In 2001, I suffered a touch football accident, falling over a bluff next to the lawn where we were playing, cracking my ribs and puncturing my left lung. After catching a pass, I landed on the ball with one of the ends pointed to my chest, so the ribs shattered rather than broke; fragments were sandwiched between the collapsed lung and the skin. My surgeon, Dr. David Dieter of Central DuPage in Winfield, Illinois, was a special character. He began his career as a veterinarian, switched to people and rose to the top of the surgical staff at this fine hospital. He did two remarkable things: convinced me to quit smoking cold turkey, and introduced me to the pleasures of eating raw lettuce and cabbage. In fact, cabbage leaves had become his primary diet for lunch as well as snacking, having replaced over the years a lettuce and cabbage mix. Sounds nasty, but it’s OK when it’s the only thing you eat.

I was in the hospital for eight days. Having a recently deceased mother (RIP) and recently stroked father, plus scattered siblings, I accepted a ride home from the hospital from Dr. Dieter. Before he helped me climb into his well preserved VW bug, he moved a head of cabbage from its place on the passenger seat to the back, as if it was his briefcase or a PC. “I keep one in my car, always in the seat next to me, so I can peel off a leaf whenever I want.” As we drove the dozen miles to my house, he recounted the health benefits of both raw lettuce and cabbage. “Stick to the large head types. Romaine is OK, but bitter after awhile and too messy sometimes. I prefer Iceberg. And stick to the light green round head cabbage, just the ordinary kind. It’s the mildest and, when fresh, it’s slightly sweet.” He grew a garden in his suburban yard, and enjoyed collecting daylilies.

A fellow bachelor, but about 10 years older, Dr. Dieter cheerfully responded to my many questions. “Well, at night I eat a bit of meat and cheese—mostly fish actually, some chicken, very simply prepared—and for breakfast I drink a lot of water and have oatmeal with one cup of coffee—occasionally fried egg whites on toast.” A half hour car ride changed my life. “If I hear you started smoking again, I’ll come to Pennsylvania and break your ribs again,” he warned. Then he waved good-bye and rumbled off in his bug. We trade Christmas presents and New Year’s phone calls every year.

Over the past decade, an enormous, extraordinary botanic garden was carved just off the Atlantic Ocean shoreline of Maine’s central coast. Dedicated, risk-taking locals (full-time residents) as well as summer people took on the project when a luxury housing development fell through and the beautiful location became available.

With 228 acres on a bluff above a back river a few hundred yards from the surf, and nearly a mile of waterfront, the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden invites hikers, plant lovers and families looking for an unusual outing. Horticulturists, gardeners and masons built and bordered about a dozen large gardens in a spectacular setting. There are also moody, sublime pockets, corners and pathways tucked about.

Maureen Heffernan has been CMBG’s terrific executive director since 2003 and has done a great job leading the crucial pre-opening years in concert with a supportive board.

Modernism in garden design originates in early 20th century architecture. “Less is more”, and “Form follows function” were the bywords. Recently, Julie Moir Messervy shared with me her brilliant notion: “Form follows feeling”. This should apply to garden and landscape design, if not landscape architecture as well. CMBG is a perfect example of Messervy’s new maxim. The board and staff created a botanical garden that serves the feelings and emotions of their visitors. Maine is a true “natural state”. Imagine Arizona covered with dense forests, or southern Alaska moved 5,000 miles across the continent. The sense of vast space is otherworldly in New England, and unique to Maine. Unlike in Texas or Nebraska, in Maine one wishes to explore everyday, everywhere. The woods are always inviting. Outdoor nature activities take up a great part of people’s leisure time. Hiking and walking trails and shore paths are everywhere. So, unlike a place like Morton Arboretum, CMBG functions not as an oasis, but as an elaboration, or a focus of scattered parts. On one site are included a prime section of coastal Maine back river, woodland paths at different levels, rustic allees lined with ornamental trees and a collection of outdoor sculpture. Think of it as a rustic, youthful Bloedel.

