Longtime readers—particularly those with any curiosity about plants and the soil that nourishes them—will have fond memories of the Lawnchair Gardeners column that was a fixture in Country Roads for years. Beginning in 2002 and appearing for more than a decade, Lawnchair Gardeners was the creation of two brilliant, retired LSU Professors of Horticulture named Ed O’Rourke, Jr., and Leon Standifer. In 2001, Ed & Leon published a terrific book named Gardening in the Humid South. The book caught our attention because it delivered pragmatic gardening advice for dealing with the South Louisiana climate, peppered with an entertaining mix of natural history, botanical chemistry, folklore, and good old-fashioned storytelling that made the book not only useful, but also genuinely fun to read. What else would you expect from two retired research scientists and professors of horticulture with more than sixty years’ experience keeping students’ attention focused on the matter at hand?
For years after they retired from LSU, Ed & Leon remained fixtures at Burden Research Center. Ostensibly this was because they continued to maintain plots of earth in which they propagated various species of plants (Ed, in particular, was an expert in Southern fruit crops and was widely recognized as a genius with figs). But mostly their time at Burden seemed to involve sitting around drinking gallons of coffee, talking plants, and telling tall stories to anyone who would listen. After the Country Roads column started they’d do the same at our office. They’d show up unannounced, often dragging a satsuma or fig sapling, and plunk down at the table to drink coffee, spin yarns, argue good-naturedly, and laugh like hyenas, for hours. And regardless of how harried we were or how close to deadline, in the long run the day always turned out better for it. The work always got done in the end.
Their spirit—that of a couple of clever old coots squabbling and laughing over coffee—carried right into their Lawnchair Gardeners column. For more than one hundred articles they delivered actionable gardening advice leavened by a jocular stream of storytelling, folk wisdom, good-natured teasing, and quirky facts on everything from plant taxonomy to the proper way to cook a sweet potato, the best bait for bluegills, and the formula for calculating the number of dogs required per bed to keep the occupant warm on a cold night (three). All delivered in a back-and-forth that had more in common with Car Talk’s Click and Clack than with gardening advice. Besides being fun to read, their articles always left the reader better understanding not only how to nourish or care for a plant, but also why doing so mattered in the first place. You felt like you were at the table with them, and you came away appreciating the world a little more.
In early November—on the eve of the presidential election, actually—Leon passed away. He was ninety-one. And although he hadn’t been a regular contributor to Country Roads since Ed’s death in 2012, we kept in regular contact, and we feel the loss of him, and his spirit, keenly. A child of the Depression and a World War II veteran, Leon had a facility for taking the long view that made even the most complicated subject approachable. The last time we visited was just before the August flood, and ever since, I’d been meaning to ask his opinion about that freak weather event. I know he would have had something wise and probably funny to say about Louisiana weather to put things in perspective. Why did I wait? There’s nothing original about this observation, but when you get too wrapped up in the minutiae of day-to-day life to sit down with a cherished friend to listen and learn, you never know when the chance will come around again. Or if.
Ninety-one is a pretty good innings; Leon hadn’t been well the last few months and was, by his own admission, ready to go. “I’ve had a full life and a good time, so just promise you’ll write about me when I go,” he said the last time we visited. Well, Mr. Leon, here’s to you and to a life well-lived. You walked gently in the world and shone a bright light into the lives of all lucky enough to have known you. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear that that satsuma sapling you gave us years ago is putting out a bumper crop this year. Every time we pick one we think of you. And we always will.
—James Fox-Smith, publisher
james@countryroadsmag.com
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