We were young, first time homeowners of a house that had possibilities, who, after tackling several falling down ceilings and a kitchen with no counters, turned our attention to the outside of the house. This particular endeavor was, given our utter lack of knowledge, much like walking over the Grand Canyon without a net. Heck, I didn’t even know the difference between annuals and perennials. My spouse knew less.

But this was our house, our home and we were determined.

We began with some bedding plants. I use the term bedding plants now, but then? They were just yellow or pink or orange flowers.

But I did, because my childhood memories were so strong, plant some pieces of rhubarb that my grandmother had given me as well as a cutting from one of her gooseberry bushes. The rhubarb and gooseberries were prophetic. My garden today is the result of generous sharings of bits and pieces from the gardens of others.

From our timid opening gambit with annuals, we moved on to something more permanent…trees.

First it was the crabapple that we planted smack in the middle of our front yard, anticipating the sweet pink blossoms in spring and forgetting about the tons of tiny crabapples that clog up your lawn mower in the fall. But we loved it then and love it now.

Then came the lovely, balletic clump birches with their elegant ease of clustered trunks and fluttering leaves. We bought and planted four. The blue spruce came from their “nursery” in my spouse’s parents’ back yard.

Again, we planted four, three along the border with Mr. Woodford and one where the fence ended between our house and the Daly’s. They were the true-blue variety with enticingly indescribable iridescence on their evergreen leaves. If trees could be categorized as luxurious, these, or at least their promise, were extravagantly so. In the plan they would not only be a friendly fence but also the backdrop to whatever future adventures we had in our tiny yard. The smaller and fuller of the four that we planted in the corner next to the climbing roses? …. Well, I had visions of decorating it for Christmas, complete with lights. A dream.

Trees are a commitment. With few exceptions, those we planted were small. Along with the dirt we filled in around each was the intent that they would grow along with us…which they did, some more heartily than others. As we added a family room and two children, the trees grew. We were both keeping our promises.

Not everything goes as planned.

The first to go were the birches. Felled by an unknown disease, we were saddened at the loss of old friends. Birches are supposed to live between 80 to 140 years. Only one remained and it became a treasured tree. It bends as birches do with the wind and the snow. I still do go out, much more slowly now, and shake the trunk and branches when they are burdened with the weight of snow. I’m sure that the neighbors think I’m a bit tetched. I have a baseball bat and a long one by one inch stick for my winter birch ministrations.

The little spruce in the corner began to lose its leaves until it was nothing more than a trunk with dead branches. We took it down. My Christmas dream never was fulfilled. I replaced it with a garden bench. Not the same thing at all.

The border spruces did well for many years, growing lush and tall. Then they didn’t. My husband wanted to cut them down several years ago, but, I, ever hopeful, persuaded him to hold off. Maybe they would heal themselves. They didn’t. This year, there were no arguments to protect what was left of those 40 plus year old commitments. They came down and only their memory on this page and a patch of lawn covered with straw where we’ve planted grass remains.

My garden has undergone many iterations, some planned, most not. I always warn those who enter the yard to watch out for the continuing battle among the invasive plants: Bishop’s weed, English Ivy, Aguga, lamium, ground ivy and stuff for which I have no name as yet are the interlopers which are a substantial part of one of my  borders.

There are other less delinquent examples. There is our crabapple tree along with the hearty growth from its root stock which produces regular size apples, the breathtaking dogwood, in flower right now, my rhodies, the Japanese maple that was my Dad’s and the honey suckle that defies trimming. There are astilbe, Echinacea, bleeding heart, hydrangeas, delphiniums, foxgloves and Shasta daisies. The deer seem to love the hostas. They don’t seem to like the pachysandra, salvia or the rhubarb.

And now from the girl who didn’t even know the name of her annuals …I have thyme, lavender, sage, basil, oregano, rosemary, parsley, dill, chives,  lemon balm, chocolate mint, peppermint, sweet woodruff and (don’t tell anyone) four morrell mushrooms. Roses?  This year? Six abundant, breathtakingly beautiful rose bushes, all climbers are running riot over the fences and trellises.

I am not able to be as present to my photosynthetic friends as I was once. While the weeds do get ahead of my energy, my garden populations are as much a commitment for me as the first trees. They are used to our soils, our waterings, our care and have a resilience of their own. One that passes through the generations.

My grandmother and mother were gardeners. I never paid much attention. I do think that the same could be said of myself and my daughter … and just like me, she has become a lover of gardening, collecting and building as the women in my family have done for at least three lifetimes. Last week I gave her some oregano and an African violet.

Once we were young with promises to keep to ourselves, to our home, to family and the future.  We planted, tilled, watered and lived those promises and still continue to enjoy the journey that is both small as our yard, as beautiful as the flowers, as strong as the trees and as great as their intent.