Fate, TX (June 21, 2024) – The B.O.B. and I were at a local garden center to get a bag of rock last evening. A woman was perusing the multitudes of varying types of bags of soil, with dazed confusion in her eyes. She approached us and asked my husband, “Sir, can you give me some advice on soil?” Of course, my husband said “You need to talk to my wife. She’s the pro.” He wandered off to locate a flatbed cart and she and I talked soil. I looked at the bags she had piled into a cart, asked a few questions to determine what she was going to use it for; and advised that it should work just fine and some Bermuda seed on top would resolve her snafu in no time. I’m ever open to sharing whatever bit of gardening experience I have with others.
This morning, I was thinking about the garden. Well, yes. I think about the garden every morning. Rephrase: This morning, I was pondering about where my gardening passion roots from.
My style comes from my mom. The way I dress myself and my home, are reflections of Mom. While I did not develop an exact replica of her particular panache, my style sense is Mom with variations. Her home always had elegance that was perfectly comfortable.
My ways of housekeeping are straight from Mom’s handbook. It’s evident in small things – hand towels hung nicely. A wastebasket is fine on its own no plastic grocery bag for a liner. The kitchen trash can is tucked away in a cupboard (for this, a paper grocery bag was acceptable for lining; I have converted to a plastic kitchen bag.) Mom did not have a good sense of organization or maybe she was savvy and pretended; because from my preteen years, I was the kitchen cupboards organizer. Even after I married, she would ask me to come organize her pantry.
Couch pillows are plumped up after sitting, not left squashed and flattened. Coasters are used under drinks. Beds are made. Period. I make the bed every day. (Except occasionally on a Sunday we will have “half make” day; meaning the sheets and blanket are pulled up and smoothed, pillows plumped, and coverlet or quilt folded at the bottom. Just in case I decide to indulge in a Sunday nap.) There is no point in creating a pretty bedroom with inviting bedding, if what you see when entering a room is a big ol’ mess of sheets and blanket on the bed.
When windexing (the word Windex was used in our house as a verb) the windows, wash up and down, no swirling. However, looking at the state of my unwashed windows, perhaps we ought to skip over appropriate stroke methods and discuss regularity.
Throw rugs must be shaken, not vacuumed. I sneakily fought against this rule as the child-cleaning helper, and it always came back to bite me when the inspector walked through. Now I’ll admit, this one is true; excepting my Persian type rugs which are quite large. I could easily suffocate attempting to shake one, much less picking one up. Those get a gentle vacuuming.
Draperies hanging correctly is a biggie. Ensure when purchasing or making curtains to allow enough fabric for gathering across, never pulled flat across a window. That’s tacky.
Mom loved to read, and when spare time allowed, would rather hole up somewhere with a book than be out in a garden. I remember whiling away hot summer afternoons in Michigan lolling on the couch together, reading books while my baby sisters napped. This pastime often included a homegrown tomato, eaten like an apple with a side of salt shaker. For my older sister, it would be a spoon of peanut butter with an apple (consumed with loud crunching to annoy her younger sister.) Library trips were a weekly event, I never left the library without with my arms piled high. In fact, I came home today with six books, window washing be damned! I still love to read and can easily spend a morning or afternoon ignoring my to do list (which can be quite liquid) immersed in a book. And re-reading favorite books. Mom did, and I do too. I love revisiting a favorite tale and familiar characters fondly.
I see Mom’s influence in the places I shop and the products I purchase. But Mom was not the gardener in our house.
My dad most assuredly passed on gardening to me. Not purposefully but certainly by osmosis.
Dad loved fishing and lake life; my youngest son inherited his passion for fishing. Dad was a builder – not as a career, but on weekends and vacations. He built my parents’ retirement cottage, with help from family and friends.
