
big orchard near the chook yards where mostly citrus was
grown.
-
- Ever since those days Helen
and I have been really keen on our gardens, it's such a great
interest - the garden I have now is big and rambling and I really
enjoy it every day.
-
- Mary
Corney...my Great Aunt
- Cowra
- N.S.W,
Australia.
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
- I work at a stress-filled job where I
receive a dozen calls a day by people who believe that they have
not been paid correctly. In order to address their concerns, I
often must drop everything I'm doing to prepare a comprehensive
analysis of their sales progress to justify the payments made or
to determine where faulty payment numbers may have occurred. Add
to that an hour commute through construction zones filled with
other unhappy drivers, and you will understand that I often come
up tired, grumpy, and more than a little depressed.
- What a joy it is to drive
round the last corner to glimpse the brilliant colors of my
garden. It is such a welcoming site. The brilliant oranges and
pinks of the California poppies, the beautiful shades of the
various lilies, and the stately glory of the rosebushes all
combine to infuse a spirit of well-being to my sometime-beleagured
life.
- As I leave the car, I drop
all of my work at the garden bench and take a stroll through the
gardens. I stop to deadhead some of the perennials as I wander
through and exult in the beauty of the flowers that have just
joined the garden. I grab a hose and water the plants that look
thirsty, note where the bugs and slugs have been busy, and decide
what action I need to take against them. I speak encouragingly to
the plants that are still emerging and remind them of the beauty
that is to come from their struggle. A weed catches my eye and I
stoop to pluck it from the ground.
- Leaving the sunny garden
behind, I step into the coolness of the shade garden and bask in
the quiet beauty of the muted colors there. Following the path, I
emerge in the back yard and visit the greenhouse to check on the
seedlings which will provide next year's flowers. The final step
is to stop on the patio and see how the apples are doing. They are
getting big and beautiful and I know that an apple pie is in the
not-too-distant future.
- As I go into the house, I
realize that my stress has been washed away by the gentle workings
of Mother Nature during my 15 minute garden experience. I have
found new strength for the evening in the beauty of the flowers
around me.
-
- Michelle
Shephard
- Michelle's
Garden -- The Gathering Place for Gardeners
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
What does my
Rose Garden mean to me? What can I say? My rose garden is my sanity.
I am the mom of two special needs children. And life can be trying at
times. But when I escape to my rose garden it brings me a inner
peace. The colors, the smell and all the work it takes to help them
grow. And being able to create and share my garden on the Internet
has even added to that peace. And other parents of special needs
children have visited my garden and have found the same peace.And I
hope it will do the same for anyone that visits my cyber rose
garden
- Jaime
King
- Jaime's
Rose Garden
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
Hello, My name
is Carmel and I live in Tomerong, N.S.W. Australia which is situated
two and a half hours south of Sydney on the coastline. My story goes
back to when I was living in Cambelltown, N.S.W in a packed suburban
area. The garden trend there was a typically manicured garden,
without a blade of grass out of place. Weekends were spent weeding
the perfect lawn, clipping hedges, sweeping or hosing pavement brick
driveways or purchasing plants from a garden centre to perfect it
even further and all of whom, were trying to outdo each other..me
included.
Since then, many years have
passed and I am now the Mother of three active boys. Needless to say
my gardening style has changed dramatically and I find myself
juggling family commitments, a book business, plans of a mud-brick
home and somewhere in amongst there, my garden gets a look in. We now
share four acres with the kookaburras and kangaroos. This was once
heavily bushed with native ferns, countless varieties of gums and an
abundance of Australian native plants. My husband Peter, myself and
our boys, Scott, Jake and Steven all moved onto our land and started
out living in a forty foot bus. Twelve months later we moved into a
cosy garage and stage three will be our mud-brick cottage.
Our garden has developed by
taking advantage of clusters of gums, with maidenhair and wishbone
ferns growing under their canopy. When clearing the trees we used the
logs as garden borders and we burnt off what we didn't need. This
provided our garden with ash, ideal for growing Australian native
plants. We then wired branches from tree to tree creating bird
swings. All told, we have turned a thick bush into wide open spaces
with walkways linking the garden areas, all nestled with wood-stump
tables and chair settings. We called our home "Tomburra", combining
the words Tomerong and Kookaburra. My dear friend Romaine provided me
with numerous cuttings to add to my collection and I now have a
beautiful garden which takes care of itself, leaving me time to enjoy
it more.