The “irony” refers to the contrasting lack of energy expressed by the media in response to the great news about the debut of this innovative botanical garden. The Grand Opening on June 15 wasn’t attended by a member of the national press. This is unbelievable, since the botanical garden community has kept its eyes on the project for years. More than ironic, it is even shameful—unless I’ve missed a news article somewhere—that there has been no major media.

Consider: there are several ambitious gardening magazines, NPR’s frequent garden radio articles, televised garden shows of every kind, and “shelter life style” shows. The distaff of the idle rich write a coffee table garden book every week. Celebrities announce their support of the “green” movement as a matter of course, and often repeatedly. There are professional organizations like “Garden Writers of America” with hundreds of members. Yet, not a mention anywhere about the first coastal botanical garden in over 50 years and the largest of any kind in New England. If a bona fide horticultural milestone isn’t newsworthy, what is? In any other industry, art or profession, the journalists would come running with their phones on. Perhaps CMBG needs a giant plant fossil, a boulder of amber, or dinosaur bone just in time for TV sweeps, radio ratings and the magazine awards. But why can’t they discover a beautiful, multifaceted, naturally situated oceanside botanic garden? What a pity for the public, who will have to trip over this treasure in the gorgeous state of Maine. Time for the non-profit professional horticultural societies to welcome a new baby to their family. Don’t leave it to the garden journalists. Most are being forced to reprint press releases, if they haven’t been induced to retire next year.

The CMBG is an awesome place with fabulous gardens, burgeoning plant collections, stunning vistas and astonishing stone walls and terraces. Its homegrown and community-based origin is also a unique story that has a righteous quality. Go to the website to learn more and, by all means, go visit.

Several years ago I saw an exhibition of Aztec art at the Guggenheim Museum in New York City. Having lived in Central America, I looked forward to seeing both familiar objects as well as new ones. But the show far exceeded my expectations. The Mexican government staged a lavish and unprecedented display of unimaginably high quality sculptures, carvings, pottery and jewelry never seen by the public.

Culture in Latin America is serious business. Wealthy patrons and government elite spare no expense to show off their repositories of ancient and indigenous fine art. Mexico’s vast treasures stem from the richest gold and silver mines in the world. The reason Aztec art is so stunning is the elaborate detail in everything from wall-sized panels to fist-sized jewelry. The highest quality, in my view, belongs to the Mixtecs, who flourished from 900 to 1200 AD, moving into and renovating abandoned Zapotec towns and temples in the northern region of what is now the state of Oaxaca.

The Mixtec originated in rainy mountains above the isthmus that tapers southeastern Mexico and eventually becomes Guatemala. Abundant wildlife and vegetation found in rainforests are moderated by high elevation and uneven terrain. Still, coyotes, jaguars, monkeys, as well as all types of insects appear in their imagery. A small group, not frequently successful in conquest, the Mixtec kept a low profile, living in small villages scattered across the high valleys, away from the main action. Their art is less frenzied, more subdued and meditative than that of their warlike neighbors. Indeed, their predecessors, the Zapotec, are famous in anthropology circles for their uniquely harmonious and ethical society, which the Mixtec appear to have inherited. Their art objects didn’t need to scare anyone; they could exist on their own terms, so to speak, more natural and relaxed. Mixtec sculptors created many images of the reclining coyote, with his head turned 90° toward the viewers, as if inviting conversation. They also carved monkeys with gentle, even demure, expressions oddly reminiscent of Zira in ‘Planet of the Apes’. The finest piece was a large, exquisite pendant of a bat’s head, made entirely of hammered and threaded gold. The artist captured the basic anatomy perfectly but, in order not to frighten anyone, he enlarged the eyes, shortened the ears and rounded the head to make it appear almost friendly. Yet there remains the tension of the mouth and teeth, so well rendered that one can imagine its powerful bite. This extraordinary object is only about 2 inches high by 3 inches wide. Except for a tiny wooden “afterlife” boat an Egyptian pharaoh had carved for his slaves in astonishing detail, with its human cargo and provisions—everyone all set to go—no ancient artifact has ever delighted me more.

