Tower Hill. John W Trexler
property and would stand on the sidewalk with the tips of my toes touching the edge of his perfect lawn, craning my neck to see what was inside the yard. I repeated this exercise on a regular basis. I’m sure Dr. Wheeler observed this weird little kid on more than one occasion. One day he appeared, introduced himself, and invited me into his yard. He asked me if I wanted to see his garden. This was my first memory of the term garden. What I remember is a lawn, green and soft under my bare feet, a fish pond and fountain with multi-colored fish, and a remarkable collection of orchids—what I now think were Cataleyas. This first adventure into a garden remains vivid. Shortly after my private tour of Dr. Wheeler’s paradise, some neighborhood kids, under the cover of darkness, poisoned all the beautiful fish.
Prejudice and Genocide
About the time I had my adventure in Dr. Wheeler’s garden, I was introduced to certain principles of gardening by my father. He had decided to replace all our grass with a popular grass substitute, Dichondra. He taught me the repetitive job of removing plugs of grass with an empty coffee can and replacing them with plugs of Dichondra. He hoped the ground cover would grow and eventually overwhelm the grass. It was one thing to slowly eradicate the grass; it was another more challenging chore to eliminate dandelions and other broad-leaved weeds that infiltrated the lawn. My father introduced me to a handy device called the “Killer Kane,” a three-foot hollow plastic tube with a dispenser-nozzle at the bottom. You filled the transparent tube with water and then deposited a green tablet that reacted like a fizzy soft drink disk. The result was a reservoir of perfectly balanced liquid weed killer. My job was to methodically place the nozzle over the center of each weed, dowse the weed with the poison, and repeat the action until all the weeds were treated. The lesson was this: that there are certain plants so detestable and harmful to perfect harmony that they should be eliminated from the planet. Without realizing it, my father introduced me to two all too human traits: prejudice and genocide.
Propagation
Out of nowhere, or so it seems, I became obsessed with jade plant (Crassula argentea) and red geraniums (Pelargonium x hortorum). Dr. Wheeler taught me how to propagate these two plants. The technique involved putting sandy soil into a clay pot, cutting off a tip of the “parent” plant, sticking it in the soil and waiting patiently for the plant to grow. Obtaining the soil was easy; the pots required a bike ride to the local hardware store and buying, with my allowance, six-inch clay pots. I arranged the pots on a terrace located outside my bedroom. They grew and flowered beautifully.
The Roman Forum from Encyclopedia Britannica
Other Character Building Lessons
My parents celebrated my birth by buying a TV. I grew up watching Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo and classic movies. I remember being spellbound by Titanic, starring Barbara Stanwyck and Clifton Webb. I had never heard of this great ship and I was not aware of its fate. The elegant interiors were captivating. You learn that, although the ship was touted as being “unsinkable,” it struck an iceberg on its maiden voyage and sank two hours later, killing 1,500 people. A horrific conclusion.
When I was nine we moved to a more isolated house on Coronado Island. I found myself spending an inordinate amount of time reading and transcribing the Encyclopedia Britannica (God only knows why). Being a tidy child, I started with “Aardvark” and eventually made my way to “Architecture” where I found dream-like drawings of famous buildings in history. I was riveted by one of the Roman Forum, a particularly beautiful arrangement of buildings and open space crowded with people. Of course I didn’t know what “Roman” or “Forum” meant. I went immediately to the R’s in the encyclopedia and read about the Roman Empire, which to this day has had a tight grip on me. The article included many photographs, one being the Roman Forum in its present ruined state. I couldn’t understand how in one picture the Forum was whole and beautiful, in the other a clutter of rubble.
A year or so later, living in the same house, I became aware of the actress Marilyn Monroe. She was frequently on the cover of, or featured in, the pages of Life Magazine. One August day I was returning from a swim at the officer’s club just down the street and encountered my brother who was on his way to the club. He stared at me, laughed, and said, “She’s dead.”
Drawing of Marilyn Monroe by Phil Kaelin, 1969
“Who’s dead?” I asked.
“Marilyn Monroe, she killed herself,” he answered.
I was shocked. When I got home I asked my mother if what my brother said was true. She said, “Yes, she committed suicide. She took her own life.” I couldn’t comprehend why someone so beautiful, famous and wealthy would do that. We were taught that beauty and all the rest was the key to happiness.
In a span of two years, I learned that beauty is ephemeral. A garden can be beautiful and disrespected. A great collection of buildings can be awe-inspiring one moment and vandalized and neglected the next. A beautiful person can apparently have everything that we’re told matters, but fall into the depths of despair and even take their own life.
Despite these grim lessons, I knew I had the desire and drive to build and maintain beautiful things. At the same time, I realized all of it might share a destructive fate.
Sweet Peas
Winters in Coronado were cool, but never cold, and it was the perfect time to sow sweet peas. By spring the pastel-colored blossoms would fill the air with an intoxicating fragrance. My mother was in charge of growing these plants. She cut blossoms and made arrangements for the house. I was never able to grow sweet peas as well in the northeast although I try every year.
Chapter Two
Mosquitoes, Stock, Lilac, Magnolia, and Ancient Rome
Above: Bald cypress (Taxodium distichum)
A Lesson in Control
In late autumn of 1962, the family moved from the Mediterranean-like splendor of San Diego County to the cold gray landscape of Alexandria, Virginia. For a year we lived in a development called Hollin Hall. Across the street was a woodland with a brook flowing through it. My brother and sisters and I spent time making low dams across the brook, which in turn created small pools. The fun was in breaking the dams and watching the water rush out of the pools. I discovered frogs which I liked to look at—but not touch. Mosquitoes and gnats were new to me. I would swat at them energetically, which only seemed to make the attacks more vigorous. I learned that if you stay calm and keep your blood flow normal they tend to show interest in some other person nearby who is flailing their arms wildly.
Gardening Badly
In autumn of 1963, we moved to a development named Collingswood and lived there until the summer of 1968. I became involved in a variety of pursuits, none of them the activities of a normal teenager. The backyard of our 1960s contemporary split-level was small and closed in by a four-foot cyclone fence. Our neighbors to the rear lived in a tidy old brick house. The neighbor lady often engaged me in conversation as we stood on our respective sides of the fence. I could see she had a beautiful garden. We had no garden aside from an old gnarled chokecherry. One spring day she gave me a packet of annual stock seed. She explained how to turn over the soil and make it ready to accept the seed. I was amazed how quickly the seedlings grew. Occasionally my neighbor encouraged my efforts, “The most important thing to do to get bushy growth and more flowers is to pinch the terminal growth to cause branching.” Sure enough the plants became bushier.