Once again, putting faith in a garden

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

Planting bulbs is an act of faith. You dig holes, take some dry, scaly ugly things out of a paper bag, place them right side up in the holes, cover them with dirt, watch rain and snow and ice entomb them. And you wait and wait and wait, believing they will transform themselves into things of beauty.

When I was a kid, one of my favorite ``Superman'' episodes - the old black-and-white half-hour show starring George Reeves - showed the Man of Steel holding a piece of coal in his hand and squeezing it, turning the coal, in seconds, into a diamond. That's what the Earth does, Superman explained, only it takes the Earth a million years. This was magic to me.

Coal to diamond in a few seconds - or in a million years - it didn't matter. What did was that something dazzling could emerge from something dull and ugly. Bulbs are like this, too. Magic. Not quite presto, but every year, no matter how many times the Earth does this trick, when you see them in early spring - all the daffodils swaying, all the tulips lined up like pretty girls at a dance - it's amazing.

Two weeks ago, I watched my neighbor, Katherine, planting bulbs in her garden. First I looked from my office window, in typical Gladys Kravitz fashion. But then, because it was a golden afternoon and the leaves were swirling and Katherine always has something home-baked to munch on, I grabbed a sweater and crossed the street.

Katherine is not a young woman. She is 83. And she is legally blind. She could, without apology, take a pass on the whole gardening thing. She can see only little snippets of what she plants: a cluster of hyacinths; a swath of phlox. She doesn't get to enjoy the sweep of her garden; she can't see its majesty. But other people do, and this pleases her.

In the spring, her garden makes people walking babies pause, joggers slow down, teenagers with headphones glance, and even drivers annoyed because they're stuck in morning traffic smile. Because all the different shades of yellows and purples and pinks, after a long, dull winter, are like Oz on a Kansas day.

Two weeks ago, I watched the preparation behind the magic of Katherine's garden. I sat on the damp grass, the sun bright, the wind soft, more September than November in the air, as Katherine worked. I watched her hands, the muscle memory, the years of doing this as much a part of her as breathing. I watched her dig, reach into a bag, take out some bulbs, feel for the roots, drop them in the hole, and then cover them up. I watched as she did this over and over and over.

``You have to wait until after the first frost to plant tulips,'' she told me a few years ago, when I complained that my tulips never come up. ``You're planting them too soon,'' she said. And I was, because ever since my tulips have blossomed.

This year, I put them in the ground two days after watching her. I imitated her technique. I didn't dig the holes too deep and I put the bulbs in clumps. But my garden won't look like Katherine's. There is art in her design, an inherent grace. Come April, her tulips, all different shades of yellow, will spring from a lush carpet of purple phlox. Her hyacinths will dazzle. Her jonquils will sway. My tulips, mixed colors because I couldn't decide, and jonquils (no hyacinths because I didn't plant them, and no phlox because it won't grow) will bloom helter-skelter.

But my garden will please me anyway. It always does. I'll find the first snowdrops under some soggy leaves and smile. I'll see a skinny tendril of something unearthed by a plow and be bowled over by the tenacity of life. I'll look at my multicolored, all-askew tulips and see coal turned to diamond.

And then, with my heart already full, I will walk across the street to Katherine's.