The Imperfect Gardener

by Adina Sara

My 25-year old acacia needed to be pruned. Large branches hovered dangerously over the roof, limbs were shading things that wanted sun, and for months in the spring, dropped yellow blossoms formed a yucky thick blanket over the entire back of the property, sticking to shoes and getting carried into the house and beyond. The tree had become an annoying mess.

I contacted tree trimmers, several of whom suggested I cut the tree down altogether. My eyes welled up— I can't do that! —this magnificent tree was a shoot the size of my finger when I first purchased the property; we share a history. I even imagine (in morose moments) having my ashes scattered beneath its awesome trunk someday.

The best estimate came from a tree expert who confirmed that the tree was indeed worth keeping. In a half-day's time, he climbed and chain-sawed and swung like a simian from its enormous branches. By afternoon, the sun poured through where before there had been only dark corners. Everything looked bigger.

There was the question of what to do with the mulch and logs. Did I want them removed? Maybe it is because of my overly emotional attachment to this tree, but No I told him, just cut them into short stumps and leave the mulch in the driveway.

I have arranged the tree stumps around the garden; they look like gnome furniture. They serve as handy platforms for decorative pots, a welcome spot to set a glass of water or trowel. And the mulch is everywhere. Places once gnarled with crabgrass are now thick soft acacia pads that give off a sweet woodland aroma. The old tree is a whole lot lighter and more graceful. It seems to be smiling down on the new shapes created from its fallen limbs.

I tend to err on the side of nostalgia when it comes to gardening. Some things do, finally, have to be pulled up and tossed aside. I had to uproot a once-treasured zauschneria that had grown gnarly from lack of proper pruning. The 10-year-old jasmine upped and died. It happens. But whenever possible, I try to recycle, change forms, turn old limbs into memories.

Mullein Mystery

In a perfectly well-designed bed, where a single white rose sits in front of a deep-blue ceanothus bordered by a neat row of violet lamb's ears, a mullein, an herb, sprung up from nowhere. I should have uprooted it when I first noticed the fuzzy grey leaves, but by the time I realized it was mullein (it had all but announced itself with that yellow spiked center), I gave in.

I know I will regret this decision. Already it is taller than the ceanothus, and I can barely see the rose. I'll eat the yellow flowers, and in a few years it will leave of its own accord. This is not a decision I would advise anyone to make, but these mysterious uprisings are what keeps the garden interesting. Even unplanned visitors are sometimes worth entertaining.♦