I sketch, play a little guitar, write.
But once I had a nice little 1910’s craftsman cottage on a big corner lot. It consisted of a big boring lawn, one lone Norfolk pine, and an old detached wooden garage in the back when I moved in. Soon, I put in winding walkways paved with old, worn, red brick. I only planted flora that would either give fruit or color. I built a large, comfortably furnished, lattice gazebo with a ceiling fan and a home-made brick oven and grille between the house and garage under my huge mango tree, (my first). Within a couple of years, the gazebo became covered with a three kinds of bougainvillea: bright red, fuchsia, and an orangey-yellow. Weird, but it really worked. Huge bougainvillea.
Within a few years, I had a beautiful garden of 17 fruit and nut trees, including Mango, Clementine, Tangerine, Loquat, Kumquat, Papaya, Guava, Pecan, Peach, Banana and Plantain. They provided badly needed shade and privacy in the harsh Florida sun and among the usual nosy neighbors. There were bougainvillea archways along the walks and the surrounding picket fence. Passion flowers, gardenias, hibiscii in a variety of colors, birds of paradise, blue hydrangea—the place was an explosion of greens and yellows, reds and blues, and fruity perfume throughout the year. The trees provided shade for the flowers, the flowers provided shade for the ground cover, and the ground cover ensured that I would not have to mow much lawn in the hot Florida sun. Birds and butterflies showed up.
I created a garden that I had envisioned when I was still in grade school. I daydreamed of this while working on ships in the Baltic Sea. I partially grew up in Florida and I knew what would grow, what to do. I didn’t listen to old codgers who insisted that if I put in fruit trees, I would soon have fruit rats. Never happened. It was just another excuse for these old snow birds to have their sterile, easily maintained yards, I guess.
But this garden became my work of art. Works like this—live works—are never really finished as there is always something to add, take away, change. And it grows and dies and changes all by itself.
It is now being lovingly tended by my good friend and ex-wife. When I’m in town, I sometimes drive by slowly and check it out. We sometimes have coffee and small pastries together in the afternoon like we used to. A couple of times a year I join her as has our mutual friends over to eat stone crab or cook steaks under the gazebo and I can enjoy precisely the purpose of this little place.
Today there is very little to hinder me from making my whole existence a work of art, but must admit that I miss a nice garden with the soil and climate conducive to growing almost anything. I miss creating a storybook adventure of winding covered walks with all the color and smells, but I’ve realized since those days that the garden is only the physical, outer manifestation of the real deal—that which is happening inside.