If I were a plant, I wouldn't even be the dandelion. I'd be the dandelion seed: unrooted, widely dispersed, placing down insubstantial roots, and destined for another unmooring. And, just like me and so many of my ilk—the global diaspora of uprooted suburbanites—dandelions are flung far and wide. Wherever I've lived, whether the Canadian prairies, cold-war Berlin, or Cajun country, dandelions everywhere cluster in their little neighborhoods, looking the same, living their short lives, and then flinging their progeny off on the currents to continue the saga elsewhere.
I long to be an oak tree. Oaks live long in the same dirt, and most of their babies stay close by. They stand as sturdy, stable landmarks amidst the march of time, familiar sentinels that mark the years with their growth rings, casting their shady influence over a landscape, and with each passing year, becoming ever more intertwined with the patch of earth that is their home.
I've never known the deeply rooted comforts that an oak tree must enjoy. I've never lived close to extended family, and certainly never on ancestral land. I've moved often during my life, and can't even claim the steady influence of a firm national identity.
But my son does not have to suffer the same fate. Perhaps he'll leave to seek adventure or fortune, but I want him to feel that there is a little slice of this good earth that he can call home. A place that is invested with memories, love, and the good-old-fashioned blood, sweat, and tears it takes to render a place utterly familiar and completely yours.
I have this opportunity on our five-acre property about six miles south of Clinton, La. The property backs up onto a bull farm where deceptively mild-looking bulls chew their cuds in the fields past the horse pasture that constitutes the view from our porch. We have woods, a pond, a meadow, a garden, and a few tentative flower beds. And of course, one big, lovely oak (that I fear may be in ill health).
It is a gorgeous spot, but I want to make it magical. I want it to be the scene for my son's fondest memories and the place he wants to take his own children to show them who he is. I'd like to throw garden parties and barbecues, host camp-outs and retreats—with nooks and crannies embedded in the property to meet the myriad moods we all entertain.
Problem is, I have no idea where to begin and precious little money to make too many mistakes. Plants die, after all, if you don't know what you're doing. I've learned that much.
I've decided, then, to tackle the project in the only way I know how: by degrees, from books and experts, and with the long view in mind. My plan is to consult with anyone who is willing to help me, sharing my progress on this blog along with lessons learned along the way. Plus, by promising to write (though not offering how often), I can hold myself accountable to making a little bit of progress each month.
First step, and next blog, is an aerial photo of the property along with some "before" shots as we head into a serious planning phase … I even resisted buying plants this spring, patiently (and optimistically) planning on a plan.
