If you look back through this blog far enough, a line you’ll see pretty often in the first few years is “My mom’s garden is better than yours.” (Here's some examples) For a very long time, that was definitely true. Now, I can’t say that so absolutely.
My mom’s garden reflected the passion of more than a single lifetime. She was the granddaughter of a horticulturalist who literally wrote the book on citrus in California (and had the linguistic distinction of introducing the word clone into the language). She was the daughter two botanists, one of whom was head of the California citrus research station, and the other a PhD who also wrote and illustrated children’s science books. For a long time, when my brothers and I were the sort of kids who could carelessly wreck a garden, I’d say that my Grandmother’s garden was better than yours—a canyon slope in the Berkeley hills, with a majestic live oak and a wondrous array of natives and exotics growing in its shade. The porch was lined with Epiphyllum and other cacti in pots.
Although she was not a professional botanist, her background was such that my mom could not help but be knowledgeable about plants. Living in coastal Los Angeles, she had a brilliant climate in which to indulge in plant collecting as a hobby. So, while I remember a garden that had plenty of “mundane” plants such as roses and a fair amount of lawn, I also remember as a lad spending Sundays going shopping: to Lohman’s Cactus Patch and Grigsby Cactus Gardens and Abbey Gardens (all closed, alas) or to the sale days at Huntington Gardens to find a new Rebutia or Lobivia or something really odd like Lophophoria or Oberegonia. Her interest would meander—for a while, it was cacti that would be happy in a pot and produce a nice flower; then, perhaps, Asclepiads, relatives of milkweed that produce flowers that smell like dead meat; then, Aloes. And so the garden ended up having patches—a mass of one type of succulent here, a whole mess of another type of succulent over there. Eventually, my grandmother’s Epiphyllums found a home in her garden.
This pattern continued all her life—and the mundane plants, the lawn, the ground-covering ivy all got squeezed out and replaced with a class that would seize her attention for several years. Sometimes her choices were guided by travel. A Lapageria lily and a Palo Barroche were sentimental reminders of postdoctoral years in South America. A sabbatical year in Australia kindled a passion for Banksias and Grevillias. A trip to South Africa sparked a consuming interest in Cape bulbs and Aloes, which came to occupy a large area.
Although though new interests would be kindled, old flames would never be forgot. A few plants died out; some were just too fussy to be bothered with, or if they grew boring they would be exiled to the nether reaches of the garden. There, some might get buried in leaves, while the near-ideal climate of coastal SoCal would let others thrive in neglect. It’s also worth noting that my mom not only grew so many plants, but painted them. So, while the Ceropegia tribe may have moved from the center of her attention, the dining room of her house still has a beautiful painting that she made of them.
Even though her location was about as good as possible for growing a wide variety of plants outdoors, her garden was by no means a low-maintenance affair. Some plants did well let alone, but others required precise watering schedules or other maintenance. In addition to the bookshelves full of botany books, there were lots of notes on the provenance and maintenance of every plant. Keeping the garden going was most what she did in retirement, and the garden kept her going.
So, there is that orchid. My mom had always had orchids, mostly Cymbidium varieties. However, the last genre that took over her attention was small orchids. I remember her describing trips to Santa Barbara Orchid Estates starting in the 2000’s, and went along with her for a couple when I was in the area. (True story—when we were checking out, the proprietor saw the name on my dad’s credit card and asked if he was related to David Appleman. It turns out that my grandfather taught the man botany at UCLA. When my dad noted that I was David Appleman’s grandson, he was amazed—“no way. He was only that tall!” He said, pointing at my sternum.) Trips to “SBOE” grew less frequent as my dad’s descent in to dementia accelerated. This orchid was bought in 2010, so it would have to have been a trip where one of my brothers or I took her along. I don’t know the date of her last plant-buying trip; I think there may have been only one after my dad was bedridden, in 2011.
Mom was able to keep up things in the garden for a while, no longer expanding or diversifying, but at least holding decay at bay. Her own health started failing, the first hints of dementia and frailty showing up about seven or eight years ago. Bits of the garden started getting somewhat less taken care of, with some weeds starting to crop up. The bit of the garden that was on the slope of the canyon, down a rickety stairway and out of sight of the house, became neglected. A balcony perched on the edge of the canyon started tilting down the slope. It was festooned with bromeliads and vining Ceropegia and Hoya succulents, which mostly did well despite a lack of tending. The Cape bulbs—Freesia species and so on—did fine, because bulbs are hard to eradicate once they’re settled; but a couple of years of drought did damage some of them.
The one constant chore in all the garden was picking leaves. There were established trees—Avocado, Gingko, Liquidambar—that were always dropping leaves, and they always needed to be picked out of this densely populated garden. My mom kept at is as long as she could. As dementia and frailty worsened, it was all she could do to get a bucket and toddle out, with a home-care nurse alongside, and fill the bucket with leaves pulled one by one out of a thicket of aloes or orchids. The nurse was always surprised by her endurance and drive to do it, but my brothers and I were not. But she pretty much stopped doing even that early last year, as health and mind failed.
Starting last year, every time I or one of my brothers went to visit, we’d take away as many plants as we could find room for. I’ve given homes to such orchids have survived, and a handful of other plants: we can grow some indoors, but Roseburg is not as hospitable to delicate flora as Pacific Palisades. Still, I cherish what I can.
My mom died earlier this year, in February, not a great time of year for gardens, but it was still possible to find some flowers to put in her room. My brothers and I reconvened in the spring, and remembered her by taking a trip out to Anza-Borrego State Park, where years ago we had followed her on quests for Elephant Trees and unusual hybrid cholla cacti. We managed to catch the tail end of a “superbloom,” which was wonderful. And, of course, we found a good, if diminished, supply of interesting flowers in my mom’s garden. Which, in my memory, will always be better than yours.
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