Now that I work as a professional horticulturist in a large garden center in a gilt-edged community in Connecticut, I’ve discovered that a large number of today’s gardeners are yesterday’s Yuppies. Of course, many people still garden for pleasure but I’ve found that this up-market group has brought the same preoccupation with making money in the ’80s to growing things in the ’90s–turning a gentle occupation into an all-out obsession.
Not satisfied with just growing things, these wellheeled gardeners must have the latest exotic rose or au courant color, not to mention state-of-the-art organic fertilizer with which to grow them. For example, when Fisher geraniums were written up favorably in the newspaper, everyone wanted them-even when I found out that they flowered poorly and did not hold up well. Today the latest shade of pink geranium sells out while the other colors aren’t so popular. Also out of favor is the lowly marigold, unless it is used in companion planting to discourage insects’ (instead of a pesticide). Then it is acceptable because the middle-age baby boomers pride themselves on being environmentally correct.
Our affluent customers demand instant results. They haven’t the patience or the time to start plants from seed. Bedding plants in bloom are sold in flats; perennials are sold as two-year-old plants; vegetables-the more uncommon the better-are sold as four- to six-inch plants ready for the outside garden. Their gardens may not rival Sissinghurst, but immediate success is practically guaranteed by using the ready-grown plants.
Expensive imported garden tools-fancy pruners, unusual hand cultivators, elegant plant supports-have great appeal. These are the toys of the trade, as the food processor was for the gourmet cook a few years ago. Many of these playthings have little horticultural value.
Some gardeners even bring their toys to the garden center. Range Rovers, once indigenous to the Serengeti, are lined up like model trucks in the parking lot. In spite of the rugged reputation of this vehicle, it is treated with kid gloves by the owners. Swaths of plastic sheets cover the inside, protecting it from the loaded plant material. One customer won’t use his Range Rover to carry purchases home everything must be delivered. Cellular phones abound. One woman complains that her phone doesn’t work in the greenhouse because the structure’s metal supports create too much static. Another stands in the vegetable patch shouting “Hello, hello”; she’s not trying to get my attention, she’s just talking on the phone. A man calls his wife from his car phone telling her what’s available and receives instructions on what to buy. This is gardening?
Much of the frenzied buying is over by Memorial Day. Even though there can be a killing frost between now and then, everything must be in place because the month of June is set aside to watch the garden grow. After July 4, the gardens are left in the hands of groundkeepers, neighbors and friends when the owners leave the area to spend July and August on Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket. When they return in September, if the surrogate gardeners have done their jobs well, there will be a harvest of plump tomatoes, peppers and a host of other veggies, including the ubiquitous zucchini. The neglected flower gardens, planned earlier with such precision, are either wildly overgrown from too much rain and humidity or limp and leggy from too little.
It amazes me that so much money and energy is spent on this avocation when these gardeners don’t stay around long enough to enjoy the fruits of their or someone else’s labor. Why buy 18 dozen geraniums for the decorative containers around the swimming pool when most of the summer is spent on the yacht?
Perhaps the gardens are not for the gardeners themselves but are there to impress the neighbors-just another accomplishment to be displayed together with the big house and the fine cars.
It seems to me these nouveau gardeners are somehow missing the purpose of the exercise, the pleasure of working with nature, having the satisfaction of being rewarded by watching something grow. Or has gardening struck a primeval chord in their psyche? Is there a getting-back-to-the-earth instinct lurking in the background somewhere, rising above the jingle of money? I hope so.
I am a casual gardener. A few weeds and insects here and there never cause me concern. I don’t need the latest variety, cultivar or color in my garden to consider it a success. Some of the old-fashioned plants such as geraniums, dusty miller and the humble marigold-which is at its best in October when most of the other annuals are weary or worn out-bring much color and beauty to my garden. I like an unplanned orderliness, a cooperation with nature, rather than a trimmed and tailored plot with all the latest horticultural novelties in it. I don’t have to know exactly how many seeds are in the package of string beans I purchase or their diameter when harvested. And I certainly do not rush my garden shopping because the pate is getting warm in the Range Rover.
Gardening is patience, peace and tranquillity-to be enjoyed at a leisured pace. If these upscale gardeners would like to get that kind of serenity out of their gardens, they should stop for while to smell the roses they grow with such compulsiveness.
