They say a garden is a reflection of the gardener’s mind. I’ve always liked that idea – and lately, I’ve come to believe it more deeply than ever.
This is my father’s garden. A barely contained jungle of summer delights. The dahlias are just coming into their own – in all shapes and sizes, bright, bold in color and strikingly individual. One is deep purple and dramatic, another luminous white with a purple heart, each one a little masterpiece of petal design.
The zinnias are just getting underway – bright, determined, and already showing off. Roses, phlox, lilies – all tumbling over each other in a glorious, riotous bloom.
And this time of year, is hydrangea heaven – mounds of pink, purple, and white blossoms glowing in the sun like something out of a dream. Color everywhere, fragrance everywhere, and the soft hum of bees moving from blossom to blossom. It’s exuberant. Abundant. Full of life. Uplifting and grounding all at once – magical, fun, enchanting, and deeply engaging. Just like the man who imagined and created it. He would be very happy.
There’s no single vantagepoint from which to take it all in. The garden unfolds in “rooms,” each one connected by meandering pathways. Part of my father’s genius was ensuring that there’s always something in bloom – a steady succession of beauty that feels effortless, though of course it isn’t. In winter, when the flowers retreat, you can see the bones – the design, free form but delineated, and the evidence of a thoughtful if playful plan behind the glorious summertime madness. Even the wildness has intention.
My gardener friends love to walk through because they can rattle off the names of all the plants and appreciate the singularity of each one. Why he chose it. Where he put it. And the sheer abundance. My mother has always called it “Barry’s Park.” Part of the reason for the garden was that she would always have a house full of flowers – which she does to this day.
When my parents first came to Iron Horse, this was a steep slope tangled in wild blackberries. My father envisioned something entirely different. The rock work, which immediately looked ancient (and I mean that in the best way) – is actually a marvel. It gives the garden a sense of permanence, like it’s always been there, and it’s how he terraced the hill. The meandering pathways that lead up to the wraparound veranda, and up the hill where he planted azaleas, and rhododendron under redwoods that are now actually trees and large river stones wedged into the ground as steppingstones to the original water source, coming out of the rock – it was all part of a start from scratch plan. The garden has evolved over time, of course, but there’s no doubt: he had a vision of what he wanted it to become.
I am certainly a beneficiary. I have a Saturday ritual – wandering through the garden after lunch with my mother, glass in hand, making toasts to the flowers. I send the photos to Facebook friends for their birthdays, a small gesture of celebration and beauty. Little happinesses.
We are very lucky to have so many reasons to toast. Here’s to all the little happinesses.
