Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (7 page)

B
y the end of that first transformational summer with Giles, I found myself more outwardly directed. It was a pleasant break from the usual for me. Instead of dithering in the house, checking for lumps and bumps and potential killer moles each time I passed a mirror, I was content to sit on my front porch and watch the children play across the street. Any problems waiting for me in the future seemed remote.

One September afternoon, the sky a bottomless shade of blue that I always associated with the arrival of autumn, I made my way to the Garden Shoppe. Sarah had called me about a just-delivered special order of pumpkins. She offered to set a few aside for me. Before we hung up, Sarah and I shared a laugh, agreeing that the upper-crust ladies in town would pay a hundred dollars a pumpkin, just to get what they wanted.

“And
two
hundred dollars to get what
you
want!” Sarah added.

When I arrived, I scanned the shop, greenhouse, and surrounding parking lot for Giles, but there was no sign of him. I was secretly relieved. I’d been hoping to have a moment alone with Sarah to ask her about Giles’s somewhat cavalier attitude toward the lists I gave him. In the end, his ideas were always superior to my instructions, but still, there were times I just wanted him to do things my way, without question.

As I neared the middle greenhouse, the door sprung open and Sarah hurried toward me, wagon in tow. She seemed full of energy. “Hi, stranger,” she called out. She clutched a pair of deep blue gardening gloves with a stamped-on ladybug design, a sample from the greenhouse inventory. “Can I interest you in some pumpkins?”

“I really appreciate this,” I said, kneeling to inspect them. “Did you actually hide these for me?”

“Sort of. I left a few up front. Melanie wants a big display near the entrance.”

Sarah’s face was flushed. So much of her work was physical, and I couldn’t help envying her vigor. Whenever I stopped by, she was most often toting people’s heavy purchases on her wagon: pots of shrubs, crocks, and birdbaths.

I selected some beautiful pumpkins, more than the three I had planned. We pulled up to a spot just inside the greenhouse door and marked my haul “Sold” so we’d be free to take a stroll.

At this point, I recalled that I needed to get some mums.
“Giles pulled out the geraniums last week, the ones in those crocks by the door. I guess you saw.”

“Yes. They were gorgeous at their peak,” Sarah said.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, Sarah, Giles is absolutely wonderful. I can’t thank you enough for recommending him.”

“Isn’t he amazing? Henry and I love him, too. And Melanie adores him.”

“I have something to ask you, Sarah. Something sort of confidential, and if you feel you can’t answer, I’ll completely understand.”

“For heaven’s sake, Carol. What is it?”

“Do you actually give Giles a work list around here? And if so, does he follow it?”

Sarah stopped and set a fist against her hip. I paused, mid-step.

“Are you still miffed about your azaleas, Carol?”

“Well, not ‘miffed,’ but I . . .”

She gave a small chuckle. “When Giles is working in a retail setting, it’s totally different. He has no cause to go off-script, because no roots have been put down, and everything is up for sale. But when he works in my yard, I do have to watch him.” She lowered her voice before continuing. “He doesn’t like to take things out unless he’s found a home for them. At first, I thought it was really strange. It kind of made me mad because it seemed like he was being stubborn. But it has also made me think twice about a few things, myself. Is it right to tear out
specimens because we’re bored with them, even when we know that some TLC will bring them back around? Please don’t tell Melanie I said this. It’s hardly good for business. I’m not going to say this to another soul. But, you know, maybe it makes me a better person to accept what I have, and not always feel like the perfect yard is just out of reach.”

“I think I know what you mean. Once, Giles offered to bring me some flowers from a lady who had an overstuffed greenhouse. I think I might have hurt his feelings by declining the offer.”

“Recycling. That’s his policy. He can’t imagine no one wants them,” Sarah said.

“I never thought of it that way. ‘Recycling.’ That makes us modern. Ethical. Responsible Keepers of the Planet. I like the sound of it.”

Sarah picked out some yellow mums for me to use on the front porch. We each carried a pot as we walked toward the third greenhouse, which housed the cash register. Sarah kept talking a steady stream. “Melanie was saying just last week that if we had a full-time opening for a horticulture specialist, with decent benefits and so forth, we would offer it to Giles.”

