WE MOVED INTO OUR HOUSE in South Toledo on September 5, 1975. Of course, we’ve made a number of changes in 46 years, both inside and out. We added a family room and a deck, remodeled the kitchen and bath, painted the outside a different color, and replaced the windows. We removed two mature trees and all of the foundation plantings, built a pergola and hung a swing in it, installed a water garden and vegetable garden—and an herb garden, perennial garden, and shade garden. And we planted lots of roses. The former owners would not recognize the place.
Recently, I was working in the garden when a neighbor stopped to admire the roses. He was particularly impressed by a large shrub rose that was just covered with thousands of pink blossoms. For every blossom, there were three or four times as many buds just waiting their turn to open. The bush stands more than six feet tall and has a spread of almost that much. The neighbor wanted to know what it was. But I had a brain cramp. The information was in there, but the synapses just couldn’t close the circuit. All I could come up with was, “It has some sort of Dutch name.” There is a metal tag tied with wire to the base of the bush, but the overhanging canes are covered with those tiny, vicious thorns that snag your arm and refuse to let go. Besides, I’m getting too old to be crawling under rose bushes just because some other geezer is curious.
There was a time when I knew the proper scientific names and the common names of everything in the garden. Then it occurred to me that one reason I used to know everything about the garden was that I kepta journal. (Notice the past tense.) The journal had drawings I made on graph paper so that I could tell what was planted where.
“Well,” you might say, “if you want to know where things are planted in your own garden, why don’t you just go out and look?”
That’s a reasonable question. In September, I can generally tell what is in the garden. (Give or take a brain cramp or two.) Come early December, when the perennials have gone to bed and the annuals are just plain gone, you can’t tell the peonies from the daylilies. If you planted bulbs in October, where are the grape hyacinths and where are the giant alliums? For that matter, I know that there are Virginia bluebells and bleeding hearts over in the shade garden with the hostas and rhododendrons. By early summer, however, they have gone dormant. You can’t tell that they are there at this time of year just by looking. Next spring, before the hostas unfurl, they will make a beautiful display again. But I have to rely on my memory for this information.
As the garden—and the gardener—matures, it is really helpful to have a journal. Mine initially grew out of the garden-planning process during the first few years after we moved into the house. My garden journal contained not only the sketches for where new plants were to go, but also useful information about how well they performed and where they were placed. There is a really gorgeous white azalea, for example, that came with the house. I moved it three times before I found just the right balance of sun and shade to make it really happy. That azalea is at least 46 years old and could be much older for all I know.
The journal was particularly helpful in planning the vegetable garden. Which tomatoes matured earliest? Which had the best flavor? Which were prone to cracking? Which varieties produced the most fruit? Which ones attracted swarms of white flies?
For the last several years, there have been fewer dramatic changes in the garden. There simply isn’t room for more. Anything new must replace something already occupying the space. Gardening has become a combination of tweaking and maintaining. Gradually, I got out of the habit of keeping a journal.
Trying to remember the name of that rose has reminded me of all the advantages of having a detailed garden journal. I know my old one is around someplace because I never throw anything away. My Labor Day resolution is to find it and start using it again. Soon it will be time to plant bulbs, and before you know it, the seed catalogs will start arriving. (It is always possible that I will remove something to make room for an All-America Selection.) The journal is a great aid to planning and record keeping.
Pink Grootendorst! That’s the name of the rose. Sometimes if you just relax, it all comes back to you.
A well-kept journal once told me when and where I purchased plants for the garden. It would also remind me where I planted them, when and what I fed them, when I divided or moved them, what pests and diseases they were subject to, and a whole lot more.
