Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (5 page)

Like a concert pianist concluding the second movement of a flawless performance, Giles Owita lifted his hands from the leafy depths of the second azalea. As if on cue, a dull gray station wagon poked its dusty nose over the crest of Mount Vernon Road. It proceeded down the gentle grade in its usual painstaking way and the brake lights flashed repeatedly as if the vehicle’s shock absorbers were being tested.

Oh, my God. Not him,
I thought.

“Don’t forget about that third azalea,” I prompted desperately, hoping to keep Giles Owita from noticing the dusty car and its irascible driver.

It was someone we all knew well and watched out for, the Reverend Gerald Jacks, a longtime widower. He was a Lutheran minister, retired, a neighbor from two streets over. His children, who lived away, had crept cautiously into town to give him a lavish eightieth birthday party several years ago, and then headed back to the West Coast, where they seemed to be hiding
out. Their reticence was understandable, their father being one of those intimidating people who seemed destined to hold his power to the grave. His thatch of white hair took the shape of flames licking up from the pit of hell, and no one in the neighborhood had ever seen him without his thick black glasses. They magnified his unruly salt-and-pepper eyebrows and emphasized the harshness of his pale blue, peering eyes.

As the dusty station wagon crept along, the Reverend Jacks made a point to leer at Giles Owita. This rudeness happened just as I knew it would, and I felt responsible and helpless, all at once. Yet given how he’d responded to a similar insult from his manager at the grocery store, I wasn’t surprised when Giles Owita turned the other cheek with a respectful nod.

“He must be a relative of your boss at the supermarket,” I quipped halfheartedly. I noticed that Giles Owita’s eyes held a twinkle in response.

Reverend Jacks had truly tested my patience over the years. When our older son, Chad, was learning to drive, he was merciless in riding Chad’s bumper or tooting the horn to point out any small mistake. Far more unforgivable, he became the only person in the neighborhood who cast a menacing eye toward Phil’s young basketball teammates, especially those of color.

“Could you believe that when a pair of hedge clippers went missing from that man’s garage, the reverend called our house and asked me if any of Phil’s ‘colored’ friends had been around that afternoon?”

“Yes. I could believe,” Giles Owita answered calmly.

“I gave Reverend Jacks a piece of my mind, with no holding back,” I continued. “I called him a racist and a sinner, and asked him what on earth anyone would want with his rusty clippers. Later on, he found the clippers in the shrubbery, where he himself had left them when the sun became too much for him.”

Giles Owita clucked his tongue.

“At least he called to let us know,” I said as Giles Owita turned back to his work. “Perhaps I should give him credit for that. Growing old is an accomplishment, as you have said.”

“It is more difficult to contain our hurts when others are affected,” Giles Owita observed. “We are prone to speak out on their behalf, as you did for me, that evening at the store. That is a good thing, I believe. I certainly appreciated it, and told my wife about it. Such times can be lonely. There are times when no one is assumed to be a friend.”

“You must have had to confront that kind of bigoted, disrespectful treatment more than I can possibly imagine,” I said.

He gave a gentle shrug. “Most people are very nice, and the ones who aren’t, you can tell from the first time you meet them.”

At last he put the finishing touches on the third azalea. Then he pulled a white protective mask from the pocket of his work suit and slipped it on. His eyes shone brightly as he motioned that, for safety’s sake, I should step away. With Rhudy, I retreated to the top of the slight incline where I was content to sit on the grass, a safe distance away from where Giles Owita sprayed his chemicals. It amazed me the way he’d managed to find fulfillment in a world far removed from everything he most
likely knew and loved as a boy. It was odd, but sitting in the grass in my own front yard, I felt a bit transported, too. My various lists seemed less important. What I needed was patience.

I tipped my face to the sky and breathed in deeply. Maybe it wasn’t just an excuse that Dick and I had been too busy with other things—such as raising our children and helping our parents—to care for our yard. Maybe we weren’t so awfully lazy as I not-so-secretly feared. Perhaps we were worthy people who were just a little scatterbrained. Perfect or not, in its present state, this tiny green slice of longitude and latitude was meant to be ours and had potential for beauty.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late.

I hadn’t thought so optimistically in a while.