“You would?”

“Absolutely. In a heartbeat. But why do you look so surprised?”

“Oh, I’m not surprised at all. I’m just happy to hear that you admire him as much as I do. I just think it’s amazing what he’s learned over the years, working in people’s yards.”

Any further words stuck in my throat because of the look of shock on Sarah’s face. “Carol, didn’t I tell you about Giles’s background?”

“What are you talking about?” The tenor of my voice spiked uncomfortably, and I had the horrible sensation that I’d gotten something terribly wrong. Sarah asked me to wait a moment, and told me she’d be right back. Standing there, alone and braced against my racing thoughts, I felt off-balance.

Sarah returned, slightly out of breath and holding a piece of paper. “Here. I printed it out. His application. Read it, Carol, and you’ll see that he could talk a million years and not convey the half of what he knows. He’s gifted, yes, but this comes down to plain hard work and academic prowess. He wrote a very technical dissertation about the canopy of the Yukon Gold potato. He’s done many projects in the field. What on earth have you been thinking, crazy girl? Where have you been?”

I took the paper from her hand. I skimmed the list of academic honors, college teaching, working for the government in horticultural and agricultural research in Kenya, and lastly, attaining his doctor of philosophy in horticulture from Virginia Tech, where I had spent my first two years of college before Dick and I were married, some thirty-five miles removed from where I stood, disgraced, in the here and now. The school was known internationally for its programs in horticulture. In fact, its horticulture students were the pride and joy of the university.

I finished reading and remained silent for a moment. I remembered that day when I read to him from the gardening
guide, and quizzed him on his familiarity with pruning that particular species of tree. Somehow I’d known that day of the tree pruning that I was making a mistake. I’d felt it creeping up on me, but I’d ignored the little voice inside telling me to watch out. What a fool Giles must have thought I was.
Lord, Carol,
I thought to myself,
you’ve gone and done it again.

It was like a near-death experience, the way scenes of my various social embarrassments flashed before my eyes. Prior to this, the worst of my faux pas had occurred early in my marriage to Dick, when he was a young lawyer. His senior partner’s wife, Dorothy, was a prominent member of local society and she invited me to be a docent for the house tour that she was hosting. She stationed me in her bedroom, and I was supposed to explain the origins of the various furnishings. The one thing she hadn’t told me about, though, was the portrait that sat on a table by her bed. The woman in the painting had tightly permed hair, but otherwise she looked exactly like Dorothy’s husband, John.
She must be John’s mother,
I thought to myself. Once the tour was over, the docents and our hostess all gathered. An introvert by nature, I was often socially awkward, plus I was a good thirty years younger than she and already feeling like a fish out of water. In a doomed attempt to make conversation, I said, “Dorothy, that is such a good painting in your bedroom, and it looks so much like John that it’s just got to be his mother.”

The seconds that followed were like the electricity-filled moments before a lightning strike, when you know something bad
is about to happen. And then it hit me. The “woman” in that painting was John himself, during an ill-advised flirtation with a perm. In my defense, he looked ridiculous, with hair so tall and stiff it was like a bouffant. But there’s no defending what I did next. In a rush of fear-induced adrenaline, I said, “Well, that painting sure needs a haircut.”

I went home and stayed in bed for a good several days after that. But even that mortification was nowhere near what I felt now, recalling just how condescending I’d been to Giles.

“Not once did I ever suspect or venture to ask about his education,” I finally managed to say to Sarah.

“I’m so sorry, Carol, I just assumed you knew. He and Bienta came to the States fourteen years ago, in large part so they could both go to graduate school here. Bienta has her own Ph.D., in human nutrition. Neither of them has been able to find jobs in their fields, though. That’s why Bienta is nursing. I feel so badly for them. The whole reason they left their daughter behind in Kenya was so they could build a big new life here, and it just hasn’t worked out for them. Their boys were both born here, though, so that’s one blessing. And Giles just keeps working in that uncomplaining way of his. If we bring up anything even vaguely personal, we’ve noticed he’ll soon find a chore that takes him to the far side of the property.”

I put my head in my hands, just shaking my head.

