A grassroots policy *
By Sheryl-Lee Kerr
(* a favourite column)
The gardening bug is biting, prompting many goodly folks to sit
up
and contemplate their navel oranges.
Yes, indeedy, damp-kneed friends of the green-thumbed brigade, I
do
understand these gardening urges.
Sure, I know it may not be immediately apparent from a quick
look
around my front yard - with its patch of sand, moat of weeds and
an
old picket fence.
But what people fail to appreciate is that it’s meant to
look that
way - in the same way of the mystical Japanese rock gardens.
Each weed
in my hallowed garden reverentially signifies one woman’s laziness and
putting the earth’s demands second to modern consumerist
distractions.
Further, each grain of sand is a surreal representation of what
builders leave
behind when they finish making home units. Could my garden
possibly
get any more poignant?
But for some reason, no one quite sees it that way. So I have
found
that in order to enjoy the company of many wonderful
dirtophiles,
it’s best not to discuss my picket-fence patch, and instead slip
into my
seriously expert gardening persona.
This entails adopting a wistful yet earthy look, squinting into
the
sun and, in a stern but kindly TV gardner Don Burke
approximation, saying
“yep” to people. Even if they haven’t asked a question.
Further, I hitch my thumb as nonchalantly into my waistband as I
can
muster - no mean feat in summer as hitching into moth-holed
elasticised shorts doesn’t have the same profound effect.
Then I search for a piece of wheat upon which to chew
knowledgeably.
(It is a little-known
fact that the chewing of wheat gives one an
air of patient authority mingled with timeless wisdom. Unless,
of
course, you’re Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen.)
But I digress. It’s much better if you can look the part.
I tell amateur gardeners to practise kneeling with one knee on
the ground and one knee up, with their arm resting
on the latter, holding a dirty trowel in a pose like The
Thinker.
I say they should thoughtfully cluck to themselves occasionally,
while staring intently at dirt. Then they should try to look
startled from
this reverie as neighbors walk by; and then wave at them with
one
muddied index finger or their trowel. Neighbors will be ever so
impressed.
But I feel the greatest misconception about gardening is the
terms.
All those Latin words can be scary. But here’s the secret: there
is
no such thing as Latin. The entire language is just a construct
of big,
long impressive non-words all ending in “itis” or “isis” and
appearing in italics to really, really impress us. It works.
Somewhere in this world, bored botanists in over-large white
coats
are still busily naming plants after each other and adding an
“is” or
“us” and giggling at how officially Latin-sounding they made it
sound today. Any week now, we’ll be buying Fredus nerdis
bushes
while marvelling at the intricacies of this ancient language.
Sure, there will be some, like my horrified horticulturalist
Uncle
Eric, who puts up passionate (albeit misguided) arguments that,
in
gardening, Latin’s about plant families and that Latin, as a
language, is more steeped in history than that 1997 curry that’s
taken up
residence in my fridge and spawned offspring.
But, pfffth. Come on. He didn’t say it while chewing wheat, so
who’s
going to believe that?
©
Sheryl-Lee Kerr & The Advertiser, 27 OCT 1998.