Julie Suarez

I grew up in a new (in 1957) housing development in northern New Jersey. The developer of Woodstock Estates, as they were named, had bought out most of the remaining farmers in the area, laid out the lots, and offered two house models: split level, and side-to-to side split level. The farm land had been scraped of topsoil, and there were no trees, except one ancient cherry that had stood in the midst of what had been a pasture. The wind howled down the valley, and that first summer there was a drought that turned what was left of the soil to dust. There were no birds, no animals of any sort, and I missed my grandmother’s garden in Ridgefield, where I was born.  

My father planted trees, and my mother began a garden. My grandmother gave us cuttings and plants from her own flowerbeds, and gradually, our barren lot became a green and vibrant space, where birds and squirrels and the occasional woodchuck or deer meandered.

I first learned to love nature in my grandmother’s garden. She grew perennials of all sorts, and she knew their names and how to care for them. When we lived around the corner, I spent most of every summer day with her, helping in the garden. The names of the flowers, as well as their myriad colors and shapes, fascinated me. Foxgloves? Did foxes wear gloves? I was intrigued. Canterbury bells? Delphiniums? Phlox? Lilies, gaillardias, columbines, peonies, roses, snapdragons, her garden was alive with faces and scents. The hollyhocks were taller than I was, and the Roses of Sharon grew dense enough to hide in. 

Now, decades later, in Oneonta, New York, I realize I have been trying to recreate that garden despite the challenges of living in a different zone in a small city overrun by deer. When the first shoots emerge in spring, I rejoice—our winters here are long and dark—my old friends are back, alive and surging. And in their return, I am reunited with my childhood and my grandmother and my mother and all my hopes and aspirations for my own growth and blossoming.