My gaze fell on a single, promising blade of grass. Giles Owita was only slightly out of focus in the background. Maybe it truly was part of his mission in life, to work on each and every plant he encountered and make it healthier. And maybe that wasn’t so absurd.

What if this elegant Kenyan man with his knack for flowers was part of a larger plan for God’s work in the world? Would I dare to thwart that effort?

It was a stunning and sweepingly illogical line of thought. As I stood up to brush off my jeans, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the living room window. I looked pale, from overthinking things, most likely.
Get a grip,
I told myself. A man was working in our yard. He was interesting, thoughtful, pleasant to be with. I had made a point to show him respect. That was all.

After the promised tour of the yard, which turned out to be brief, Giles Owita and I agreed to let the azaleas bloom before discussing their fate again. Also, we planned to leave any notes for each other in the letter slot where he’d left his very first note to me. In parting, he promised to check his schedule regarding the pruning of my river birch.

But there was one more thing we needed to discuss, something that needed to be resolved. I turned to him. “Would you please call me Carol? Mrs. Wall sounds so formal.”

“You would prefer that?”

“I would, truly. You can call me Carol, and I will call you Giles.”

Giles smiled and looked past me, and in that moment I realized that he would never call me Carol, the same way he would never look me directly in the eye. The same way I would never strip myself naked and walk down the middle of our street. Such things just weren’t done in our cultures. Still, I hoped to convince him one day.

“
Erokamano
, Giles,” I said to him as we stood on the sidewalk in front of my house. “I have been practicing the pronunciation.”

“
Wabironenore
, Mrs. Wall,” he answered, and then turned to walk uphill to his car.

I went inside to my kitchen counter. I looked at the marble notebook and did my best to hold my breathing steady. From the windowsill, a small color photo of my sister Barbara smiled
sweetly out at me. My nails were squeaky clean, but nonetheless I washed my hands, using a brush with stiff bristles to attack any grit or dirt that might have made its way into a crevice of my skin or underneath my nails.

I dried my hands on a clean paper towel and found a magic marker.
GARDEN NOTES
,
I wrote on my marble notebook. I had much to learn from Giles, and I promised myself that I would write it all down so that I couldn’t possibly forget.

MONDAY

Dear Giles,

I hope you and your family have had a good weekend. I hate to make this type of request again, but could you possibly arrange to come for pruning of the river birch at a time when I can be present? If my van is in the driveway, just ring the bell. Or, if you know ahead of time, leave me a note here, per our agreement. I’m a little unsure of the shape I want and the degree to which I should curb the growth of that particular tree, so I hope it’s okay if I guide you in-progress. The librarian at school is helping me find a book on the subject, as I hesitate to approach Melanie or Sarah with requests for advice. As you know, it’s their busy season. I neglected to tell you that, long ago and with a rare burst of gardening enthusiasm, I planted the river birch myself. It was just after we moved into the house, a time when the tree was barely taller than the children. But, like my children, it has grown
quickly, taking to the skies more or less without my permission, though I’m glad to see its roots have apparently sunk in deep beside this creek, where it seems to thrive.

I must admit the azaleas look better already. Sarah and I strolled around to the side of the house yesterday afternoon, and we were able to see the tips of their pink buds showing through the leaves. You’ll be glad to know that she encouraged me to listen to your advice, on all fronts, as you are “the best,” as she put it.

My prayers for Lok continue. Please always let me know if there is any news. Thank you for all your efforts, and be sure to leave your bill, from time to time. I look forward to working with you again soon.

Sincerely,

Carol Wall

WEDNESDAY

Dear Mrs. Wall,

My calendar is clear on Friday. Bienta and I have some business matters to attend to in the a.m., but I will check by your house after your school hours and will bring the appropriate tools.

Lok’s case appeared to be nearing a breakthrough recently, but last evening’s phone call from Bienta’s sister in Nairobi (it was after midnight there) brought news of yet more entanglements with medical examinations, affidavits, and other paperwork. After so long a time has passed, some of the materials lapse out of date, and the process must be started again, with more funds due
and waiting periods in effect. I am sorry to tell you that there can be corruption anywhere on the globe, and persons who are highly placed are often subject to temptation. A travel visa to the US is much coveted. Sometimes, even DNA tests are required to establish the applicant’s identity. We are in the midst of that process.

