Eccentric Lime

I wonder if I am becoming an eccentric in my aging. It's a word with conflicting definitions and synonyms. One definition refers to an unconventional person, and the other to being off center. I figure I am somewhat unconventional, if being a single gardening fool female homeowner who spends an hour or two at the cafe on weekend mornings and loves to be at home of an evening is unconventional. But I am very centered. Bizarre, freakish, and crackpot seem over-the-top. And the online dictionary lists "spinster" as an example of an eccentric. What Ever. As I painted my front door magenta last Saturday, I wondered if passers by were whispering about the odd woman who would do such a thing. And when, on pretty much any weekend, they see me on hands and knees digging in my garden, do they consider me eccentric? What do they think of someone who would plant a banana tree and pull out the Raleigh-sacred azaleas and box elder wannabes to plant roses and elephant ear caladium?

“At 20, we worry about what others think of us. At 40, we don’t care what they think of us. At 60, we discover they haven’t been thinking about us at all.” (Jock Falkson) I read that yesterday at the cafe and laugh out loud. Then go home and paint the door to the side garden Eccentric Lime.

I have a collection of photographs of yard art taken over the past couple of years on my walks through the hood. I keep thinking that one day, perhaps in the middle of summer or winter, I will have nothing to say about the garden and I will share them with you. But so far I haven't run out of things to learn in the garden. Some of them are beautiful, and some are quirky, wacky, and outlandish. Some are plain tacky. All I consider eccentric, by one definition or another. But one this week I must share. My daily drive home, and frequently my walks, take me past the Succulent Garden. Now these people are eccentric. And I'm pretty sure people talk about them. I do. To myself. The garden is full of all things prickly, sharp, and oversized. I am not a fan of succulents. I dug up a yucca in my garden and was very happy when Gwen and Joe next door dug out the cactus on the other side of our fence. The cottage on the corner of Boundary and East Streets is 

dwarfed and nearly hidden by the garden. I remember a children's book in which the garden overtook the house, and this scene reminds me of that. The cacti are even in the strip between sidewalk and curb. It is a very bizarre plot of land. I'm glad that Oakwood hasn't banned it, though, in their fanaticism to remain historically authentic. Maybe the owners are from Texas, and have tried to bring a little sense of soul home to their lives. Who am I to judge. One plant at the corner screams to be looked at right now. It stretches 12 feet skyward and looks like an asparagus on growth hormones. In the past two or three weeks it has been sprouting a bouquet that opened this week. I call it Bride of Frankenstein. I recommend to you a field trip.

Yesterday, as my door dries between coats, I continue the distasteful task of pulling out the summer annuals to plant the winter/spring ones. It nearly kills me, but I do it as one must with an eye to the future. I bring in the handfuls of the Flower I Can Never Remember the Name Of, the ones that dry nicely, and plant two more flats of pansies and johnny-jump-ups. I uncover another of those dainty crocus-like flowers. Reward. I accidentally dig up and rebury some bulbs. Something to look forward to in the spring. I leave the back row of vinca and that above unnamed flower. I'm not going to plant pansies back there anyway, so they can stay until they freeze. That's where I will start with the spring planting, so I can leave the pansies in the ground longer. I am brilliant.

The winner of the Extra Effort Award in my garden (in a good way, which disqualifies the passion flower that is, well, oversexed in its efforts) is a tough pick. The zinnias are certainly putting out, for example, in an extroverted way. (I still can't bring myself to pull them.) But my EEA choice has to be the perennial salvia. It has bloomed its introverted little pink hearts out all summer long. From the moment it emerged in the spring, it has never stopped; not for drought nor heat nor neglect, all of which have been in high supply this year. I highly recommend it for a sunny spot in your garden.

Have I mentioned that I love fall? My sister sent me a
blog link this week, and I read this, “Autumn is the season that ignites my blood, that energizes my imagination, that puts me in touch with the wonder of being in the world like no other season.” That's how I feel. Summer in the south is the only season I really don’t much like. Perhaps part of what I love about fall is that there are three whole seasons until summer. Of course, summer bores into fall, and it cheats spring by starting too soon; but still…. I love the way the garden retreats in the fall--retreats to gather

energy to return in the spring. I love the way the spring flowers reemerge in the fall, too, for a fleeting second  season. I discover violets blooming this week. (I missed them in the spring because the damn deer ate them.) I have mentioned the spring phlox before that is gathering steam. The camellia bush is blooming and full of buds; and the maybe-it's-spiderwort, but not where I planted it, is blooming its little brilliant blue winged-insect flowers (the color of the black bench I painted this summer). The roses keep putting forth. I don't know when they stop, since they are new. As long as the days are warm and the first freeze can hold off, I suppose the garden will keep on blooming.

So if I am eccentric for loving my garden and watching it for what grows and painting my doors the colors of the garden (I can't really think of anything in the garden that is black--so why should my doors be?), I gladly and proudly inhabit the word. I love the way water droplets on a spiderweb in the grass blades, when I water my newly-planted annuals, sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. The garden is full of wonder, and I make no apology for spending time looking for it. When Frank Lloyd Wright presented the plans of one of his best known works, Fallingwater, to the inhabitants-to-be, E.J. Kaufman said "I thought you would place the house near the waterfall, not over it." Mr. Wright replied quietly, "E.J., I want you to live with the waterfall, not just to look at it, but for it to become an integral part of your lives." When my hands are in the dirt, planting life, I am an integral part of my life and the life around me, not just an observer. I am not building a life to be revered from the outside, but full of energy from the inside. Yes, I am centered.


And if passersby look at my magenta and lime green doors, and whisper about the oddball occupant, they are just jealous.