Secret Garden

In the midst of an upscale middle-class neighborhood with immaculately manicured lawns and perfectly designed landscaping is a wild display of flowers and trees reminiscent of The Secret Garden.

To escape the July heat, we jumped in our air-conditioned car and wandered local neighborhoods, looking at gardens. Flagging in energy from cleaning up our own yard, we sought inspiration in other people's success. Our little town has lots of gardeners as well as professional landscaping companies, so we wanted to see the latest trends of residential displays.

Because of water restrictions in the American West, suburban landscaping has veered toward xeroscaping: mixtures of flowers, shrubs, trees, and rock formations that need only a few minutes localized soaking per day. When we moved to our present acre property in western Nevada, half the lot was covered with lawn, meticulously groomed by the previous owner. We decided to change that by replacing grass with flowers. It's been a challenge and that grass is persistent about defying the mulch.

We entered a fairly upscale neighborhood that was the same we enjoyed cruising every December 24th to see the holiday lights. It was fun to see this same area in evening light during the summer.

It was also a bit unnerving that every single lawn was recently mowed, as if all the landscapers had arrived on that day to tidy up everyone's yard. This was, after all, a demographic that could afford and would hire other people to take care of their exterior spaces. We were still in DIY mode.

Suddenly, my little voice reminded me that with my advancing age, I had entered the stage of herbal voyeurism.

"We certainly are earning our Old Fart cards tonight," I said. "Why is it that old people are so obsessed with gardening? You put a bunch of them on a tour bus in Hawaii and all they want to see is the flowers. 'What's that flower' and 'what's this vine?' Nothing else stirs their curiosity. Why is that?"

My Beloved always has an answer no matter what the question. "Well, it's probably because they've done everything else they need to do and finally have the time to devote to their outdoor space."

That was an acceptable answer. Rubber-necking as we passed, I thought, this whole neighborhood must be filled with elders. I don't see much indication of children. Not even a basketball net or tricycle.

Around and around we drove, oohing and ahhing at everything from a pocket of posies to define the corner of the lot to barriers of trees, ornamental grasses, and day lilies to dampen road noise.

Tons and tons of day lilies. I was shaking with envy at the success of others' lilies while mine huddled under the catmint. What were mine hiding from when these were flaunting their outrageous selves in front of God and everybody? I was quickly succumbing to flower overload!

Then we saw it! WOW!

On a large corner lot, a dense growth of mature trees, bushes, and well-established daisies, black-eyed Susans, and other colorful flowers obscured the house so much, we couldn't tell just how big it was. It was a dazzling display of herbal hubris in this prim neighborhood.

One could judge this to be over-grown and in need of a good pruning. Then again, it was too planned, despite its wild aspect. While dense and dark, the growth seemed carefully chosen. It inspired memories of Frances Hodgsen Burnett's The Secret Garden, walled by its own foliage to protect the resident from lookieloos like us.

As we wheeled around the corner, I studied how close each plant was placed. Perhaps they were seated in deep, rich soil and the minimum desired space apart to crowd out any weeds that might wedge between them. They seemed healthy, sufficiently watered and tended so as to not get that ragged look this late in summer.

In Carson Valley, May and June are the sweet months of gentle temperatures and fresh new life. July 1st, heat and desiccation drop hard like an iron curtain upon the land. By the end of the month, wildfire warnings are posted as everything dries to a crisp and the winds flare any spark into a conflagration. I watch in dismay as my flowers wilt despite the daily watering they receive.

I was in awe of whoever lived here and the magic they perform to form this forest of cool splendor.

Then I saw her. She hunched over something near the garage, perhaps watering a potted plant where the driveway meets the walkway to the front door. She didn't notice us as we slipped past. So she's the one, the Witch of Wonder. My storyteller's brain revved up, drawing scenarios to fill gaps without knowing anything about this dear lady with ten green digits.

Did she live alone or was there a spouse watching a game from his barcalounger in a darkened room? Were there dozens of cats or was she the owner of a yappy dog? I envisioned a library with stacks of books on the floor. Maybe there was a studio in the former bedroom of a child long gone, paintings leaning against the walls like a file system of her life's creativity.

What else was hiding in the center of that tangle of trees? Was there a comfortable swing or chair, a small table for a cup of coffee? Would there be enough light filtering through to illumine a book or needlework? Did she have friends?

If she'd lived in this neighborhood for very long, perhaps she designed this garden to weed out the queen bees and the wannabees -- those who drove her crazy with their inane conversations or social politics. She knew without doubt they would be too put off by her wild garden to venture therein.

Maybe in filtering them out, she found that one intriguing friend who would bring pastry and they would sit under the trees with steaming brews and have a good cackle.

Whatever her story, I bowed to her courage and talent. We finally drove off to seek more gardens, my brain whirling with the summertime version of sugarplums dancing in my head.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Next morning, I wanted to see if I could find this house again. Or was it like Brigadoon, appearing one day every one hundred years to avoid contact with the outside world. To my joy, I managed to locate it and parked between houses to take photos.

As I pointed my camera, I wondered if neighbors would think I was some nefarious thief casing the place or, worse yet, a spy from the local planning department or HOA. I could almost hear the conversation now:

"Hey Myrt! There's some woman taking pictures of Hildie's place. Should I call the Sheriff?"

"Not again, Rupert! Why can't you mind your own business? You need to find a hobby or some cronies to hang out with so you'll get out of my hair. I married you forever, not for lunch."

Every few feet, I had to pause and marvel at the vitality of plants crowded so close together. Among them was a gigantic tree with some kind of fruit that was unfamiliar. There was no way a sprinkler system could have watered everything effectively. Then I noticed evidence of soaker hoses snaking through the dense undergrowth.

As for a secluded nook under the trees, I saw none in the front yard, but a pergola against the house in back suggested a far more private space away from the street. No gate made entry to this interior courtyard, only the archway to a covered walkway leading to the front door.

On the other street side, though, there was a stone stairway and path taking a circuitous route … somewhere. Perhaps there was a little sitting area in a time when greeting neighbors out for an evening walk would have been a pleasant activity.

That was a long-ago era when front porch America was a thing. Victorian era houses always had a porch just a few feet from the street, allowing easy conversation with passersby. It was a place for family to gather of a summer's evening, tell stories to the children, relax and recount the day's events. A small garden and picket fence even then would act as a buffer between the public space and the private space. Such differences were important in those days to delineate.

With the advent of television, however, people burrowed indoors, lined up on the sofa to stare at the flickering screen to watch Gun Smoke, Ed Sullivan, and Lawrence Welk. In time, the quality of the programming as well as the interaction between family members diminished considerable. Now, one's personal bubble has closed in to include only one person and one cell phone.

At last, after snapping several shots, my curiosity was satisfied. One or two fantasies were dashed, but not all. The garden still held luscious mysteries as did the house and its occupants. I actually saw "Hildie" by the entrance the night before.  With the address of her house out of sight, I couldn't sneak onto Google to learn her real name. Her life would remain unknown. Her daily routine of tending her flowers and practicing other arts and magic lay along the edges of my imagination.

I still stood in awe of someone who could defy the HOA quality of her neighborhood. In Nevada, though, HOAs are often avoided rather than a desired. Many newcomers want those one-acre plots to build shops, hoist antennas, raise chickens, house a horse, or do whatever they were not allowed to do in their former home. So perhaps Hildie didn't have much pushback from the neighbors.

In this speculative wandering into someone else's business, I certainly don't know. One thing for certain is that what people see in a front yard represents who we are. We can allow ourselves to express that truth as we interface with the world outside the front door.