THE PRICE AND PEACE
Old Fashioned Gardening
Old Fashioned Gardening
By Helene Pizzi
Only a week ago I was in Wauwatosa, in suburban Milwaukee, standing transfixed over several clumps of low growing woodland flowers. My mother's voice came to memory. As a child, I used to tell her I loved the wild woodland flowers, and she always shook her head and said 'You can't love a flower, you like it'. No, I thought, I really still deeply love these wonderful creations.
It was quiet. I could hear many different birds singing of spring, and the wind in the trees. For a few minutes my world was only here. I was glad to be alone with my thoughts and my exquisitely beautiful treasures.
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Jack in the Pulpit - Illustration by E. F. Johnston |
The Jack in the Pulpit was just opening, and there were several different varieties of woodland Violets bravely flowering, notwithstanding occasional freezing temperatures some nights. The clump of Bloodroot had just finished its brief bloom and white petals were falling. The Spring Beauties, usually so delicate and poetically lovely with their shy ground-hugging growth, were like fat cushions of pink, and could almost have been mistaken for creeping phlox. What generous fertilizer does nature provide, I bemused, and from now on I shall always give them a spring feed.
My caretaker will soon be around with a power mower and will cut ruthlessly through this small area of woodland plants. For him these woodland beauties are weeds. They continue to survive, notwithstanding the mowing, and every year they come forth and make spring so pleasant. The grass was getting high enough to need a trim and so, to spare these blooms a bit longer, I went to the garage and took out a hand mower that my elderly auntie had given to me; quite a prize. I had oiled it and repainted it with silver anti-rust paint and now it works perfectly and cuts with ease. I pushed it carefully between the little plants, and talked to them in my head as I moved about. "You'll be alright, never fear." The mower purred as I pushed. I enjoyed the silent pauses, the fragrance of newly cut grass and the calls of the birds.
That was just a few days ago. I am now in another world, my Mediterranean world. The transition was noisy and swift. The aggressive roaring traffic to the airport was followed by voices over loudspeakers announcing flights and warnings not to leave bags unattended. The whines of the jets and hundreds of sounds accompanied me across the Atlantic and to my garden in Rome, ending with the gentle rumble of the heavy iron electronic gate closing me in my desired seclusion.
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Helene Pizzi amidst the roses |
The Rome garden is almost pulsating with growth, thanks to the gentle rain that had often poured down in my two-month absence. There are at least a million buds on the roses predicting peak bloom in about two weeks and the car-shed roof is completely hidden under 'Alberic Barbier', with its thick small dark glossy green leaves and some creamy white blooms already open.
'Climbing Peace' and an unknown pink climber (probably a Noisette) are already flowering high up in a Magnolia grandiflora. 'Mutabilis' is in full bloom with its butterfly-like single petals waving on the elegant slim canes. Aquilegia and mauve Germanic Iris give colour to the rose beds as the buds begin to open. Drifts of breezes send around perfume from the Jasmine and the Pittosporum tobira. This garden continually provides me with a paradise of peace, an escape from 'the fast lane' and the noisy Eternal City.
The lawn needed cutting again, and several days of rain were predicted. The power mower was being repaired and there was no help at the moment to get it cut. With the balmy warmth of the sirocco winds out of Africa, the grass would be mighty high by the time it dried out again and difficult to cut through, I mused. That was when I remembered that we had a hand mower that had been tucked away unused for decades. For some reason, we had never given it away. I went on a hunt and, sure enough, there it sat, all covered with dust.
Old-fashioned hand mowers were made to last. After a good cleaning and oiling, the blades turned easily. I set off for a cutting-of-the-past feeling, for the second time in a week, like I was in a time capsule. What a fine way to cut a lawn. There were no ear-splitting aggressive motor noises, only a pleasant whirring sound as the balanced blades spun. Maple, the dog, danced about joyfully as I kicked her ball out of the way over and over.
I stopped now and then to pull a weed or look closely at a plant. That noisy motor shaking its power never gave me a peaceful pause like this. As I mowed on, at a slower pace than with the power mower, I had a chance to look at and study my plants and simply enjoy the lush spring growth. I stopped several times for a drink of cool water. It was peaceful.
The more I mowed, the more I wondered why we had completely stopped using a hand mower all these years. The power mower got through more quickly, but the time I spent now hand cutting was high quality time for my spirit.
There were no nauseous fumes; I could enjoy the scent of freshly cut grass. There was no violent loud motor noise, only the purring sound when I pushed. I wilfully paused often, simply to look and to drink in the silence. It was a wonderful leisure afternoon, just like an old fashioned time, a few hours I will be pleased to remember for a long time.
Soon the power mower will be repaired, I will have help to noisily cut the grass, and my ears will hear the usual traffic, phones, planes overhead, sirens, and more. Looking down at the dime-sized blister on the heel of my hand that had pushed both the mowers so hard, I cannot but smile at my old fashioned gardening adventures of the last few days and appreciate progress, too.
Helene Pizzi, Subrosa Rome Reporter