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.

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.

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

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

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.

 

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

 

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

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

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

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