A friend once lived and worked in the 1970s on one of Arizona’s few remaining gold mines. He showed me around the horrid, onerous work. It was an awful place. To this day, I wonder how the early alchemists and their priestly associates could have missed this point: Why would anyone want to turn gold into gold, much less lead into gold? I understand and appreciate that there is far more lead than gold. However, gold mining is a nasty, dreadful business, and it must have been even more so a thousand years ago. It looks like stiff mud. Of course, gold is beautiful, brilliant, lustrous and loved by women. However, so is gardening . . .

Alchemy was a “science of the soul”, a middle ages version of psychotherapy, and an eccentric gentleman’s intellectual pursuit. It came as close to magic as theologians would allow. Its symbols laid the foundation for much fine art, then and even well into the twentieth century. Some consider it the forerunner to modern chemistry, but I’m not sure, since there was no real or practical value. However, the foundation of alchemy—and much of religion itself—is the annual miracle of plant growth. All of the ancient Near Eastern religions that became much of the foundation of our society’s spiritual heritage, began as seasonal fertility cults. Weather and soil gods, relating to the cycle of pastoral, and later harvested, plant crops, dominated religious life. Angry and mysterious, they were supplicated to bring the rain so the earth would turn green, to protect the plants from drought, disease and insects, so that they would flourish and feed the people and livestock. In short, to turn lead into gold.

The past few days have provided the Northeast US with the kind of magically perfect weather rarely found elsewhere. Costa Rica has a similar climate from late January to early March, when the vegetation is lush from the previous months of torrential rain, but the air is bone dry and the sun shines hard from an extraordinary blue sky. However, the subtropical sun is fast and high. In the North Atlantic, the heavens stay luminous for 15 hours. Birds start chirping in the dry trees at 3 am and the exquisite light fades out after 9 pm. This rare combination of rampant growth and dry air is the cherries jubilee of weather.

Perfection can be annoying if I want to screw around, rather than weed and water all day. Mulch helps, but only if applied beforehand. To enjoy the wide spectrum of colors and textures, I have to rise early and catch the fresh, diffuse light of dawn. On the other hand, late June evenings capture the essence of the proverbial endless summer, and many flowers reveal an incandescent brilliance suppressed by the intense midday sun.

Now the humid air has wrapped its massive arms around the woods and gardens, silencing the birds. Even the bugs hide.

Maybe there’s a connection. . . .

Before becoming glittery mall hang-outs, bookstores varied from city to city and included dusty holes that somehow fit vast collections of used books. As kids, we used to tunnel for hours through these marvelous places. I discovered Out Of The Night by Jan Valtin, Black Lamb, Grey Falcon by Rebecca West, and My Eskimo Friends by Robert Flaherty. The bug bit and, to this day, I browse the few remaining independents and used bookstores whenever possible.

I became a great fan of long books, having at one time a running joke with pals about convincing authors to sell their fiction by the pound. But then I discovered truly fine writing—such as any sentence by Paul Bowles—and realized that, after a while, reading great fiction was both exhausting and stimulating.

Best of all, over the decades, I have found a few writers whose books can be reread, some even more than once, and yet be fully enjoyed every time—a rare quality that indicates a classic. Herman Melville, Joseph Conrad and Ernest Hemingway wrote such books.

But in “genre literature”, such as pulp fiction, few authors compress mood, atmosphere and character so well that their books require multiple readings. They are not classics, but they can be reread, which for a parched throat is just as wet. Lee Child is a near-classic thriller writer. John LeCarre crafts flawless and stunning spy novels. That both are British is not accidental. They write better than we do. Compare Michael Connelly to Lee Child. No contest. Or Tom Clancy and Le Carre. Ditto. It’s a matter of clear and effective writing—page after page, time after time.