In any case, Bienta and I thank you for your prayers. She has always been very devout, and insists that, in any circumstance, prayers are needed even more than patience, more than funds, signatures, sworn statements, or anything whatsoever that a government run by human beings might be able to produce. As we “wait in joyful hope” for our daughter, I look forward to the pleasure of finding the best lines of your beautiful birch tree in among the overflourishing branches and copious leaves it has produced during the years of your children’s growing up. That day of cutting back will produce a clearer shape that will bring its own rewards. I will submit my first bill after that.

In closing, let me say that I am going to bring an extra pair of gardening gloves on Friday. Oftentimes, assistance is needed with larger garden projects, and I was delighted to hear that you will be on hand to help.

With best wishes,

Giles Owita

A
gentle breeze sifted through the branches of my backyard birch tree. Giles stood beside me, managing to look both serious and cheerful. His left hand grasped a pruning saw and pruning shears. I held out a clothbound book.

“Betula nigra
is occasionally called a river birch,”
I read aloud.
“The tree is native to an area spanning most parts of the eastern United States . . . from New Hampshire west to southern Minnesota, and south to northern Florida and West Texas. It often grows to eighty feet, with multiple trunks. After pruning, scaffold branches should look like ascending spokes around a central axle.”
I turned the book toward Giles, to show him the picture. He nodded respectfully, to indicate he took it in. “
This will provide a structurally strong tree that is attractive, balanced, and allows sunlight to penetrate and wind to pass through the
canopy. To ensure strength, major scaffold branches should have at least eight inches and preferably twenty inches of vertical separation
. Should I get a yardstick, Giles? I have one in the house.”

He didn’t answer right away. I heard the whistling wind and birdsong, the flapping wings of a red hawk soaring high above the burbling creek. I wondered if Giles appreciated the information I was sharing with him. I hadn’t meant to come across as arrogant or heavy-handed. It’s just that, working together, I thought we could achieve the best result.

“This tree is a fine example of a popular type of birch that likes to get its feet wet,” Giles finally answered. “I have pruned the species before, and will not need a yardstick.”

“Don’t let me interfere.” I closed the landscaping book. Apparently, Giles saw this as his prompt to get down to business. He took two giant, backward steps, his face reflecting concentrated energy, and I realized with horror that he was planning to climb the tree. I called out to him, “Don’t you need a ladder, Giles?”

He sprinted past me, a streak of energy advancing toward the tree. He pushed himself off with one foot, and as I watched him rise, I was amazed that a person of his age could be so nimble, strong, and fearless. The branches shuddered as he found a place within. His tennis shoes scraped the bark until they settled on the first of the substantial horizontal limbs, about six feet from the ground. From there, he climbed until he disappeared into the canopy of leaves. Aware that I had absolutely nothing to contribute to this endeavor, I retreated to the asphalt pad that
made up our basketball court, and pulled out a black metal lawn chair to sit in. I couldn’t see Giles, but I could hear him working and see the shaking of the leaves.

I set my book aside. My gaze fell on a brand-new pair of dark green garden gloves that Giles had taken from his pocket when he arrived (although I’d prayed he would forget). They lay on top of his folded gray sweatshirt, in the shadow of the birch tree, exactly where he had placed them with what seemed a careful glance in my direction.

A ripple of annoyance passed over me. He brought them, but then gave no explanation. I walked closer and confirmed my initial impression: two green cotton gloves that were bulky and too large for me. I studied them. My mouth went dry. I hoped he didn’t intend for me to dig in the dirt. The very thought of it made me queasy. I could have simply asked Giles what he meant by needing my “assistance.” But I sensed I’d pressed the limits by reading to him from the book.

The leaves that shielded Giles shivered. “Are you okay, Mrs. Wall?”

Rhudy tilted his snout up and barked to let me know that he was on the job. I scrambled back to get my book. “Are you about to make your cut?”

“I will await instruction,” he said.

I pictured him hanging precariously by one arm, one foot propped against a sturdy limb and the pruning saw poised for action. I needed to hurry. “Here it says you don’t cut flush against the tree when pruning,” I called up to him.

“Okay.”

“You’re supposed to leave an angle, which I thought was interesting. I wish you could see this picture. It shows why you don’t want it to be flat, because disease and weeping can result from the way it used to be done, in the old days. Flat against the limb, that is. We don’t want that.”

