I Grew a Sitting Garden
by Barbara Fraser
published in Issue No. 13: July/August 2021
West Flank, Looking North, Villa Montalvo
Historic American Buildings Survey (Library of Congress)
As a young teen, I would stare out the window as we drove through the Santa Cruz Mountains, and I could smell the fragrance of the forest floor and watched as the dust danced in the air where the sunbeams wove between the trees. The majestic redwoods soared two hundred feet above us, and the scent of the ocean was just a memory as we arrived at the estate. This oasis in my life is now known as Montalvo Arts Center in the foothills of Saratoga, California. But back in my childhood, this was just the sanctuary from everyday life that I needed very badly; it was a magical place known to me only as Villa Montalvo.
The cypress trees were regal and stood guard on the outskirts of the manicured grounds. Stunning rose bushes were blooming everywhere, and when the Amethyst Wisteria was in bloom all around the manor, my favorite spot was where I envisioned what was once a servant’s entrance in the back. As you walked away from the building, there were stone steps and paths into the woods. The trails were full of wildlife that would scamper just out of reach, but not out of sight. I was enamored with the Mediterranean and Italian style architecture that sent my imagination to work; I dreamed of the elegant parties on the lawns where men stood in dapper suits or tuxedos with women on their arms in dresses of silk, chiffon, and velvet. They would gather and drink champagne out of crystal glasses and laughter would dance from group to group as their lives connected. I easily got carried away with the potential drama and lovely relationships that occurred only in my imagination. There was old statuary on the grounds that filled me with romance— I wondered who the people had been who had first lived there and what their lives had been like. I wanted to travel back through time, hiding from my life by stepping into their stories.
Decades later, we would buy a home with history as well here in Montana. It was not as regal and certainly not as large by any means, but it was ours. It had once been a dairy farm, and the home was built in the bungalow style; it was the most affordable elegance for a founding family at the time. It sat out of the city, and others thought they were crazy to build so far from town. As pieces of the property were sold off, we bought what was the original home and outbuildings, minus the barn.
Right outside the back door was the kitchen garden with its decades of cow manure that had been turned into the soil— a rich, black, beautiful soil. The first thing I did was put up a fence to keep the dog from running through my carrots and lettuce, rows of radishes, and what would become my precious corn on the cob. With a reclaimed fifty-year-old gate and fencing, I was back in business.
While out shopping, I saw some Quaking Aspen trees and thought they would be a quaint addition planted along the fence-line— little did I know they would be a game-changer in our garden romance. As they grew taller, the sun on the garden rescinded and created greater failures in the vegetable department. My husband had doubts as to the idea of turning it into a sitting garden; he had liked the satisfaction of a vegetable garden with fresh tomatoes, zucchini to fry in the iron skillet with butter, and everything needed for a fresh salad.
With each planted flower, I was more determined. I pushed through and was delighted when my husband brought me a couple big rocks from a job site. The next thing I knew, I had added a circular gravel path and borders from scavenged bricks from who knows where. I knew my husband was completely on board when he brought home beautiful caste-off red willow furniture from a job-owner who envisioned something new for their space. We added a couple of railroad ties at either end for division points as well as Roses, Lavender, Lambs Ear, and Lilies of the Valley under the Aspen snuggled against Hostas, Climbing Roses, Iris, and Lupine. Each year brought exciting new additions like a large Japanese float, old glass insulators on the fence, many sets of wind chimes that sing different songs, rusty metal machinery parts, which all serve as jewelry to the garden.
Next thing I knew, a friend had an old concrete birdbath that was being replaced; that was probably 15 years ago, and it still has plenty of life left. The Robins that have a nest nearby visit and take their daily bath and splash about with purpose and playfulness; my Chickadees zoom in and sit in the branches and twitter to one another, and then dive down and perch on the edge for a drink. I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the noisy English Sparrows flying through the trees and to their nest box all throughout the day.
image by Annie Spratt
I work to cultivate the flowers that attract butterflies as well as dragonflies. I had mice at one point, but a neighbor’s cat has resolved that problem for me and I am grateful. I have added ground cover of miniature strawberries, thyme, and whatever else strikes my fancy. I have roses that were planted in memory of faithful dogs and on romantic whims. My new favorite roses are my lavender-colored roses that smell like little old ladies.
The willow furniture was eventually replaced with the sturdy 2x4 furniture that came from Santa Cruz on the back of a trailer— it too has a story. At a gas station somewhere in Idaho, a woman offered us sixty dollars for the furniture. We said no— we just loved it. It has had a new coat of paint but has faded again, and I have decided to leave it the lovely grey of natural aging. I just bought the fourth umbrella.
My favorite time in my garden is first thing in the morning, with the sunlight peeking around the corner of my home. The birds are at their busiest, the soil is cool between my gloved hands, and I feel that the lovely passage of time again becomes my friend. The precious memory of planting vegetables in the garden with my sons holds tight. My most precious is all the hours that my husband and I kneeled beside each other planting the next addition or transplanting something as we learned it thrived better in a different spot. Learning to become a gardener requires continual reinvention. I learned so much from Danny— planting heights, how things grew best, and all the intricacies of backaches and kneeling. He may not be able to answer my questions in the way he once could, but I feel him with me often while I putter.
I will never forget the day when he told me that the sitting garden may have been one of his favorite ideas I ever had, and he was grateful I didn’t listen to his initial advice. We spent time over many summer weekends in the garden, him reading the paper and drinking coffee and me drinking tea and gazing through a magazine. At the end of a day, we would find our way back to the chairs while the temperature dropped by the minute and our conversation rabbit trailed through the day’s events. There have been many times in the garden when I was uncertain how to proceed. I have learned to just ask the question out loud, kneel back, and listen patiently for an answer.
Main staircase and front entrance, looking west, Villa Montalvo
Historic American Buildings Survey (Library of Congress)