First off, my heartfelt best wishes for a pleasant rain and little bit of light wind to those of our readers who are bracing for or already experiencing Hurricane Irma. I recall some lovely diaries from people in Florida who shared their gardens with us (e.g — www.dailykos.com/...), and now I hope that you are all safe, sound and aren’t too troubled by the storm. My Great Aunt Erma was a lovely woman. Hurricane Irma sounds like the exact opposite. While there will be the check-in diaries and several diaries about the effects of the hurricane, please think to let us know on the 16th how your garden may have fared. I know I will be interested in that aspect of your life as well.
The following is the reason I asked to write this diary.
In clearing out my parents’ house, I ran across a printed copy of the following poem by Rudyard Kipling. My mother was a member of a Garden Club and it was partly through her that I gained my appreciation for gardens and the natural environment that helped formulate how I grew up. I enjoyed wandering through the back yard, growing things in flower and vegetable gardens, and flowering bushes and trees, including some trees that actually produced some fruit. We would take May flowers around the neighborhood and we cooked mulberry tarts for sale in the front yard. My father was the professor of English, so he knew all things Rudyard Kipling, along with several other authors who were the subject of books, lectures and classes. Both my parents passed away this year, and I miss sharing with them the discoveries I find in my yard and on trips near and far to natural and cultivated places.
Please enjoy this — I’m sure the copyright is long expired, as this was originally published in 1911. It has been republished several times since then. I could have retyped the whole thing, but instead found it at www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/… and there are useful background notes that I encourage people to go read.
OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You'll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise ;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows ;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-" Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away !
Please read this, know that whatever contributions you make to your yard, your neighborhood, your community and your country are part of the whole, even if you think they’re not worth mentioning or if you feel that others do so much more (I marvel at many of the gardens you post pictures of and describe). My thanks to my parents for giving me an appreciation of the natural world and English authors, and to all of you for giving me a pleasant place to come read on Saturday mornings.
* Side disclaimer — skip if you’re sensible
These Garden Blogging title numbers aren’t perfectly sequential (indeed, sometimes not used), so I’m going to make a momentary point that I like dates rather than volumes on things like this. I realize I’m bucking history, tradition, and am probably inviting destruction down upon my head, but it’s much easier for me to know how to look for something if the diary title says when it is rather than some seemingly random number (or is it the week number of the year, and how does one know that?). Dates are also likely to be more accurate.
This has probably been litigated sometime in the past, as well, since this particular burr has been under my saddle on my high horse for a few years now and I’m sure it has been discussed. It’s probably a Frankenoid decision, but she’s moved on and we’re still here.