Miss Ruth’s Garden

By Tom Poland

 

Mom Had A Keen Appreciation For Beautiful Things

In the southeast corner of my living room a painting stands upon an easel. I gave “Flowers On Fence,” number 2 of 50 prints, to my mom on the occasion of her birthday, three years ago. Inscribed on it are these words. “Best wishes to Ruth Poland, Sincerely, Jim Harrison.”

I know Jim. Anytime I am near Denmark, I visit Jim at his studio. I saw the painting there and immediately thought of Mom and Dad’s yards in the mid-1980s when all were in their prime—people and plants. Azaleas by the dozen, a magnificent magnolia, which Mom planted 54 years ago, a butterfly bush, geraniums, a green lawn, white picket fence, daffodils, gardenias (Mom called them cape jasmines), and flowers galore that would supply a small florist. In short, their yards were a Southern Living show place.

 

 

Well, the years go by and they extract a relentless toll on all things mortal. When Dad passed in November 2003, Mom lost her hired hand, you could say. Thus, did I fall into a spring ritual. Right about now, pine pollen time, I’d load up my gloves, tools, blower, pruning shears, saws, rake, and pitchfork and head to Lincolnton, Georgia, to get Mom’s yards ready for summer.

I also brought rubber tubing with me for this ritual entailed getting all her fountains, five to be precise, running. Most daunting were these fountains. It wasn’t enough to get them running. They had to run just so, Goldilocks speed. Flow too freely and the water would splash out. A feeble run meant missing out on the jingly, glassy crashing sound a fountain makes, an ear pleaser and bird attracter.

Once the fountains were happily burbling and splashing just so, the two days passed quickly. I stayed busy. Mom always had a long list and I dutifully checked items off one by one. Fountains running. Check. Vines removed. Check. Gutters cleaned. Check. Roof blown clean. Check. Driveway blown off. Check. Flower beds weeded. Check. And on it went. We’d enjoy a good Southern lunch of tomato sandwiches and sweet tea and pie, and after lunch I would do things like run her car up town and top off the gas tank. She liked to keep the car full of gas though she never made long trips.

And so it went for twelve years, the spring ritual of keeping Miss Ruth’s garden in good shape. Then one spring I got into a mess of poison ivy and for the first time in my life it got me. It got me good. From that point on, Mom gave me no chores that meant an encounter with the toxic three-leaved plant. Mostly, I worked on her fountains, which were right at home amid the oaks and shrubs where the birds visited them frequently. Birds with their bounty of feathery colors made a perfect fit in the yard, and people often complimented Mom on her yards. “Miss Ruth,” I heard someone say, “sure has a pretty garden.” That she did, but that relentless toll thing pruned it away spring by spring until Miss Ruth was no more.

 

 Mom loved dogwoods

 

My first sign that major, indelible change had arrived was when she lost interest in her fountains. Three springs ago I got them running. Later that summer I noticed she had let them all go dry. “Too much trouble,” she said. She had crossed a great divide and would never be the same.

She died a year ago March 26, but while she was here, getting her yards ready was a mission I pretty much enjoyed. You see, my mother imbued in me a love for flora, fountains, and a fine yard. If you visit my home, you’ll see what I mean. To me, being Southern means it’s a duty to make your place presentable, and so I enjoyed helping get Mom’s yards off to a good start. It was something I could do and not screw up because the truth is I am no good with tools and being handy around the house. Dad conscripted me to work in his saw shop as a boy and, as I’ve written before, all the screaming chainsaws, sharp blades, banging steel, flying sparks, and the raw smell of gasoline didn’t endear me to being handy, as folks will say of a fellow. “That Ralph, man is he handy. He can fix anything.” Not me, the saw shop’s stubborn bolts, and Dad’s impatience with me did me in as “fixing” things goes. Repairing a finicky lawnmower? I’ve got a better chance of flying the space shuttle. Removing a rusted, locked-in screw? I’ve got a better chance of climbing Mount Everest. I’ll take a rake over a power tool any day. Rakes have no moving parts, can’t shock you, and aren’t likely to sever a finger.

