Revenge (or reinvention) of the passive gardener
“We have things that grow outside of the house but I wouldn’t really call it a garden.”
— Roz Chast
A prime attraction of The New Yorker for almost five decades, the cartoonist Roz Chast draws daily life in all its frenzied, neurotic, off-kilter glory. Her style is recognizable from a distance: there’s an awkwardness in her characters that is endearing and recognizable.
Once in a while, she makes the cover, too, like this seasonally appropriate tribute to summer treats from 2024. It features lesser known ice cream flavours, like “Grandpa’s Tea” and “Placebo” and (sooo curious about this one, being a Newfoundlander) “Hardtack.”
The quote at the top is about gardening, and I can relate it. For much of my adult life, I’ve never been that good at it. My mom built a spectacular garden and my wife is talented, but I’ve been a bit of a shrug. Physical labour? I’m your guy. Except for being a bit of a compost expert (I started with Dad and have had a system in place of my own since the late 1980s), I was clueless about making plants thrive.
Until … the last number of years. Maybe it’s osmosis or being a slow learner or having more time or (yup) getting older, but I’ve really been getting into the garden. And I’ve truly been enjoying it.
I’ve gone from being a bit of a passive gardener to more of an active one. It’s been fun plotting (no pun intended; well, OK, maybe a little one) with Martha where new plants should go. We have actual vegetables growing in several spots. The front garden is a lovely blend of colour.
One of my favourite things the last few years has been gently picking away at the hanging baskets. ABD: always be deadheading. Years ago, I used to think this was a time vaccuum; surely, there are better things to do than pick away at spent blooms!
I was gradually won over by the process … first the rewards of getting blooms all summer long (don’t forget to snip the little green stems, too), and later the ultimate payback: it’s bloody relaxing. Taking a couple of minutes and just breathing? Yes, please.
I may not be outside touching grass, but dude, I’m close.
By the way, Chast’s thought above wasn’t entirely about gardening.
It came from a 2009 New York Times interview (gift link included), and here’s the full exchange:
EVER GO OUTSIDE? Not so much. We have things that grow outside of the house but I wouldn’t really call it a garden. I’m not really involved with that. I don’t really like yards. It’s just, they’re so boring. I might visit my mother, she’s in an assisted living place about 10 minutes away, so I do get out of the house for that.
Roz Chast has been published in The New Yorker since 1978, and she’s still only 71. Her talented and quirks were noticed early, and she’s still at it.
She can also take your breath away. I highly recommend Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, a book-length graphic memoir about her parents and their final years.