I’m often asked, from where or whom did I acquire my love of gardening? Unlike many who can attribute it to a family member, often a grandparent, I have no such knowledge of any family member leading me down the path to gardening obsession. In fact, the only thing I remember about a family member as it relates to gardening was the time my grandmother about took me over her knee for picking off her lovely red, marble-sized fruit that happened to be the most ornamental feature of the Christmas palms that lined her driveway. As an eight-year-old, I couldn’t see the big deal. Now though, I’m surprised she didn’t follow through on a well-deserved spanking.
Although I wouldn’t consider my parents gardeners, my dad tended to the recurring weekend chores of mowing, weeding and trimming. I’m not sure I was enamored with any of those responsibilities but as a young boy simply wanting to spend time with his dad, I was happy to take on any task relating to yard work.
But as I’ve often reflected back on this recurring question, it always comes back to one incident that stands out as that “ah ha” moment. About the same age as when my grandmother almost tattooed my bottom, I was in my backyard on Saturday doing what many young boys do at that age: break branches and make forts. However, one of those broken branches I realized after the fact was from a special shrub my dad had recently purchased and was quite protective of. Having realized the mistake I had just made and not wanting to get caught, I immediately stuck the branch back into the soil, so as to make it appear as though it was alive and well.
About a month later, I wondered what became of that broken branch, so cleverly concealed by my efforts to simply stick it back in the ground. As I secretly ventured out to check on its fate, I gave the branch a tug. Much to my surprise, it resisted my pull. In the short time it had been left in the ground, it formed roots that sustained its life. More importantly, it was that moment that changed my life forever.
I was immediately intrigued. How could a stick turn into a new plant with roots? I had to know more. I began growing lots of plants from cuttings. Living in south Florida at the time certainly provided the ideal growing conditions for an outdoor laboratory such as mine. Within weeks, I had countless cuttings potted up in everything from cups to buckets. I began growing flowers from seeds and propagating stag horn ferns so prolifically that I created a profitable backyard nursery.
Along the way, I grew roses, grafted fruit trees, and sold plants at neighborhood yard sales. When I wasn’t growing something, I spent my free time roaming the back acres of a tropical tree nursery a mere block from my house. It was a magical experience to a young boy enamored with anything that grew. And all of this took place before I played my first little league game at the age of 10.
Although my time in little league was short-lived, my love of gardening and nature was not. In fact, it was just getting started. Almost 40 years later, my passion for all things green is stronger than ever. And the more I know, the greater my desire to learn the things I don’t. Who knew a few roots growing from a broken branch as a young boy would change my life forever? So I guess you could say I did get my love of gardening from my parents, just not in the traditional sense.
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