The Gardens of Three Pines: Miss Jane Neal’s Garden

My Gardens have grown with my life story. As a young mother living in the California Mojave Desert I planted marigolds because they thrived in sand. Later, in Southwestern Ohio, in several homes that came with previous owner’s garden ideas, I was happy to add my own. My favorite lwasons was the older house where we raised our children and any plant that would grow under the shade of Tulip Poplars and Oaks. There, I learned about succulents, ground covers, and shade hostas. In one small sunny bed I planted Tiger Lilies and Iris from my mother’s hillside garden. The Iris, I discovered years later, is a 1933 Picador Morrison that grew on my grandfather’s farm, most likely bought from a catalog, the year my mother was born. My sister and I have these precious memory flowers growing in our gardens. The same with the gorgeous August Lily, (also my birth month) a plantain hosta, that grew in our great-grandmother’s yard, over 100 years ago now. Whenever I’ve moved, these plants were dug and moved with me. Two houses ago, I had glorious gardens for 27 years. I grew everything from A to Z. Then the deer came, no thanks to land being devoured by subdivisions, a herd of a dozen or more deer raised their young on Lily milk. I cried. My husband built a beautiful deck and a herb rack for me. Gardening became fun again! I doubt I’ll ever dig holes in hard earth again, pots work just fine. This last house, in Southeastern Ohio, the Appalachian Foothills, has been very different. Still planting in pots, I just harvested the first batch of tomatoes for winter soups and sauces, and made delicious pesto with basil planted from seeds. And yes, the Generarion Plants moved with me once again! The most enjoyable discovery here is the native wildflowers that grow along the 4 mile Run. Every plant that I have ever purchased from a nursery grows here – in its wild state, naturally, gloriously, an educational walkabout every day. No fine china for this woman, give me a garden.

An original, an old classic. Being of the older generation, (70) I think this is why I adore history and holding on to traditions. Before the abundance of choice, what bloomed in our lives, left a lasting imprint. We were struck by their unique qualities and fearless innocence. The Charles de Mille Rose had no idea of its early demise, only knowing deep inside, it had to bloom bright and make a lasting impression. Its impact left a permanent imprint, on all the hearts whose breath it took away. If people only knew this important lesson. Go all in and shine brightly. Not knowing how long you will be able to shine for, but knowing you will leave a lasting impact. Over the last 70 years, I find my vision at times has felt smothered, with so many choices, mixtures, inbreeding and photoshopping of creations. We can easily get lost in the simplicity of what is true, honest and genuine. I am grateful for my age, which provides me with the memories of those old traditions, those old classics and to honour their memory. I love how gardens have a memory! They insist on coming back, growing in any direction they have space to stretch their stems and blossoms. They require only the basics of sunlight and water to grow. Through the smallest of cracks, even in a rock, somehow what is determined to grow, will find its way to shine. No different than with people. Live, always leaving a lasting imprint. I came upon a song verse written by Emory Hall which is called Come Sit By My Garden. I think it sums up a garden perfectly. It touches my heart deeply, as I lost my 30 year old daughter Danielle, 14years ago to cancer. I have included it here below. I hope you enjoy it.
Come sit by my garden. Let my gardens speak for me when I’m gone. Let them speak in coloured whispers of all the beauty I have seen and felt and lived. Let them speak of how much death has defined me. How many hard seasons it took to make me a living breathing thing. Let them speak of my seasons of growth and abundance. But let them also tell of my seasons of loss and decay. Let the soft wet earth be a reminder of the hardness that didn’t win, of sadness that didn’t calcify, the surrender that triumphed over resistance. and let the glorious fragrant blooms speak of my life and its greatest lesson, that the beauty we make never dies. Come sit by my garden. (Emory Hall)