“Oh, Carol,” Sarah said. “You worry too much. Giles doesn’t care about things like that. He’s not looking to impress anyone.
I’ve seen the two of you chatting in your yard. He seems so relaxed, and his smile is broad and genuine. It’s more than the stylized, reflexive smile he tends to give out in other settings. It’s so rare what you have, as if you and Giles reached out across the Atlantic Ocean and whatever other barriers might exist between you and simply said, ‘Let’s be open. Life is short. Let’s be friends.’ Sometimes, as I’m driving by your house, I catch a glimpse of the two of you standing on the porch. I’ll bet you haven’t noticed, you’re so engrossed in what you’re talking about. It lifts my spirits whenever I see you like that. If I’m in a bad mood, I start feeling better, on the spot.”

I thought back to the twinkle in Giles’s eyes. I hoped Sarah was right, and that even though I’d acted like a goof and a dummy, he was more amused than offended. “Well, I’m going to begin by apologizing to Giles. I should have been addressing him as ‘Doctor Owita’ all along.”

“For Lord’s sake, Carol,” Sarah said. “Giles respects you. He would never think . . .” She snatched her sunglasses off her head and stabbed the air for emphasis. “Don’t you see that your courtesies are a two-way street? Don’t you consider him a good judge of character? He knows you better than you think.”

“We should be addressing him as ‘Doctor,’” I said again. I couldn’t get this omission off my mind.

Sarah shrugged. “He told us not to call him that, right at the get-go. And, listen. Does it really make a difference, in your friendship or your yard?”

I wondered. Would it have made a difference? Would I have
acted differently toward Giles at any point along the way if I had known?

Honest answer: Absolutely yes.

Reading to him from a book, indeed!

Instructing him on how to prune a river birch, for heaven’s sake.

I got on my high horse and tried to teach him things. And he met my foolish efforts with humility.

“What’s he doing working in my yard?” I managed to say. “He’s spent his whole life preparing for something better.”

“I think jobs in his field are hard to come by. A friend told Melanie that Giles gets interviews, but in the end, he never seems to get the job. Maybe it’s his accent. I’ve also wondered if the way he looks away from people might be misinterpreted.”

I pictured a committee of people assuming they could judge a man like Giles through formal conversation over herbal tea or lattes. What they really needed to witness was the way he led by example. I’d learned more about plants from him in just a few months than I ever could have learned from that gardening guide—or any other book, I imagined.

“All this time, I thought myself the academic. Isn’t that pathetic, Sarah? Wait. Don’t answer that. He’s far surpassed us all. Let’s simply leave it there.” And with that, I gave her a sad smile and drove away.

When I got home, I pulled out my marble notebook. Like an ill-behaved student called to the principal’s office, I sat at the kitchen table, turned to a clean page, and began to write.

1. Is the willingness to do manual labor incompatible with holding an advanced degree?

2. And DO YOU NOT REMEMBER how the “farmer’s field” in Blacksburg was used to showcase the work of the school’s top-flight aggie and horticulture students?

3. Were there stereotypes at play? Dick and I are baby boomers, after all. We are supposed to be enlightened!

4. Letter of apology:

Dearest Giles (Dr. Owita, I have learned):

I’m sorry. Even if I knew how to say those words in Luo, Swahili, and all the tribal languages of Kenya, it wouldn’t be enough.

A friend has told me that you want to be a college professor. Until the day you get that job, I’d like to be your unofficial student. Here’s what I’ve learned from you already:

—that intuition is a subset of intelligence (or maybe it’s the other way)

—to count all persons as your equal and never make assumptions

—to nurture from a place within your soul

Signed: Your Very Humble Student on Mount Vernon Road

I ripped out the letter, folded the paper twice, and put it in a business envelope addressed to
Dr. Giles Owita.
Out of habit, I started to put the envelope in the letter slot, but something
stopped me. It wasn’t fitting that Giles should have to fish my apology out of the mail slot this time.

The next day, I saw the mailman walking up Mount Vernon. He had already passed our house and our regular mail was in the box. Quickly, I found a stamp and wrote out Giles’s address, which I had fortuitously recorded on the inside cover of my notebook.