There is an interesting rock garden in my neighborhood — a space that runs about thirty feet long and roughly twelve feet deep. Plants and stones cling to an ascending berm. Some of the ground cover shrubs and mosses drape over the edge of the stone retaining wall which runs the length of the sidewalk.
Late morning a year ago, I saw an elderly woman weeding this garden and so I introduced myself, telling her about the public garden where I volunteer a few hundred feet away. That garden is accessed through a pedestrian tunnel under the rail road tracks on the other side of town. When I asked if she'd share a piece of the yellow primrose (Primula Veris, aka cowslip) which was blooming at the far end of the garden, she said she didn't' even know there was a primrose blooming, but all the same, she climbed down and went to investigate with me. There it was, a small plant under a bush, a wonderful combination of bright yellow and spring green. Glad to share, she dug out half the plant, carefully putting it into my bare hands. I ran off immediately and within minutes had the treasured gift planted under a young witch hazel tree, by the bluestone path that weaves through the garden.
But for the entire spring and summer, the plant didn't do well. No matter how attentive I was it never seemed to brisk up but stayed semi-wilted all season. I was careful for its watering and constructed a circle of arborvitae branches to filter the light and maybe keep the roots cooler through July and August. I even got down on all fours to investigate when I discovered a few chewed holes in the leaves. Autumn and winter came and went with my wondering if by spring the little plant would have sorted itself out. When this spring arrived the primrose reappeared, sending out wonderfully crinkled, brilliant green leaves followed by sturdy stems topped with clusters of tiny, crayon-yellow trumpets facing all directions.
Then recently, while I was head down still winter-weeding, I heard a nearby voice call hello. Looking up, there was a woman who I somehow felt I should know, but couldn't place. Returning her greeting with "Good Morning," she said, "I came to see the primrose," pointing to it tucked under the witch hazel. Emotionally slack-jawed, I said, "How do you remember after a full year that you gave it to me, and that you remember where I said I'd plant it? How are you even sure that's the plant you gave me?" She said "Well, I do remember, but I'm sorry to say, I don't remember your name."
Making new introductions we stood around talking awhile about my public garden and her hillside garden. I shared how the primrose had struggled for the whole season, taking delight in its fresh appearance this year. She shared that she had grown up in the neighborhood and presently lived some towns away. Then without any promise of even, "See you around," she went off.
We live in a country wearied with anger, suspicion and cynicism. I'm joining the poet, Ross Gay, in his book, Year of Delight — taking notice of every lovely and life-giving thing and allowing it all to swirl around inside. I think the poet calls these recognitions conscious acts of resistance and willful gladness — like two gardeners in a world of alienation, talking about a sweet plant and the pleasure it gives.
