My gardens are full of tributes to the women who have helped shape the woman I am. Lovers of flowers, all, their beauty nods at me as I walk the corners and borders of our yard.
I created most of the garden spaces almost sixty years ago when Bill and I first tackled this hillside we made from the soil we dug out of the swampy low land. In fact, the basement of our house was constructed on top of the rise, then, as we dug out the small stream to drain the land, the hillside was made of that dirt until it reached what would become the main floor of the house. And the tiny stream and the swampy land became “Gaithers’ Pond” and the creek.
A lot of the soil we dug out was clay, so making gardens of it was a long-term project. It has taken years of adding sand and humus, leaves and peat moss and manure to the clay to make it flower-friendly.
But gradually, and with a lot of hard work, I began to plant the “starts” other gardeners gave me. Most of the plants were perennials, but there were seeds, too, from hollyhocks, sunflowers, Rose of Sharons, echinacea, and morning glories. And then, too, there were bits of wise advise, especially about how to conquer the stubborn chemistry and consistency of Indiana clay.
Meanwhile, Bill was planting trees. Some were spindly shoots of silver maples and sycamores that he and his grandpa Grover rescued from the jaws of the backhoe. Others were the young arbor vitae we ordered from Indiana Department of Conservation to plant as a hedge along our property line. And Bill, bless him, was determined to give me some of the white pine, scotch pine, and spruces I so loved about my native Michigan, as well as a trio of white paper birch.
That was the beginning. Now, these decades later, we live in a woods that we planted, with a yard full of flower gardens, now added to and maintained by Dawn who does the work of enhancing and maintaining the gardens. Dawn was once the accountant at Gaither Music Company, then retired from there and took up garden design; she now works her magic on all our garden spaces.
Come walk with me, and I will show you what I see. First, my mother is everywhere. She divided the tubers of her blue, yellow, and peach irises, and gave me starts of them that to this day dazzle my gardens with color. She dug up those irises every time she and daddy moved until he finally said those roots stayed in a constant knot just waiting to hop into a bucket to go to the next place.
And then there are the Michigan bluebells mother brought to Indiana from various Michigan woods that she planted in the border behind the garden swing and all around the water pump at our log cabin. When she died, those who knew her love for “diggin’ in the dirt” sent gift certificates to flower nurseries with which we created “Dorothy’s Garden” at the corner of Hanna Street and Highway 9.
Bill’s mother Lela is the reason for the tall zinnias of hot pink, orange, yellow, a green along the west side of the front porch. She always insisted George plant rows of them in the vegetable garden. Green beans, peppers, and tomatoes for the body; zinnias for the soul.
My Grandmother Sickal was legally blind, but loved flowers, and up close was able to see the bright colors of gladioluses, marigolds, and zinnias. She also loved the clove fragrance of carnations and pinks, and grew them around her fieldstone porch. She took bouquets of her bright blossoms to display on the altar table at her small holiness church. As she cut them, she would hold the blossoms close to her eyes and marvel at what God had made. Her “glads” are there in my cutting garden at the bottom of the hill by the wisteria trellis.
It was my sweet sister Evelyn that loved nothing more than our spring and fall expeditions to buy geraniums, petunias, and begonias in the spring and chrysanthemums in the fall to fill in all the spaces between the perennials like purple coneflowers, daylilies, black-eyed Susans and Russian sage. Because I loved Evelyn so, you will find all of these flowers somewhere in gardens.
My love for hostas came both from my other grandmother Margaret Effie Boster and from Bill’s grandma Blanche Gaither. Blanche would much rather be outside working, than being inside doing housework—picking cherries, feeding the chickens and cows—anything but housework. Her hostas lined the drive along the lilacs. She also gave me starts of what she called a sweet pea tree. Those still bloom beside the swing set on which two generations of children have played.
My Grandma Boster kept her lawn neat, and hostas fit the bill. She, too, loved working outside. On the Saturday before she died, she took a butcher knife and dug up the dandelions from her yard to cook for greens, then scrubbed the porch. Sunday morning she put on a roast to cook with potatoes and carrots and went to church. When she got home, she fixed dinner, washed the dishes, took off her apron, folded it neatly and lay down to rest...and went straight to Jesus. So my hostas remind me every day that a job is to be finished, and that it’s okay to “rather be outside”. I have a whole garden of hostas!
I love the flowers, but they are much more than flowers to me. Almost everything in my flower gardens are reminders of the strong, tender, intelligent, enduring, and Godly women who shaped me, taught me, pushed me, and encouraged me. And there they are—do you see them? They are the flowers in my gardens.