- Carmel
Gilson
- Tomerong,
- N.S.W,
Australia.
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
It all began when my eldest daughter asked if her
wedding could take place in our Town House garden. I rushed to the
nursery and bought a Gardenia plant, determined to have those
wonderfully perfumed flowers in the wedding bouquet. The Gardenia
reminds me of the beautiful bride with the pure virginal, white of
the lovely blooms and the hint of naughtiness in the heavenly
perfume. I planted the Gardenia bush in a terracotta pot and the
plant grew beautifully in its mini-climate on the half protected
surrounds near our swimming pool. Weeks went by, the special day
approached and the Gardenia bush started to produce flower buds.
Every day I went down to the Gardenia and spoke kindly to it and
every day I found the half-opened buds lying on the flag stones
beside the pot. As the days passed, my speech became stern, "Come on!
Just a few flowers for the beautiful bride" "You can do better than
that. I'm really losing my patience with you." And as desperation set
in, "Please! Just hold on to one bud. The weather is not that bad." I
heard my sons talking to a friend, "She's really flipped her lid over
this Wedding. All she does is talk to the flowers" The eve before the
Wedding Day, I made a last visit to that Gardenia and there were
seven buds, unfurling their delicate petals. I could hardly believe
my eyes. Very early in the morning, I crept out of the sleeping house
[Was the bride sleeping?], over the old brick path and picked the
seven perfect blooms, whose perfume was filling the swimming pool
area. I thanked my Gardenia bush and with tears in my eyes, I
carefully carried the blooms to the house. I sprinkled salt between
the petals to stop the bloom from browning and later in the morning,
I made a simple bridal bouquet with those glorious white, with a
touch of green, flowers and tied them together with a velvet ribbon.
The Gardenia bush has never flowered like that again.
- Gay
Klok
- Hobart,
- Tasmania, Australia.
- Two
Wrinkly Gardeners Build Paradise in Tasmania
- Suite
101.com Tasmanian Garden Journal
- Two
Tasmanian Gardeners Create Eden
-
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
In my
neighbors' yard was an old apple tree. A climbable apple tree, except
that we children were forbidden to climb it after the neighbors' son
fell out of it and broke his arm. In my own yard was a maple that
seemed to me to be enormous - certainly far too tall and straight to
ever climb. And so I was earthbound. I found a picture of that
'enormous' maple last year - it must have been all of 6" in girth -
but then, at 4, I wasn't much bigger, and not terribly familiar with
the size to which a maple would eventually grow. All I knew was a
secret desire was to climb the apple tree - or any tree, and
contemplate the world from my secret place. In this newly built
subdivision, with it's freshly planted sticks of trees, that old
apple tree was my only chance for fulfillment - and it was tabu.
Perhaps that is why we left apple trees in our garden of today, even
though it was somewhat in the way of the gazebo - so I could finally
have a tree to climb. That was the first garden of my
life.
The second was my Grandmothers.
She died before I was 8, and all that remains in my mind is an
impression of the shade of two old fruit trees, and the scent and
taste of a honeysuckle vine which both fascinated me and terrified me
because of the bees that swarmed to it before I could pluck a blossom
and sip the nectar. In memory it was a peaceful place, with shafts of
sunlight piercing through the trees and a Fairy rose climbing the
wooden fence at the back. There was even a garden gate, which led,
it's true, only to an alley - but it was fun to swing on that gate,
and hold conversations with the neighbor in back. And the very idea
of a gate promised untold mysteries to my child's mind.
Over the garden fence had real
meaning there, as I recall my grandmother and her neighbor trading
cuttings, bouquets, advice and gossip across it. My grandmother's
garden was, to me, a refuge, a place to feel protected and loved and
happy. A particular mix of shade and sunlight and fragrance brings
that feeling back, even now. The garden gate (being installed even as
I type) recreates that sense for me of being admitted to a special
world, and of being protected, enclosed and safe from workaday
cares.
