This Side of the Pond

Even a creature with no voice has something to teach, as I’ve had reason to acknowledge over the last couple of weeks. This is the tale of the little plant that could and the gardener who never had before – and don’t worry, it has a happy ending.

I don’t have a great track record with growing things on this side of the ocean. Back in Ol’ Blighty, I’ve been known to coax a carrot or two from the ground and I once raised enough runner beans to feed the whole street on a specially made bamboo trellis.

My grandfather had the greenest of thumbs and taught me how to space strawberries and dig for potatoes, and as a youngster I had my own vegetable patch to experiment with. When I first arrived in Wyoming, I thought it would be a simple matter to transfer my expertise.

It wasn’t that I forgot what to do, or that we did an especially poor job of planting, watering and weeding. It was more that my garden was enthusiastically large and, to the surprise of nobody, it got away from me.

My freezer bulged with an ever-increasing stock of frozen beans and I ate enough tomatoes to be heartily sick of salsa. But then the true harvest began – and my luck ended.

My radishes were glorious specimens almost as big as a man’s palm. I’d never seen such bountiful salad accompaniments before and had high hopes for the flavor; unfortunately, all they tasted of was fire.

Then, for no reason, my lettuce took on such a leathery consistency that I could have fashioned myself a pair of moccasins. My peas never came up at all, and my carrots didn’t even qualify as “baby”.

And finally, despite daily harvesting, I came across a bean that had grown to easily four feet in length and was slowly creeping towards my back door (presumably with the intention of strangling me).

It wasn’t exactly a triumph, so I was secretly filled with trepidation when my friend offered some seeds sprouted from her prized bed of hollyhocks. I really wanted the hollyhocks, but I wasn’t sure they were going to want me.

I accepted her offer anyway, and soon enough I was staggering home with a laden tray of young plants. The first issue to overcome was that I didn’t have anywhere to put them.

We’ve been planning an enclosed yard for the dogs and there had been talk of plant-based décor, so I approached the rest of the family for a summit meeting. Unfortunately, the only person unavailable for that meeting was the one who knew where the tiller was, so it was going to have to wait.

This wouldn’t have been a problem, except that I was very concerned about one particular hollyhock – the biggest in the tray. When my friend had pulled him from the ground, his taproot was so long that she simply couldn’t dig all the way to the end of it.

He arrived in my yard looking extremely sorry for himself and was laying almost horizontally across the tray. I didn’t blame him for wanting a nap, but I wasn’t sure he was going to make it.

I made sure to water the tray liberally, which turned out to be my first mistake; within an hour, the skies opened and poured down so much rain that the tray transformed into a water feature. I was relieved to emerge the next morning to find the tiller ready for action.

It was just as well I waited, because the flower bed I had my eye on is apparently full of raspberries. I am told they have been there since long before I hopped across the ocean.

This was news to me, because I’ve never seen a single raspberry on the Pridgeon land and there wasn’t a single, solitary plant poking out from the ground. I gently tried to convince dad-in-law of the possibility that those raspberry plants died a decade ago, but he wasn’t having it.

An alternative bed was chosen and prepared to host my hollyhocks. I wasn’t allowed to run the tiller for the general safety of all involved, but I did a great job of appearing skillful with a rake.

As we patted the soil around the last plant, I was thrilled to notice that the big hollyhock was starting to pick himself back up. He wasn’t exactly flourishing, but I was much more confident he would survive.

None of us were sure if hollyhocks are delicacies for deer but, on the basis that almost anything with leaves falls into that category (including the fake flowers my mom-in-law once put on the deck), dad-in-law offered to whip up some cages. It only took him about ten minutes but, by the time he came back, a deer had already popped in to dine.

You can guess which hollyhock the deer made a beeline for. The big plant was still sitting on a diagonal, and now he had been stripped of leaves entirely.

I mourned for what could have been, but resolved not to give up on my charge. I dutifully watered the flower bed (but only on the two days that didn’t bring a rain storm) and crossed my fingers.

And then, to my delight, a miracle appeared in the form of a single, tiny leaf. It looked ridiculous, perched on top of six empty stalks, but it was a start.

It was soon joined by another, then a third, and before long I was sending a daily leaf count to my friend. The little bugger was determined not to give up, and I was prepared to do whatever I could to help him.

As I write this column, the little hollyhock that could is standing straight and proud, has a grand total of 16 leaves and doesn’t look nearly so bedraggled. He is, without a doubt, my very favorite plant; we’ve developed quite the connection, that hollyhock and I.

When I go outside to visit him, my hollyhock makes me smile. He is my daily reminder that, even when you feel like you can’t lift your head and you’ll be a laughing stock if anyone catches sight of you, there’s always the promise of a better tomorrow.