I lived in an old converted turkey coop at boarding school in rural northern Arizona. For a teenager, it provided heavenly solitude. A small bathhouse—serving maybe 25 other boys—sat about two hundred yards away on the opposite bank of an arroyo. My “one man cabin” was the size of about two rows of 3 across coach seating on a 747, at the most. Large canvas awning-like flaps covered screened windows that took up more than half of two sides of the little cube. I had #13, situated at the far northeast corner, with a narrow coffin-lid door facing southwest. It backed up to a large pigpen that served the school and ranch communities, consisting of a boar, about twenty sows and dozens of piglets on three acres surrounded by a wire and wood plank fence. The swine were oddly quiet—only a few squabbles a day—except at feeding time, when the ruckus at the trough was deafening. The massive sows jostled each other from side to side to make room for their offspring, who darted in and out and grabbed mouthfuls from the trough. It was an amazing sight, like a piston engine with alternating horizontal and vertical sets of motion. When the kitchen slop poured from the truck into the long trough, the din would grow like an engine approaching redline. Pig feeding lasted about a half hour daily at 9 A.M. and again at 5 P.M.

Late in the fall a north wind would prevail for a few days and, at first, I was a bit shocked. I didn’t accept it during my first week there, like it wasn’t happening. Then after a while I got used to the profound aroma, a bit like gasoline in its complexity and pungency. I’d always been a big fan of petroleum smells, having loitered around garages during childhood summers. However, this was several orders of magnitude greater in intensity. To my amazement, I and a few boys in the neighboring cabins got used to the unusual fragrance, as it wafted across our encampment from time to time. It was especially welcome in the dry, lifeless winter. Eventually we loved those pigs and their signature aroma. To this day, if I pass a pig farm and the car windows are cracked, I drop them down and take it all in, hoping a forgotten memory of adolescence will surface.

In the heavily forested and hilly town of Glen Ellyn, Illinois, where I spent my pre-teen years, I had become well acquainted with the truly exotic and unique scent of an alerted skunk by the time I went to Arizona. Perhaps I was predisposed to strong odors by the gasoline and skunks by the time I encountered the pigs. Therefore, my nightly winter visitor in Arizona was a welcome guest. The skunk took up residence underneath the cabin, burrowing in when the night temperatures dropped below freezing in December and staying there several weeks, until the night watchman rooted him out and drowned him, to my horror. But this was the late 60s, when such practices were common.

The skunk and I had an amusing routine: each night, he let me know that the music from my little Magnavox was frightening or otherwise disturbing him, by letting it rip. The tiny cabin would fill with skunk smell like a balloon with air. The set-up—freezing night air and a very small space heater—favored the skunk. I would dutifully stop playing rock and roll, and he would mercifully stop spraying. Evolution favored him, but I was a born loser. I couldn’t stop listening to rock music—it was boarding school, for goodness sake—so we made this exchange every night. Eventually, as with the pigs, I became accustomed to the smell.

Now, again, if the summer night’s traffic has destroyed a skunk and the odor is on the wing, I drop the windows. Few, if any, agree with me on either of these aromas—most particularly the skunk’s—but I don’t care. They appear so rarely, it’s worth the pain.

I tell you this because there are at least three ornamental cultivars I can think of that fall into my pig-and-skunk category: Marigold (Tagetes), Pelargonium and Chrysanthemum. I’ve met many folks who wrinkle their noses at all three.

However, I’ve worked very closely with them, from childhood on, and treasure their rich and precious fragrances. So it is fitting that I introduce you to a short list of heavily aromatic Heronswood plants most likely to “grow on you”, so to speak, both sweet and pungent.

I gave this speech last month to the audience and Class of 2007 at my old boarding school.

Good morning, Mimi, good morning ladies & gentlemen of The Orme School, good morning young ladies and young men.

