Garden Fever
by Kathleen Everett

I awoke from a three-day haze which, to the casual observer, may have looked like febrile delirium. But in retrospect I recognize what it truly was; a near death experience, courtesy of influenza A, during which I was granted visions not accessible to ordinary immunized mortals.

Others who have enjoyed a round trip to the Great Beyond return with reports of reunions with loved ones and sages long gone. Not me. I was visited in my altered state by the Ghost of Gardens Future (who, it should be noted, bears a striking resemblance to Gertrude Jekyll). On the first day after the scourge I sat on a radiator gripping a cup of immune-boosting tea and relaying the story to my family. They smiled and feigned attention, all the while glancing at each other in a “maybe we should have taken her to the hospital” kind of way.

Though my audience made no effort to disguise their disbelief, I informed them that effective immediately the frozen tundra that was last year’s underachieving plot of dirt would henceforth be referred to as Garden of Eden 2.0. I went on to describe for them the layout of the rose gardens, the wisteria-covered arbors, tasteful topiary and privet mazes anchoring the fountains in the formal garden that we would create there, along with the unruly explosion of color in the native wildflower butterfly habitat.

At each turn I was met with skepticism. “Um, who exactly will be digging all those holes? Do you know how heavy 500 cubic yards of compost is?” Unmoved by my admiring anticipation of the pectorals of steel he would develop, my husband pointed out that relocating three tons of manure by wheelbarrow might just reward him with a near death experience of his own.

Greatness has always been met with resistance, I reminded myself, it serves to strengthen the resolve of the destined.

“What about the deer?” asked one of my own.

“I’m glad you brought that up,” I replied, pausing to cough for dramatic impact before I outlined for them another vision accessed on my journey into the future in which I let the deer in on a secret the birds didn’t want them to know: that slugs and Japanese beetles are delicious, and indeed so much tastier than tulips and lilies! Recounting the tale of Eve in the first Garden of Eden, I advised the newly enlightened deer, once strict vegetarians: “Whatever you do, don’t taste the apples.”

At this point my daughter interrupted to say that the malady had impeded circulation to my brain and that what I assumed to be a stroke of genius may have merely been a garden variety stroke. Fortunately she was cut short by the phone ringing; it was the head groundskeeper at Sissinghurst Castle.

“Sorry,” I told my beloveds, silencing their doubts for what I hoped would be the last time, “I’ve got to take this. He’s set up an international conference call to get my input on next year’s cutting gardens. Now why don’t you all sit down with those catalogs and start working on your wish lists for the rose arbors before the greenhouses start arriving next week?”

When I finished my official telephone business and went to check on the progress of the rose list, what I found was not the botanical pep rally I’d been imagining, but a heated argument about whether it would be better to hold or tie Mom down to give me the flu shot next year.

I can tell they’re warming up to this garden idea.