“Very good,” Giles said. “It’s very true.”

I heard the sound of sawing and pictured sunlight flashing on the steely blade.

“Giles, how long have you been working with plants?” I was surprised to realize I hadn’t asked him this before.

The sawing stopped.

“I have loved them ever since I can remember. Especially the flowers.” His voice was soft, yet vibrant with feeling.

“Do you have the river birch in Kenya?”

“There have been cultivars from other lands. But they are not native.”

I felt my cheeks grow red with embarrassment, and the tiniest suspicion that I had made a mistake in thinking that Giles needed my help in pruning the tree properly. I skipped to another page I’d marked. It showed a row of inkberry hollies intermingled with some rhododendron, planted in an interesting design at the base of a traditional brick house like ours. Azaleas played no role in the design.

Perhaps I just needed to modernize Giles’s perspective on azaleas. I called up to him, “Don’t you think certain plants go in and out of style?”

There was no reply, and I wondered if he’d heard me. Just as I was about to repeat myself, the pages of my landscaping book were ravaged by the wind. My fingers grasped the cover tightly so it wouldn’t be blown away. The sheets whipped forward in quick succession, right to left, as if a nervous ghost were turning them. To gain control, I held the volume to my chest and planted my feet more firmly. Then my gaze fell again to the extra pair of garden gloves, whose lifeless fingers curved suggestively as if, like me, they’d heard a rumor of some unnamed task ahead and wanted to be prepared.

Giles’s own gloves were a chestnut brown. He had produced them from the pocket of his navy work suit just before he leaped into the tree. Now, as I stood watching, one of Giles’s gloves somersaulted past lime-green leaves with silver undersides that seemed alive. The glove tumbled quickly past the slender branches with their scrolling, vanilla-colored bark and the tawny, paper-like curls along the triple trunk. It landed among the blades of grass where our children used to have their summer picnics. I rushed to pick it up.

“Please stand back,” Giles said, his voice unusually firm. I closed my garden book with a resonant snapping sound and scurried across the grass to the basketball court, where my metal lawn chair waited. Rhudy, too, backed off, as if he understood the warning. I heard more sawing, and the first branch landed some twelve or fifteen feet away from where I sat. It was about the length of a golf club, but thicker in diameter, with a smaller branch and fluttering leaves attached to make a lopsided V.

“Rhudy, can you see the sky?” Giles inquired, clearly pleased.

A triangle of bright blue showed through the airy space that Giles had just created. The lime-green splendor of the leaves was even more pronounced against the turquoise of the cloudless sky.

“That’s absolutely beautiful,” I said.

“Now this lovely tree can breathe,” Giles said, with obvious pleasure.

“That goes for all of us.” Only in that moment did I realize how coiled and ready I’d been for disaster, how truly uncertain I had been that Giles knew what he was doing and wouldn’t come tumbling out of that tree like his work glove. I heard Giles sawing again, and another branch of similar size to the first rattled down. It cut a second elegant swath of blue near the top of the birch.

Then an answer came to me regarding the mystery of the dark green gloves. Giles probably wanted me to join him in picking up debris afterward. Relieved that no digging would be involved, I scooped a few small twigs from the ground and started a pile. A short while later, Giles landed on his feet with expert poise. I retreated to the kitchen to get him a bottle of water from the fridge. From this higher vantage point I gained a full perspective on the transformation of my tree. Where once there was merely a short white triple trunk with a shapeless expanse of green on top, I now saw leaves and branches; limbs that reached for the sky. A blue jay perching on one of the higher branches greeted me with his shiny eyes. A pair of crimson
cardinals swooped in just below, as if to say, “Where have you been?” Giles’s masterful pruning also yielded clearer glimpses of sunlight dancing on the churning creek. Against the backdrop of these improvements, I was surprised to notice Giles making quick work of the clean-up job that I thought was going to be mine. At the rate he was going, he’d be finished picking up debris and clearing the space before I could get out there. Dick had always chastised me for delaying workers around the house, keeping them talking when they were on the clock. It suddenly occurred to me that Giles was probably in a hurry and had a schedule to keep—visits to other yards, or maybe his shift at the grocery store. Not for the first time, it struck me how exhausted he must be. I grabbed my checkbook and headed out to the yard with the bottle of water.

