Chapter One A Country Gentleman In England they say that young men leave the country and go to the big city so that they can make their fortunes only to move back to the country, which they never should have left in the first place. Despite my not having made my fortune, about twenty years ago or so I decided to buy a house in the country. My Manhattan apartment was a green paradise, with houseplants by the hundreds everywhere. It had begun to be ridiculous, and I realized that more than anything I wanted to have a house of my own and a plot of ground on which I could grow more than just houseplants. One day I ventured out to the North Fork of Long Island, somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, according to my late father, found my dream house, and bought it. It is a modest eighteenth-century house, which recently, thanks to my restoration efforts, has been designated a landmark. This gives me particular satisfaction, because when I bought the place everyone thought I had gone stark raving mad. "It needs so much work," they said. "The support beams are going to collapse," they said. "It needs a new roof," they said. Others patronized me. "It does have charm, doesn't it?" This included my dear late mother, who burst into tears the first time she and my dad came out to take a look at it. The house in Peconic, New York, was surrounded by an acre of ground. Directly, I passionately embraced my gardening interest and set out to landscape my property. I had grown up in New Jersey in an area that was semi-rural but now is suburban, so I had some experience growing things. Although I was blessed with the best soil this side of Kansas--four feet of topsoil--with the exception of one monumental hundred-year-old yew and a magnificent hundred-and-fifty-year-old copper beech there was nothing else on the property but countless "junk" trees and overgrown bushes. I'm not complaining. The two fine old specimens are indeed rare, and had the previous owner known of their value, he could probably have asked for and received twice the price I paid for the property. I cherish these trees and will be grateful until the day I die to the fine old gentleman who planted them more than a century ago. (I took the time to find out who he was from elderly neighbors, who knew his children and grandchildren.) Well, the years have flown by, and I expect, by stretching it just a mite. I am a "country gentleman," which out here means that at least once a year I do wear shoes and a necktie. This also means that, like my neighbors, everybody uses my back door. The front door hasn't been opened for more than twelve years. The car keys are practically rusted into the ignition. In the country we never remove them. The key to the house is tucked away somewhere. We don't lock our houses out here. I loathe perfect suburbanlike green lawns that stretch right out to the street. Like most of my friends and farmer neighbors, I am a gardener, and I have a sacred respect for the good earth and what it provides. Therefore, I usually have dirt under my fingernails, a true status symbol for serious gardeners. And yes, I have had Lyme disease. Anyone who hasn't can't possibly be taken seriously as a gardener. I have grown to love the noisy chatter of the birds in the morning. This is partially because I now go to bed around 10 P.M. and get up around 5 A.M., about the same time the birds start chirping. I have learned to accept and understand the universal life cycle: birth, life, health, sickness, and death. As a gardener I am surrounded by this every day. Plants emerge from seeds and eventually die of old age, just as we do. Plants get sick and then they recover, just as we do. I have a humble perspective about my place on this earth. I now know that I'm not such a big shot after all but just another one of God's creatures. I have learned that the food I grow myself tastes better than what is available in the stores. Perhaps this is because of the holistic aspect of planting seeds, watching them germinate, nurturing the plants, and finally enjoying the harvest. I have found peace of mind, tranquillity, gratification. All of these can be yours as well, if you immerse yourself in nature. The garden here is a joint effort. My colleague and friend, photographer Harry Haralambou, who did all of the photographs for this book and others that we have written, is passionately involved in the garden. It is truly a collaborative effort, with both of us complementing each other's particular areas of expertise, all in quest of a dazzling garden. In closing, remember that a real gardener is somewhat different from a homeowner who has a garden that has been designed, installed, and maintained by professionals. Professionally installed gardens are indeed lovely, and often homeowners simply do not have the time to plant their own gardens, hence they hire others to do it. Even if you turn your garden over to a designer to begin with, however, you should treat it as an on-going creative endeavor and become a real gardener. Since you have a house in the country, real gardening should be your pursuit. And, hopefully, this book will help you achieve your goals. Always remember that a real gardener is never finished. There is always something left to do or something left to change. My dear friend, the late Frances George, was a real gardener who knew that a garden is never finished. Toward the end of her life, she and her daughter were discussing where she wanted her ashes to be strewn. Her daughter suggested our garden because her mother loved it so. Frances said. "Yes, it's very beautiful and I do love it, but they're always digging things up over there." Copyright © 2000 Theodore James Jr. and Harry Haralambou. All rights reserved.
