The garden takes no notice of the pandemic; it only registers light, temperature and moisture. The apple tree blooms on time, woodland phlox shows its colors, Celandine poppy opens unexpectedly in deep shade. I should take pleasure in this, but it feels out of tune with the world. I worry like a Russian during a bitter winter of war, but not yet cutting down the trees for firewood, or turning the garden into a potato patch.
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| The Apple Tree |
I came back to Rhinebeck in mid-March, guiltily fleeing the city, barely closing up the apartment, grabbing what I needed, changing my mailing address with the post office, my delivery address with the New York Times. I have -- I had -- a choice: An apartment in the city with a few windows on the street, or a house in Rhinebeck with windows and light on all four sides, and a garden in which to watch and wait out the pandemic. Everyone who could decamped, but I feel more of a deserter each day.
Through late March and early April it rained and rained, or so it seemed. My garden was hopelessly dreary, puzzling, until I remembered I was not supposed to be here so early or for so long; the garden was planned to emerge in late April, early May. And right on time the early scillas appeared in the back of the garden, a sea of deep blue. No matter how often their beds are disturbed and replanted the scillas return, advancing further into the lawn. Every year at this time I imagine a bulb meadow in the lawn, only the earliest, so that their foliage like that of the scillas, would be cut down with the first mowing.
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| Scilla siberica |
The garden pattern, for better or worse, is beginning to emerge. Trees and shrubs provide the structure while the herbaceous materials are the fine-tuning. This is true in my garden, dominated by the dappled shade of Black walnuts and the deep shade of Norway maples.
In my mind’s eye I saw a tapestry of color weaving through a sea of green. The woody plants would bear white blossoms while blue would be the dominant color of the herbaceous material throughout the season… except when it is isn’t. The Bleeding heart, a lovely deep pink, is spectacular and deserves more room than I have given it. The earliest blue to work it’s way through the garden is Phlox divaricata. I mistakenly thought it was a creeping phlox but it mounds instead. Very beautiful, but the not the creeper I had expected.
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| Blue Phlox |
It is almost time to move the plants wintered-over indoors back outdoors. They do not look very promising this year, or maybe I’m viewing them through the lens of the general malaise of these days. Moving them outdoors is back-breaking work, so they have to earn their keep. I’ll add fresh soil to their pots, but I suspect the indoors/outdoors routine is only good for a few years and then the plants are spent.
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| Tender Plants, Outdoors |
During this cold Spring the length of Livingston Street has been repaved, encouraging renewed skateboarding among homebound teenagers. I finally removed the huge ailing street tree, leaving a gaping span that is waiting to be filled with new soil. The custom is to plant grass on these verges so that people stepping out of cars have a soft landing, but I doubt that there will be many cars parking out front this year. Instead I’m planting annuals for a flower garden on the verge, something for passersby on foot. Sunflowers, zinnias, cosmos, cleome. There are a few of these curbside gardens in the village.
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| Curbside Garden |
I rarely leave the house these days, and the same can be said for some of my scattered childen. My daughter Liz and her family are in lockdown in Jerusalem. My son Micah and his family in lockdown in Queens, the children attending school online. In Jerusalem, Liz’s Aquarium is closed to the public but she is permitted to drive across the city to care for the fish. My daughter-in-law Sibernie goes from their home in Queens to her job at the VA Hospital in Manhattan every day. My daughter Pam (formerly and formally my step-daughter but we have dropped all that), a retired physician, is renewing her credentials in Arizona to serve on the front lines in Tucson when needed.
Around here, tempers are short. Profound differences emerge. Resolute mask-refuseniks remain resolute. Arguments that should not happen, happen. Among the Covid-19 obituaries, ever expanding in the New York Times, appears the not-unexpected death of an old friend in poor health who had lived a long and fruitful life. No funeral, no memorial service, but nonetheless, we stop for a moment, sit quietly, and remember.