There was a lightness in my step as I walked toward Giles, but my sense of joy was short-lived. As I handed him the bottle, he extended the dark green gloves to me.

“But, you’ve already cleaned up, and made quick work of it!” I protested. “The yard looks great.”

“But there is one more thing we need to do,” Giles said.

He picked up the shovel he’d propped against our fence and made a few preliminary stabs into the sparsely growing grass along a very empty, eight-foot area beside the pickets.

“What on earth are you doing, Giles?”

“We’re going to make a flower bed,” he said. His blade chopped away at the ground. “There is good news. I have some specimens found in another client’s small greenhouse. She of
fered them to me, because she has so many things, and I told her, ‘I know a very nice lady who may want them.’ They are annuals, so if you don’t like them, leave them in the ground and they will not come back next year. Their colors are deep red, with some blooms being purple, and another species, yellow. That wouldn’t be too many colors, would it? I could bring them to your yard when the danger of frost has passed, in mid-May, installing them while you are at school, if you like, and you could just return home to the beauty. But for now, we should prepare the soil. It’s why you need your gloves.” The whole time Giles talked, he dug away at the ground with rhythmic cuts. Then he stopped, and in his inimitable way he looked at me without actually looking at me. Although his face was as still and unreadable as always, there was an unmistakable twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Will you help me get it ready, Mrs. Wall? After all, it is
your yard.”

I desperately wanted to be able to twinkle back at him, a silent acknowledgment of our tug-of-war over the azaleas and my lecturing to him from the garden book that he so clearly didn’t need. But instead, I struggled to maintain a pleasant expression. A familiar feeling of dread sank like a stone in my stomach—and in my heart. I turned around to face the creek, grasping the fence pickets until my knuckles turned white. I hoped that Giles wouldn’t notice my distress at the mere thought of joining in with his project. It amazed me how he didn’t seem troubled in the least by any sad thoughts of the way his blooms would inevitably turn brown in spite of his best efforts. I so wanted Giles to
think well of me, and I wondered how I could possibly explain to him that what he loved so much filled me with horror. How could I tell him that I couldn’t abide the feel of dirt beneath my fingernails, or even weighing heavily on a damp garden glove? He would think I was crazy if I confessed how repelled I was at the idea of a flower garden planted in the yard that collared our cozy house. I shuddered, imagining petals falling away in advance of the winter that was always on its way.

Instead of making my confession, I told myself that Giles was just a person working in my yard, or, at best, a casual friend who didn’t need to hear my complicated family history.

“I don’t like dirt around my fingernails,” I said. “And gardening gloves make me feel clumsy. Is that so hard to understand?” I realized with embarrassment that despite my best intentions my voice had grown testy, with a sharp edge. But I couldn’t stop myself once started. “This was a basketball court for my children. It’s not a place for a garden.”

Giles glanced around as if weighing our options. “I’ll space the flowers out. The clusters will be beautiful, not overwhelming. The basketball stays in the garage these days, as far as I can tell. So our problem there is solved.”

That marked the end my patience. “No, Giles!” I burst out. My voice was now angry. Then, as if to prove to both of us that I had no business employing anybody, I said, “We’re willing to increase your pay.” I truly was a ridiculous woman, I thought to myself—bribing my own gardener not to do his work.

Giles’s face registered my panic and he trained his gaze on a
point very near my face. It was the closest he had ever come to looking me in the eye. “Don’t worry,” he said, a little twinkle of humor returning to his face. “A riotous blend of flowers is not required.” Then his expression grew brighter, as if an idea had just occurred to him. “We will plant some shrubs, though not azaleas.”

I looked at Giles and then up through the canopy of what was now a well-pruned birch tree. I had not realized the extent to which the leafy tree had bathed our yard in shadow. Things looked more cheerful with the brighter light pouring in. Even Rhudy seemed delighted. He celebrated by running circles around the tree. Giles bent down to pet him.

“Rhudy, I see you are a gardener, too,” he said, pointing to a hole Rhudy had managed to dig near the base of the tree while we were otherwise occupied. I thought about Giles’s stubborn resistance on the subject of removing the azaleas last week, and his patience today while I was holding forth on the instructions for trimming the birch tree. At times, Giles seemed to meditate before taking action, but once a decision had been made, it didn’t take him long to act. His intuition seemed to guide him in important matters.