DarinLand: Growing a Green Thumb

I loved the house- the kitchen ceilings were ten feet high, some of the floors honey-colored oak, and I knew I could hang an old fashioned, latticed porch on the front with no problem. With a perfect view of the Pinals and a breeze which carried a faint scent of pine I knew I’d found the perfect house for me.

But the backyard was worse than barren: it was bereft. Void of life, empty of promise, a refuge for nothing. The earth was simple hardpan and ran red with mud when it rained, as it did that first monsoon season. The dogs tracked the mud into the house and onto newly installed industrial grey carpeting- my living room looked like a homicide scene. The back windows might just as well have overlooked the lunar surface.

Hector was called and he and his crew laid a flagstone patio, poured concrete for crumbling sidewalks and then, in a blur of motion, filled the yard with tons of multicolored gravel. While the view was now considerably improved it lacked that certain something. And because I have never been the gardener type, it took me two years to figure out what was missing. One morning I glanced out the back windows and said to myself, ‘Trees. I need trees and flowers’. My life hasn’t been the same since.

Mike at Golden Hills Nursery helped tremendously- he patiently explained that yes, I would have to actually water anything I put into the ground, and do so frequently. I knew this would interrupt my naptime, but the thought of swaying emerald leaves and splashy bits of color moved me into the kitchen, where I immediately brewed sixteen cups of coffee and got to work.

Globe doesn’t have the type of rich soil they have in, say, Kansas. What we have here is caliche, a quaint Spanish word which basically translates as visiting  your chiropractor once you’ve tried breaking ground and instead have thrown out your entire lumbar region. It is an unforgiving mixture of salt, clay and dirt. I would rather dig through solid steel- at least you’d eventually come to your senses and quit.

Ah, but the rewards. Four years later, there is now a lovely Mulberry tree, a gift from Ralph before he died. I put in a Pomegranate, an Ash… Ornamental Plum and Pear trees… an Almond tree, a Butterfly bush and when my pal Ronnie gave me a Rosemary plant I skipped and clapped my hands because it smelled so good. And- just to illustrate that I don’t discriminate- I have four Paradise trees, otherwise known as the ‘Scourge of the Southwest’. I love them- and have encouraged their growth in select, picturesque spots- because I like to break the rules. ‘Nature’s Bad Boy’, that’s me. So what if their roots rip out all of my plumbing- they are very pretty, they grow fast, and they provide a helluva lotta shade.

‘Not seeing the forest for the trees’ is supposed to be a bad thing- too much attention to detail- but if in fact the Devil is in the details, is nothing sacred? One plants, one waters and fertilizes and maybe even prays- and then a small gift from the Heavens opens its tiny leaves and basks in the mid-morning sun. I’d sob, if I was a crier, but I’m not and so I make more coffee and spray more water and thank God for such a lovely view. My fallow field has become fertile ground and my green thumb, with assistance, has given me a measure of joy and a sense of serenity.