Dad liked to cook, and I did not inherit that gift. I cook, but I don’t really like to. There was a period when he owned an industrial plumbing supply, and he had the warehouse built out with a small kitchen. The grill in the warehouse was burning nearly every day, grilling up pork chops, steaks, burgers, sides in the kitchen. He fed the staff lunch several days a week. I worked there for a year or so, while my kids were in school. The boys loved to spend sick days or after school time at the office with me. Or rather – in the warehouse where dad kept a go-kart for them to ride.
Dad discovered Sam’s Club and shopped with gusto. In the days when they were business only accounts, he kept the kitchens at work, lake-house and home, and sometimes my home, stocked up with cases of fizzy seltzer drinks, huge pots of jam, and mega sized jars of spaghetti sauce that would be doctored up for quick suppers.
Dad had a penchant for landscaping, trimming trees, spacing and planting shrubs and bedding areas. I remember in two homes, one in Michigan one in Texas, he laid beautiful brick patios. I’d give anything to have one. Certainly, this is where my eye for flagstone pads and paths is derived. I much prefer a stone or brick patio to concrete. Dad grew a beautiful Pyracantha vine that he worked with patience, training it to grow against the house. I have a visual of dad coming in the house after a morning of yard work, hot and sweaty. Like Dad, I pour with sweat while working outdoors. I am not a pretty, Martha Stewart gardener by any means.
For a number of years, before retiring out to the lake, my folks lived in a zero-lot line home, and yard areas were quite small. In the backyard was a huge oak, and Dad built a tree house within the branches for my two boys and their cousin. In the long, narrow side yard, banked with glass doors, he created an oasis with dwarf bushes, ground covers and vines espaliered along the fence. Cushioned patio chairs were a comfy place for a cool drink in the evenings. Those chairs are still in use, on my patio. Dad dug a small, sweet garden in an outdoor nook at his final home at the lake, surrounded with stone and with small boulders scattered between perennials and bushes. I have several of those boulders in my garden.
Though I never had to help my dad work in the yard, somehow, I must have attained my gardening madness him. My workhorse tendencies certainly came from Dad.
Auntie Ree, Mom’s sister, was a gardener. I did not recall this until one of my last visits with her, at her home in Upper Michigan. Her flower beds were plentiful and colorful, and though it was October, I could see her work, and her joy reflected in them. Our very last visit was at my previous home, here in Texas. She viewed my gardens and we talked and talked about the plants.
Some years ago, I had a floral design business, the other side of gardening; flower arranging. My workdays were spent flowering weddings, memorial and event flowers, creating daily arrangements and for special occasions. Auntie Ree shared with me that, as a young woman, she was often called upon to “flower the weddings” in her small town, using blooms from her own yard, gardens of friends, and foraged on Michigan roadsides, where they are plentiful in summer. It seems much of my floral and garden sense must have come from Auntie Ree too, or some shared gene.
I did not know my grandparents well but am told by cousins that my paternal grandmother was creatively wordy. I have memories of letters from her and regret that the boxful I’d kept was lost somewhere along the way. Perhaps my writing gift may be from Grandma. I have a recollection of my paternal grandfather when I was a young child; in his backyard near the grape trellis, whistling to the birds and holding out his hand – they would fly over and perch there. I recall a sense of whimsy that passed to me.
It’s interesting how even aunties and uncles can come through in our personas, as do mothers, fathers, and grandparents. Where did my gardening passion stem from? A little here a little there.
I had contact with several fledgling gardeners this week, as I was giving away perennials dug from my garden to go into their gardens, allowing my garden a little breathing space. My best advice on starting a garden is: start small. You can always expand. My constant refrain when talking gardening is Texas is: amend your soil; and take wisdom from old gardeners!
Happy Summer Solstice!
Sally Kilgore is a resident of Fate. She is married to her long-time flame, Judge Chris Kilgore. When not writing, gardening, filling in at the flower shop or hanging out with the grandkids, Sally devotes her time to serving Bob Kilgore, a well-sized Tuxedo cat with panache. Contact Sally at SallyAKilgore@gmail.com or via her website: SallyAKilgore.com
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