Connections: In the Backyard
Three generations of Rattrays have enjoyed the old house I live in, which, as you might guess, is both awfully nice and, at least on occasion, headache-inducing. I like to say that this or that treasure “came with the house” when someone asks about a vase or a chair, but I also find myself worrying about who has saved what and whose responsibility it is to do something about repairs and storage and suchlike.
This week, though, as summer arrived, I realized we also have left our mark on our outdoor spaces. Goodness knows, the South Fork must have hundreds of extraordinary gardens created personally or professionally, as the Parrish Art Museum’s Landscape Pleasures and Guild Hall’s the Garden as Art programs attest. There’s Madoo, the unique conservancy garden in Sagaponack originated by the late painter and writer Robert Dash. And the Garden Conservancy’s Open Days are an inexpensive way for some of us to see how others have embellished their landscapes.
Our very humble garden is absolutely nothing like those! But we have something else going for us in the backyard: a sort of homey, old-fashioned feeling of being in an outdoor room, the result of decades of only moderate tending and a fair helping of benign neglect.
The maples on a neighbor’s property have grown so tall that they shade what had been (back in the 1960s and 1970s) my mother-in-law’s thriving garden of roses, poppies, and tiger lilies. Our yard is no longer suitable for growing tomatoes, but we have heaps of ferns, which took over after the deer ate all the tiger lilies. These lush mounds of greenery are a pleasant respite from a boring lawn.
Going outside on a nice morning this week, I thought about the few old roses that have been around longer than I have. They aren’t the most beautiful, but they add touches of pink and magenta to the borders. The person who put in these dainty rose bushes many years ago would no doubt be pleased to see them surviving. We also have two rose bushes descended from those that arrived by shipwreck years ago, given to us recently by a friend.
I have no idea if earlier householders are responsible for the white and yellow irises, or if I am, but they are out of control this summer. A butterfly bush seems to have seeded itself in the wrong place, pushing out bleeding heart, but I have to say it is attractive, and not overwhelming, at least not yet. I admit that I am responsible for two peonies, however, but one has never flowered while the other made a big-whoop first effort this year with three blooms. As for the yellow yarrow, I wouldn’t have planted it in a place where it is too bold and too close to nicer plants, would I? Someone else must have put it there.
Forsythia aren’t everyone’s cup of tea (I’ve even heard them referred to as “the vomit of spring,” which gives an indication of the disdain in which they’re held in some quarters), but our oversized forsythia brightened things up in early spring. That burst was followed by an explosion of old-time snowball viburnums, in full white dress, and then by the sweet white flowers of a mock orange.
Out front, we used to be able to rely on an everlasting crop of giant-puffball white hydrangeas; they’re gamely attempting to make a comeback after the deer almost did them in. A few daisies and what look to me like bachelor buttons have cropped up by its rather sad-looking side, and I have no idea where they came from.
We are surrounded on the South Fork by the most privileged, expensive, high-maintenance household environments, but I am happy to bask in a pretty little garden that has come, somehow, to require little attention. The grass isn’t always greener on the other side of the fence: Without half trying, I can find something blooming in the yard that is lovely and ready to be brought inside. And how nice it is to be able to say the bouquet “came with the house.”