Revisionist Garden History

I’ve lived for the last twenty nine years in a farmhouse built in 1730. If you’re thinking huge copper beeches or a sugar maple for the record books, think again. Apart from some lovely shag bark hickories on the edges of the property and a magnificent Norway spruce by the foundation of a long-ago outbuilding, there was no landscaping but the wrong landscaping when we moved in. So, when I wasn’t raising three kids or running a gift shop out of my barn, I’ve spent a couple of decades planting a landscape that – I hope- reflects the history and beauty of the house and the land.

And this, of course, creates a problem. For example, a lovely little variegated Japanese maple would look anachronistic in front of a farmhouse built when J S Bach was in his glory and Beethoven wouldn’t even be born for forty years. Likewise a dwarf Alberta spruce, Hinoki cypress, or anything pruned to look like an animal.

That doesn’t mean that you can’t find a spot somewhere else on your property for any of the above, if you really like them. But the owners of ancient houses often consider themselves caretakers of history, and many of us try to plant accordingly around them. Some historians believe, for example, that nothing should be planted to obscure the foundation of a house from up to and including the Federal Period.

So… then we get into the difference between renovation and restoration. A person who renovates an old house enjoys central heat and flush toilets along with his eight fireplaces and wide pine floors. A person who restores a house is living in Sturbridge Village. Likewise, in the garden we should allow ourselves a certain willing suspension of disbelief.

A major example: lilacs have bloomed by kitchen doors for so many centuries here in New England that a lilac growing in woods or empty fields means that a cellar hole may often be found close by. Native shrub, right? Nope. Brought here by European settlers hundreds of years ago. That’s why lilacs prefer a shot of lime when living in our acid eastern Massachusetts soil, but that’s a story for another day. Let’s just say that, because of its long history with us, we’re willing to let the lilac share space with our winterberry and witchhazel.

Sometimes, however, even the most stalwart of caretakers gives in to sentiment. Once I was in love with the sweetest, silliest little black tuxedo cat nicknamed Little Guy. At night he would lie down beside me, wrap his paws around my wrist, rest his cheek on the back of my hand, and go to sleep purring. In the warm months, he was fascinated by butterflies. He’d raise his paws above his head and jump straight up, levitating to try to catch one. I can’t remember his actually succeeding, but he certainly enjoyed the hunt.

Little Guy died five winters ago. It was a particularly mild February , so we were able to wrap him in his favorite blanket and bury him in the flower garden outside the kitchen without any trouble. In late April, I planted a butterfly bush near his head. I knew he’d love watching all those butterflies come and go all summer long.

Now, I know buddleia isn’t native. I know it came from China only a little over a century ago. But I also know that if the first owner of my house, Ebenezer Hill, were to materialize on my front steps to demand an explanation for the interloper that can now be seen clearly from his bedroom window, I would politely ask him to leave.

The only thing that matters to me is that my Little Guy has finally caught himself a butterfly.