In full disclosure I will admit something I have long denied. Dad unwittingly turned me toward writing, and I will say it here: writing is quiet, clean, and involves nothing but you and your thoughts. Thus, I prefer the keyboard to the acetylene torch. I prefer a new pen to a shiny new crescent wrench, and thanks to Mom I love making a yard look good because I love all things floral.

 

 Wisteria once grew in our front yard

 

In May when the gardenias perfume my backyard, I go out and cut a dozen, put them in a tea pitcher and place them on my desk. When they fade to yellow, I cut another dozen. I can’t walk by my tea olive without enjoying its fragrance, and when the stargazer lilies bestow their regal beauty to my yard in June it’s a signal to get the tripod and Canon T5i out. (Just yesterday I saw flowers Mom would have loved. I went out and photographed dogwoods, wisteria, and yellow jessamine.)

Cutting a few stargazers is a beautiful ritual of spring, but watch out for the pollen. It will stain clothing. When Mom gave me my stargazers she advised me to cut the stamens out but I never did. To me they were part of the flower’s beauty. I cut my stargazers and occasionally give them to someone who has done something noteworthy.

Now don’t let all this flower talk mislead you. Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m soft, a wimp. I’ve been known to get in a fistfight now and then, even at my age. It’s true. (Bullies and jackasses need to be taught stern lessons.) But I have a soft side, and I got it from Mom despite her often hard and demanding ways. (I’d be lying if I said otherwise.) She expected me to come over every spring and I did as much as I could to please her, my schedule permitting.

Red clay, blue skies, and green plants … I have a long relationship with the soil and things that grow. I remember plenty from childhood. Yards, plants, and vegetables were my heritage. When we were children, my sisters and I spent many an hour shelling peas and butterbeans, and for a few summers we chopped corn. Then we all grew up and gardening ways faded, but all that changed for me the day Dad died. I became the new hired hand.

This spring is the second since Dad died that I have not loaded up all my gear and headed to Mom’s for two days. The first was last year. Mom went into the hospital March 1 and she never left. Lung disease tethered her to the great medical-insurance complex and never let go until 7:15 one sad evening.

All March none of us could think about her yard. We were in crisis mode and in and out of the hospital. And here we are a year later with the sun bringing us once again to March 26. I will be in Lincolnton that day, a Saturday, for a book event at the library. Of all days! Mom had a hand in this. As a friend said, “This is no coincidence.” It’s not. I dedicated Georgialina, A Southland to her, and now I am returning to the very place that inspired me to write not just the book but to write, period.

They say you can’t go home again, but you can. On the anniversary of Mom’s passing I find myself just a few miles from my true home. Were she alive, you know she’d be present in the library Saturday. She will be there in spirit I guarantee you.

Yes, Miss Ruth sure had a pretty garden, and I miss it very much, just as I miss her. As some folks know, she was the only person in the world who could keep me straight. Just who or what can save me now? Maybe my love for flowers, a presentable Southern yard, and writing. That’ll have to do.

 

Photos by Tom Poland

 

Visit Tom Poland’s website at www.tompoland.net
Email Tom about most anything. [email protected]

 

Tom Poland is the author of twelve books and more than 1,000 magazine features. A Southern writer, his work has appeared in magazines throughout the South. The University of South Carolina Press released his book, Georgialina, A Southland As We Knew It, in November 2015 and his and Robert Clark’s Reflections Of South Carolina, Vol. II in 2014. The History Press of Charleston published Classic Carolina Road Trips From Columbia in 2014. He writes a weekly column for newspapers in Georgia and South Carolina about the South, its people, traditions, lifestyle, and changing culture and speaks often to groups across South Carolina and Georgia, “Georgialina.”

 

 

Sign up here to start your free subscription to MidlandsLife!