The Gardener

He’ll be 95 in July, but he’s still moving plants around.

To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.

— Audrey Hepburn

Every time we pull out of the driveway, I wave goodbye to Dad and swallow hard. There’s a lump in my throat the size of Texas. By the time we are on Route 1, heading up to the Delaware Memorial Bridge and the New Jersey Turnpike, my brain is shuffling through scenes of time we spent together. I text my sister just to touch base, to feel like we are still close by.

In Delaware, my sister’s house is on the same street as my house (the one that Dad lives in). She retired three years ago and moved to be close to Dad – and to the beach and our forever summer home, a town called Lewes. She and I have never lived that close to each other in our entire adult lives, so when I’m visiting, it’s fun to be able to walk back and forth between her house and mine. I love it when she pops in the front door of our house with her sweet dog Lucy, just checking in, usually to talk about dinner plans – who will cook, what we’ll cook, and at which house. (More often than not it is her at her house). I’m usually on the computer, working, since sadly, I drag my work with me wherever I go.

I never lived close to Dad as an adult either – until the last several years when I’ve tried to be in Delaware for about one week out of every 9 or 10. When Mom was alive, they had their life – and the family dynamic was different. But when Mom died, my Dad and sister and I formed a new bond. My sister and I have gotten to know my Dad in a different way. We’ve learned about his soft side – his sentimentality (a touching story will bring tears to his eyes every time); the way he collects ideas and quotes and poems and inspiration, honing his own personal philosophy of life (and the afterlife); his love of jokes, good and bad, and his clever turn of words (epic texts). We’ve learned more about his childhood, more about our family, and a little more about the choices he made on his own path.

Though he spent his entire working life as a lawyer, he has always loved plants and designing gardens so much that he considered changing careers to become a landscape architect. While that didn’t happen, his passion for gardening has never let up.

He stopped being a lawyer 30 years ago, but Wednesday, at age 94, he put on his boots, got out his shovel, and dug up four black-eyed Susan plants for me to take home. He is pretty wobbly on his feet now due to medication he takes, and yet that doesn’t stop him from moving plants around. His designs will never be finished.

“Sue, what do you think about moving this rhododendron?” he said to me last week when we were standing in the backyard talking about butterfly bushes and Itoh peonies and his Zephirine Drouhin climbing rose. (He is one of two people who call me Sue.)

“Dad, just cut it down,” I said. “It’s too big for you to move and, you’re right – it does block the porch view.” Normally I wouldn’t have suggested sacrificing the old plant, but I knew it was driving him crazy and I didn’t want him fussing with moving it. He smiled.

With his hard work over the last seven years, Dad has turned my little house into sometime special with the spiffiest landscaping in the neighborhood.

Sometimes it is hard for me when we (my husband and I) visit. I always, always have to work; weekly deadlines make work unavoidable. My Dad and sister are understanding about this, but nonetheless, I feel torn. I want to spend time alone with my sister (usually we go shopping at flea market-y places), I want to take walks with my husband, and I want to spend quality time with Dad.

On a short trip like the one this week, it’s particularly difficult to do all that. But I managed to get a clear day on Wednesday, and suggested a fun outing that we could all do together. It will probably not sound like fun to a lot of you, but this is the way my family rolls – we piled in my sister’s truck and drove south to a plant nursery. My husband, who barely knew a daffodil from a dandelion when he met me, is incredibly patient – both with the choice of expeditions and with our family idiosyncrasies.

He and I sat in the back seat of the truck (the crew cab) and chuckled as Dad told my sister where to drive and when to stop and when to go…and, well, you know.

This particular nursery is a sprawling behemoth, and I couldn’t quite sink my teeth into anything. Partly, this was for budgetary reasons – just not in a spot to splurge – but also nothing was really talking to me. My husband and I looked at Japanese maples (who wouldn’t want one?), and then had to cross the road to the other set of 20 greenhouses to find my sister and Dad examining holly trees.

After an hour and a half, my husband called time (fair enough). My dad got the ninebark Ginger Wine he was looking for and two hostas and my sister got a small holly, a hosta, and some annuals. I did wind up grabbing two little pale pink bacopa for filling out a container I’m planning.

Of course, we followed up the nursery visit with lunch out (my husband’s favorite part): Sandwiches (the Charleston – pulled pork BBQ, house-made pimento cheese, buttered sourdough, pressed in a panini), French fries, iced tea – and Dad chatting with the waitress, who of course exclaimed at his age and how good he looks. (They all do this; it’s very sweet.)

We had a good time, all of us. It was a good day. I didn’t work (much) and I got to be with all my peeps, out in the sunshine, breathing in April, checking out plants. One more day with Dad; one more of many more – if I can just keep my mind out of bad places.

I won’t see him or my sister again for 11 weeks. That’s almost three months. Too long in my opinion. But we have his birthday to look forward to. He’ll be turning 95 on July 15.

What will we get him for a present? Plants, of course.

And cake. 💚