Many of the plants that make up Kristin van Ogtrop’s garden are an expression of love, she wrote in her May 30 op-ed, “The ghosts in my garden keep on giving, year after year.”
“My mother started it. Soon after we bought the house, she began showing up for every visit with plants in the back of her car. They were things she had dug up from her own beds so I could plant them in mine. She was helping us save money, yes, but the plant sharing was an expression of love, an unspoken lesson in perennial connection.”
Her essay resonated with readers, some of whom shared in the comments the stories of the connections in their own gardens.
Here is what they had to say. (Comments have been edited for brevity, clarity and style.)
sky is cryin: I plant plants as memories in my garden, and it helps me honor beloved departed. Grandma’s bleeding harts, Kathy’s loropetalum, Grace’s peonies, and on and on. These plants are the avatars of their namesakes to me and they bring me peace and comfort of life after death. “The ghosts in my garden keep on giving, year after year” is a fitting op-ed to remember all of those whom we have loved and learned from in keeping and spending time with plants. Beautiful op-ed!
nicolanelson: I have irises that go back, I’m sure, to at least my great-grandmother’s home in Illinois. They are unruly and take over every flower bed but bloom every spring in our Utah desert. My mother and I had a tense relationship, but her love of gardening was the best legacy she could ever have left me. Planting — and weeding — is my way of meditating on the tenacity of life.
green_lantern: What a beautiful article! I inherited my mother’s garden and this describes the continuity of emotions perfectly. I’ve added more native plants and substituted them for invasives (some of which I helped plant as a teen, LOL). There are now more pollinators and more wildlife because of it. I hope that my children will think of me when they see these “ghosts” visit the garden in future years.
hooter55: Nature and nurture are alike in ways far beyond simple spelling. I have long been an amateur, natural gardener. I plant things in no real order but, that taken as a whole, offer surprise days of beauty throughout the year; more like a journey than a destination. I use no chemicals, which means I spend a lot of time picking weeds. But after suffering the loss of a beloved daughter, gardening, even picking weeds, has become a sanctuary. I don’t have to think; I just do.
Lori Samuelson: My grandmother kept aloe on her sun porch in northern Indiana when I was a child, bringing it indoors every fall. When she relocated to Florida 50 years ago, she brought it with her. After buying my first home there, she gave me some, which I planted outdoors. It thrived and spread in the shade. With every house move, I’ve dug some up and replanted it in my new yard. The offspring have soothed sunburns, cooking burns and itches my entire life. I’ve shared with other family members who have also been soothed by grandma’s aloe, even though she passed in 1985. Last August, we relocated back to northern Indiana and some of the aloe returned “home.” Like Grandma, it’s in my front entry greeting visitors, a silent sentinel waiting to be called to service.
Atnini: I cherish a plant given to me by my brother more than 40 years ago. A night blooming ceurus, to be precise. He’s been gone almost 20 years, so it means so much to have this reminder of his love for life and unique presence when ever I go into my garden.
R3: Each year the rhubarb from my late mother’s place still produces enough to give us a springtime rhubarb and strawberry pie, and her white peony plant never fails to give us a showcase display. I have ferns from my mother-in-law. Certain plants even have names and their own personalities, both good and bad.
PTC123: Thank you for this lovely piece! It takes me back to my grandmother’s garden. She was a woman who could grow anything and propagated azaleas and rhododendrons in a glass greenhouse that was my idea of heaven, even as a small child. I remember going out and collecting plants from her garden when I was starting out — such treasures!
Today, I am more of a vegetable and herb gardener, and my way of connecting to friends and family is to imagine the sweet potatoes or blueberries, or green beans, or potatoes, etc, all gracing the Thanksgiving table when family is home: the cherry pies one son loves, the Belgian-style mashed potatoes that my daughter-in-law makes.
Gardening, no matter your style, is such an act of love and hope and joy. Keep on gardening!
pennycyn: Every time I pass my hardy gardenia, I think of my neighbor Judy, from another town and now deceased, who gave it to me and would be so jealous of how well it has done (no thanks to my efforts). Did she know she was dying? I remember being puzzled at the time that she gifted it to me. She was the superior gardener, so if she couldn’t keep them alive what were my chances?
I see the hydrangea from a neighbor at another home. (It still hasn’t bloomed but I leave it there next to the one that does, just in case.)
Capybara Spirit: Thanks for capturing the joy of sharing garden delights. Nothing makes me happier than sharing plants with new gardeners and having them tell me years later how their black-eyed susans, echinacea or other adopted perennials are flourishing. Gifts that keep on giving!
During my Houston childhood, I cut back my mother’s cherished clematis too harshly, forgetting it was not a climbing weed. When we moved to our current Rockville home, I planted a beautiful magenta clematis to honor my mother. Every Mother’s Day, it graces the garden and her memory with dozens of blooms.
Gulfgirl: This is wonderful. Sometimes the things we keep from people we love that mean the most turn out to be a big surprise. I also find plants become a living, breathing memory. Dorothy’s rose bush she gave to us when her yard became too shaded. Bob’s daylilies he divided. My father’s African violets and clivia make me think of him each time I see them.
I feel the same way about the food-stained recipe cards in the hand of someone I love. The food I make from them brings them alive again.
I remember Paul McCartney speaking about a tree he transplanted from the garden of George Harrison — an avid gardener. Every time he walked past the tree he said, “Hi, George.”
Joanne: Although my dad passed three years ago, I see and feel him in every corner of my garden. He helped me plant trees, build a brick wall and paver path, weeded, mowed and rested in the garden every time he visited. His ghost lives on with me outside in our garden! Thanks for your wonderful article.
Doormouse: As a home-care nurse, I occasionally got thinned-out perennials or seeds from a patient’s garden. They enjoyed the garden talk and sharing. A few patients were on hospice or had passed away. One day I arrived at the office to find a coffee can full of seeds for a beautiful perennial flower, from a patient’s wife. He passed away the month before, and she remembered our chat about the flower. His wife wrote a lovely personal note with the can. I planted these along with the many others over the years. I remember each patient and family, some still living and some gone. That was more than 20 years ago, when I bought my first little home. Many of the plants are still growing, and I’ve shared them with friends over the years.
MiddleCK: I, too, am a collector of shared plants. I have several from my grandmother’s garden: her clematis that grew by her kitchen window; an old-fashioned white snowball hydrangea from the front of her house; a peony that she received from her friend; an old rose that her grandmother grew (she called it the Grandma Rose); and her hollyhocks that grow everywhere except where you plant them. I have a bearded iris from a former co-worker (a lovely older lady from England who took pity on my new house with no garden). My garden also has gifted rhubarb, day lilies, phlox and hostas. These aren’t plants; they are friends of my family.
justworld1: This is a beautiful reflection on the layered meanings of gardening. Gardening is full of connections to nature and people! It’s also about learning. In my area, Pachysandra is an invasive, nonnative plant. It crowds out native plants that support our pollinators. There was a time when I would have considered this plant as a solution to a garden problem — growing a ground cover in a shady, dry area. But it’s a good time to examine all these legacy plants through a new lens: their effects on the environment. No shame in not knowing. But now, we have so much terrific information available on the beauty and beneficial impact of planting native-to-our area species.
DesireeRN: This article is a warm hug. Deeply touching.