I chose my house, in part, because of a tree. The tree sits on a vacant lot next door to my house, and I wouldn’t agree to buy the house unless both were part of the deal. Certain features are long-term investments, and I won’t live long enough to grow my own.
I like to garden. I like to spend time at home. I have three Jack Russell Terriers who like to poke around. I thought that if I could manage to have a large yard in the middle of a close neighborhood, I could be set apart in splendid isolation, even as a constant stream of pedestrian traffic flowed fifteen feet from my front door.
Last year, my mom bought the house next door, and a month ago, we moved in with her — just for a few weeks — so that our home’s 100 year-old foundation could be repaired. We laughed as we created makeshift bedrooms — us in her office, she in her sewing room — and thought the close quarters would make for a nice introduction to living together. And then came a pandemic. Instructions to stay home, to work from home, to leave space between people. My wife moved into my home office with me. We order in.
Now, when I chafe at the way that social distance leads to feeling so closed-in, I am grateful to have the back yard. As spring draws near, the bulbs do their jobs, opening to the lengthening hours of sunlight. They are unaware that we’ve moved next door.
I started planting crocus bulbs two falls ago, when it became clear that my mom would share the yard. They remind me of my grandmother, and I wanted my mother to be reminded of her mother, too. I don’t know if my grandmother liked crocus in particular. I only remember that in a time when owning a video recorder was a rarity, my uncle filmed a video of scenes in the daily life of the Massachusetts family, and it included my cousin smelling the crocus in Nana’s yard — “don’t smell!” she chirped as she skipped off into a yard I barely knew, because I lived in Oklahoma and only visited my grandparent’s “summer” house. When I told my mom that the crocus reminded me of Nana, she said that I should plant iris, because that’s what Nana really loved. In my mind’s eye, I see the watercolor iris my grandmother painted at the senior center hanging on the wall in her Florida retirement villa.
The beginnings of a camelia hedge are now just a row of spindly plants. They’ve spent the cold months opening up, one after another, and now the late-blooming varieties are finishing out the show. I stand there and imagine a future where they are a thick stand of evergreen beauties dividing my woodland garden from the street. The future! There will be one.
Two weekends ago, when my wife suggested we go out and stock up on everything we’d need to “get the yard opened up,” I was irritated. It seemed like there were so many other things we’d need to do to feel prepared to weather the virus.
By last weekend, I was coming around. So much weeding needed to be done. We’ve begun taking down the fence that used to divide my back yard from what is now my mom’s next door. And we had plenty of mulch to cover over the formal beds. I pruned the roses and tucked in a few sprigs with rooting hormone, figuring this might be the time to start propagating my own new plants for this season. By now, the backyard beds are tidy and coming to life.
As I read the direst predictions about the length of time we may need to change our behavior, I’ve never been so glad for the list of chores involved with keeping a big yard. Even a few months ago, I was exhausted thinking about the work involved to incorporate mom’s yard/vacant lot into ours. Shed to paint, mulch to spread. So much digging to create new beds and paths. Now I look at it and see a long list of opportunities to feel useful, active, still part of this Earth.
