Every week I run a Google News search for “Gardener + Arrested”. An unwritten journalistic law states that if a horticulturalist makes the news his profession must form part of the headline, e.g.; “Gardener Arrested in Midnight Raid” or “Pervert Gardener was Parkland Flasher”. Thus, with a simple two word search, I can check which of my former colleagues are currently working their way through the criminal justice system.
A pleasant upshot of this obsessive hobby is the exposure it brings to local police bulletins. Yesterday I read the crime reports from the San Jose Mercury for Thursday August the 7th and found:
“Terrace Drive, 7:22 a.m. Thursday, a female who found something brought it into the police station to find out what it was.”
“Trousdale Drive, 5:39 p.m. Thursday, a resident received a note from a neighbour containing threats directed at her gardener.”
“1525 Balboa Ave., 6:59 p.m. Thursday, a male got into an argument with a person whose dog urinated on his bike helmet.”
The threats towards a gardener, the bike helmet and the suburban nature of this report remind me of a novel I read years ago. The protagonist was a jobbing gardener who cycled around North London having run-ins with a threatening landscaping crew and getting into comic scrapes. It stuck with me because at the time of reading I myself was a jobbing gardener who cycled around South London, though I never really had any comic scrapes, I did dig up a liquefied dog in a plastic crate once, which you can make into good joke:
“My dogs sealed in an airtight box!”
“But then how does he smell?”
You can read all about my adventures as a bicycle gardener here. Having a documented history as a bicycle gardener I was interested to note that the vast majority of private gardening here in Bogota is carried out by bicycle gardeners. The traditional set up is something like this:
Note the strimmer strapped along the crossbar and the can of petrol on the back-pannier: this is no casual pot-fiddler. More impressive still are the mobile viveros selling pseudo-bonsai from a tricycle trailer as seen below:
I’ve decided not to join the ranks of the cycling horticulturalists out here, don’t want any “Gardener Squashed by Massive Lorry” headlines in the Bogota post.
The peony flowered camellias are opening in our North London garden, and as always they have set me on edge. One becomes emotionally entangled with certain plants, odd species that over the years come to carry strange sentimental heft. Each gardener will have their own unique gremlins, and these camellias are mine. The Daphnes and Witchhazel are also flowering, but these plants, though superior in many ways, never seem to punch me in the psychic gut the way the first overblown camellia buds of spring do.
Being intellectually tied to hybrid camellias for all eternity is a burden to me, because I can’t stand the bloody things. The flowers are far too big and after the sombre refinement of winter they crash like sunlight on hung-over eyes. Give me snowdrops, give me viburnum – just ease me gently into spring. They also rot in the bud and brown so quickly that before they fully open they resemble a corsage of six-week old salad.
But there are plenty of overbred plants I’m on not keen on; why then the camellia connection? I think it’s all to do with the corpusamygdaloideum, that little pear-drop sized piece of temporal lobe that processes memory and emotional reactions. To put it in Wikipedia speak: “sensory stimuli (read glimpses of camellia) reach the basolateral complexes of the amygdalae, particularly the lateral nuclei, where they form associations with memories of the stimuli.” So when I see this plant I am synapticly hijacked, routed unthinkingly to a group of memories which manifest themselves as the punch in the psychic gut, the sentimental heft.
So what are these semi-repressed camellia flashbacks that bestride my every spring? Well….
There was a large hybrid camellia in the garden of the house I grew up in. It was hollow in the way that most large shrubs are (leaves on the outside, branches on the inside and all that), but being the only mature shrub in a garden filled with single stemmed trees and mono-dimensional herbaceous material, it seemed the platonic ideal of a den – a properly interactive bit of garden you could get inside. Which is what we did: it became the base of the Dark siblings.
Each year it would flower heavily – no doubt a stress reaction to all the small children arsing about in its innards – and we would collect the many petals of the huge double pink flowers to make potions. One summer we decided to make perfume and so we filled a tub with the petals, mashed them up with a stick and left to mature into eau de wonderful.
After a while it became obvious that even our mother, who always happily endured badly whittled sticks and painted rocks as birthday presents, would never so much as pretend to wear the foul gunk we had created, and so the perfume became a poison.
We added whatever we could from wherever we found it; wasp killer from inside the shed, a dead pigeon from on top of the shed, petrol, grass clipping and lots of wee. The mix was stirred and topped up all summer before we decided to tip it down the drive. The gunk was of the first order of foulness, a stench that will live forever in my nostrils. Who’d have thought that camellia blossom, rotting flesh and urine could smell so bad?
My second camellia memory is from the first garden I ever got paid to work in. My primary task one frigid February morning was to clear up the fallen blooms of a towering peony-flowered camellia that had been hit by sudden frost and persistent rain. I had not brought any gloves with me, and was too green and timid to ask the homeowner for some. I can still feel the sensation of plunging my bare fingers into that brown freezing mess of decaying petals.
Given my growing negative links with the hybrid camellia, one would think that I would choose to stay away from them. Instead, in an inspired piece of self-sabotage, I chose to bond myself with them forever. When I decided to become a professional jobbing gardener I designed some flyers. They were fine things with a facsimile of a Dürer woodcut, some copy about being a student of the horticultural arts, a photo of me looking charming and non-threatening and another picture: a picture of a hybrid camellia.
I had panicked: I needed a picture of a plant to remind potential clients what gardeners do and had run into the garden and snapped the first one I found. I got 5000 flyers printed. 5000 times I saw that camellia disappear into letterboxes and 5000 times I worried that the occupant would never phone me, that I had made the wrong choice and that I never should have given up my job. 5000 individual moments of horrible self-doubt all auto-associated with that one blancmange pink camellia flower.
So if while we walk in the winter garden you hear me quietly cursing, do not me think me mad. It’s just those flowers over there – they’re in my brain talking to me of cold slime, rejection and rotting pigeon.
Gosh, well if you read all of that you deserve a reward – here’s a song about falling in love with a cactus.