I'm not surprised to see, with
hindsight, why the first garden I made at this house was not in the
bright full sunlight of the yard, but under the dappled shade of two
huge trees - difficult to plant, in full view of the street - but it
captured, in many ways, the essence of the first important garden in
my life. It lacks the fence, with its promise of sharing, but make up
for it with neighbors wandering up the drive to kibitz in the cool
shade.
And then there was the convent
garden inhabited by my great aunt, a Dominican nun. The nuns lived in
an old mansion, and the gardens must have been formally laid out - I
have absolutely no recollection of anything about that garden except
white lilies. Hundreds of them. I was enthralled by the idea that I,
a mere child of 9, was treading on the grounds of an
honest-to-goodness mansion (even if it was just a convent now.) And
so, for me, white lilies against deep green foliage became the
epitome of romance and elegance.
This memory may explain why,
when I set out to actually plan a garden, I planned it in all white,
and added tons of Casa Blanca lilies. It may also explain why for
years I lusted after a large piece of sculpture to place as a focal
point in my beds - not the religious statue undoubtedly mandatory in
that convent garden, but something bold and large and elegant looking
more suited to my secular grounds. Different from a grandmother's
garden, it became, nonetheless, one of the gardens of my
life.
- Carol
Wallace
- Carol
Wallace's Gardens and Graphics
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
- I remember
that as a small child I was given a little patch of garden as my
very own. Each year, with great ceremony and using carefully saved
pocket money I invested in two six penny packets of seeds.
Invariably these were Marigolds and Nasturtiums. My Marigolds were
not like the ones so popular these days, you know, the type that
look like prissy young ladies with strict maternal instructions
concerning deportment and orders not to dirty their party dresses.
My brood had no such inhibitions and flaunted their bright orange
heads and flounced their green skirts with total abandonment; so
what if they looked a bit disheveled. I suspect they sang bawdy
songs and jeered at the geometrical precision of a nearby tulip
bed whose occupants stood to attention fearful that a wayward
petal might spoil such perfect symmetry. When tulip flowers
eventually withered with petals scattered on the ground, the merry
marigolds were vibrant with buds just bursting to replace their
exhausted siblings. These lads and lassies must have had a romance
or two as the following spring their offspring frequently appeared
pushing up through the earth.
The nasturtiums were equally
prolific, red and yellow trumpets hanging at all angles as they
sought to take over the entire garden encroaching on the more refined
area cared for by the adult world. As pocket money and interest
developed I graduated to Cornflowers which though a little more self
controlled entered into the general flora fun and frolics their blue
heads blending beautifully amongst the orange and yellow of their
bedfellows. Finally Pansies joined the happy mob content with their
expensive seats at the front of the bed from where they could turn
their grinning blue and yellow faces up wards to enjoy the antics of
their flamboyant friends. My patch became one cheerful messy mass of
colour. Bees buzzed around and it seems that in those days slugs had
not been invented.
Another memory from those days
reminds me of the adult garden and brings pictures of giant lupins,
pink, yellow and cream again unworried by the slug family. Today the
two lupin in my small garden are perpetually surrounded by a circle
of those lethal blue pellets. Maybe a child just does not notice, or
worry about these creatures and perhaps rightly so.
And what about dahlias of yore?
I recall a long row of towering plants with enormous blooms,
inhabited by a multitude of earwigs, and large dark green leaves.
They started to bloom while we were away on holidays during July and
when we returned the garden always seems darker. I used to dread the
arrival of the cut flowers indoors and convinced that these
creepy-crawlies would chose my ears as a more natural environment.
I'm still a bit wary about viewing these flowers anywhere except in a
natural outdoor setting.
When I reached double figures
my interest in things that grew waned and was replaced by hockey,
tennis and of course....boys. It was later when I became a house and
garden owner that my love of plants was rekindled. At first it seemed
that my childhood efforts were more successful than those of later
life as I proceeded the pitfalls of many a learner gardener. Yes, I
fell for the *dwarf conifer" trick and my dwarfs zoomed to a height
of twenty feet and would still be reaching skyward were it not for
the intercession of man and saw. My decision to place a Russian vine
against a party fence was a disaster. Within a year it threatened to
cover not only the fence but the houses where the occupants were at
risk of strangulation. Thankfully some years ago the fence was
replaced by a wall and the dreaded vine went to engulf those
vineyards in the sky. While this particular climber can, in the right
situation, be an attractive asset it should carry a government health
warning to alert those with gardens unsuitable to its rampant
vigor.
Soil was another unforeseen
problem. To me earth was earth;you dug a hole and planted shrub,
flower or whatever, watered and sat back to enjoy the fruits of your
labour. The wait could be in vain as some flourished while others
planted in similar conditions faded and died. This mystery was solved
by a kindly friend who explained about soil preparation and that just
as humans favoured certain living conditions so did plant the
fraternity. Well whoever would have guessed that soil could be acid
or alkali....but I did learn to read the labels more
carefully.
I shudder to think of the
climbers I placed close to walls where water was scarce and the
unfortunate roots fought a losing battle against concrete
foundations. With such a criminal record it would be easy to find me
guilty of plant slaughter on many counts.
With the help of books, experts
and especially experience my garden eventually took shape and
continues to give me immense pleasure. I know I will never be
satisfied and for that I am grateful.
Marigolds and Nasturtiums
continue to reign, after all, they planted a valuable seed in the
life of a small child.
- Elizabeth Law
- Dublin,
Ireland.
- A
Small Irish Garden
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
- That Blooming Wisteria.
- How the
heck do I get my wisteria to bloom?" This is a gardener's lament
-- one of many, I'm sure. My neighbour, old Edgar, used to ask the
same question, until he thought he'd discovered the secret. He's
owned a wisteria for years, but it never performs well, probably
because it's on the borderline for hardiness in our zone. Most
winters it dies back completely then has to start all over
again.
-
- Every year Edgar says he
ought to replace it with something else, except it usually manages
to earn a reprieve by tossing out a couple of puny blossoms before
dragging itself reluctantly up the pergola to provide a bit of
shade for the last half hour of summer. Wisteria can be so
cantankerous. Edgar has always fussed over his too much --
fertilizing too often, over watering etc., when the best way to
get a wisteria to bloom is to ill-treat it -- cut its roots back,
starve it, generally ignore it. I've even heard of people whacking
them with a rolled up newspaper. Wisteria are a bit like stray
dogs, the secret is to never let them know you're afraid of them
or they'll turn on you. I told Edgar this but he couldn't bring
himself to harm it, so I said, "You're being too kind. Since
you're always talking to your plants anyway, why don't you at
least swear at it -- intimidate it, stress it out a little."
-
- Edgar took me seriously and
tried it for a year or too. Whenever he walked past the wisteria
he'd snarl and curse. He even threatened to plant morning glories
instead (that frightened me). It didn't have much effect.
Eventually he gave up and returned to glaring at it as he walked
by muttering -- until one spring when he got particularly angry.
That year it excelled itself. Edgar had been flipping through a
glossy garden magazine while waiting at the grocery store check
out. He came across a gorgeous photograph of a magnificent
tree-like specimen in full bloom in Kew Gardens. When he got home
he took one look at his pathetic excuse for a bag of hedge
clippings and lost it. I must say, his language brought a bit of
extra colour to the garden that day. It was unfortunate his
neighbour, Shirl, was behind the fence. She thought Edgar was
hollering at her. It didn't help that they never got along very
well anyway. Worse yet, she'd just returned from bingo without
having dabbed a single line. She'd already downed a couple of
beers to console herself when Edgar started up. Before you knew it
they were going at each other like a pair of mad dogs -- good
thing they have a sturdy fence. Edgar surprised me as he's usually
such a placid guy. He certainly didn't show any sign of being
afraid of Shirl, even though she's a lot bigger than he is. The
result was the poor old wisteria got caught in a torrent of verbal
abuse and must have felt really vulnerable because it flowered
twice that year, and had the pergola blanketed with foliage by
June.
-
- Eventually, peace talks
were established and both Shirl and Edgar agreed the wisteria
looked lovely. But Edgar says if that's what it takes to get it to
bloom, well forget it. He'll be quite happy to settle for a couple
of blossoms and ten minutes of shade -- or plant morning
glories.
-
- David
Hobson
- Ontario,
Canada
- Garden
Humour
![](vine.gif)
![](vine.gif)
- Top of
Page