This place is utterly fantastic. I’m not sure if you all are aware of this. It’s like Oz. I come back here after 5, 10 or 15 years and each time I am profoundly and positively moved by the uniqueness of this place and its otherworldly quality and physical beauty. It is a fabulous school, and you are blessed to have attended it.
First, I shall discuss the notion of personal leadership, then of leadership from a cultural perspective, and then I shall make a few suggestions to you.

I’m here because I’m the president of a commercial company and was elected to lead a few non-profits. The meaning of a presidency is the commitment the job requires. Whether you have earned the position, step by step, over a long period of time; or you have taken the position in an elaborate scheme or deal; perhaps the position has been given to you as an inheritance, whether you are the tortoise or the hare or the little emperor, it doesn’t matter—the job requires an enormous personal commitment. People choose someone they believe can not only stick with the job but also invest precious time and energy to it. Basic skills are necessary—but not sufficient. The simple truth is that the president is the person with the greatest—the most energetic and effective—commitment to the customers and employees. Devotion is the essential quality that is required.

But what does “President” mean beyond the personal experience of it? How does the President function within a culture or a society? The answer depends largely on the setting, the specifics of the culture or nation. In the Roman and Latin worlds, leadership uniquely possesses style as well as substance. The “buena figura”—the profile—a leader makes is as important as anything else. The face on the coin, the emperor, the king, the ruler. Today’s obsession with beauty is influenced by this long and profound Latin, or Greco-Roman heritage. But it has also theological as well as cultural roots. God was thought to have originally chosen the leaders. Indeed, we’ve come a very long way.

By contrast, in Asian society, the able and the rich were known to frequently rise to the top of the pyramid. Rigorous examinations assured that the gods precisely did not choose the leader. Throughout Chinese history, one finds examples of peasants rising in society as the most capable, the winners of the tests.
In yet even greater contrast, in Northern Europe, the presidency is often a secretly detested job, because the social pressures are so stressful and intense—quite the opposite of the typical image in the rest of the world of a corporate chief or head of state. In Germany and Scandinavia, most people avoid leadership—it’s far too taxing and has little, if any, material reward. Ironically, this is good. Those who become leaders feel called to the challenge—they want specifically to help others, not to exercise power or gain wealth. The cultural pressures act as a kind of “examination”.

So, despite the many definitions of President, and the many types of leadership, all have one thing in common—the personal commitment of time and energy. “You snooze, you lose”, is the wisest counsel a President could receive.

Today you embark on the presidency of your life, the start of a lifelong term of the leadership of your own life—and it is actually quite similar to being—and acting—as the President of a company or a nation: rules, responsibilities and pressures pertain in the same way. You are a self-constituted and autonomous company of one. This is the most important company you will ever work for.

Like a hot stock, or an attractive start-up, you will be in the limelight for a while, and it will be hard to meet the expectations of your investors, customers, suppliers. They’ll want you to do certain things—lots of pressures. But don’t become disillusioned. The real investor is you. And you are in charge; you’re the only employee. You are the only person responsible now for all of your future assignments.

So, let me share a few tips. My specialty, my strength, has always been the “turnaround” –taking a failing company and saving it. It sounds heroic, but it isn’t. In fact, it is a thankless job that many wisely avoid. But I was like a magnet to troubled companies, right out of college. I was great in sales—that was the first sign. But the biggest sign was when I worked in the collection department—a guy quit and I had to step in and collect dead-beat accounts. Almost like ‘Dog The Bounty Hunter’, except for money rather than hardcore criminals. So I could generate sales, as well as persuade folks to pay. Then I discovered that I was, in fact, better at repairing a damaged company than I was at operating a functioning company. I’m happier fixing things, and solving problems, that’s all. But that’s me, my identity. I couldn’t help it, so to speak.

Find out that uniqueness in you, and go with it. Don’t resist it too much. Exercise and apply your strength everywhere you can do so. Once I worked in a lab. I was miserable after a few weeks and quit. Talent is as strong as physiology or biology. Like a natural gift or aptitude in music or math. Some have one talent, others have another talent. If you have doubts still, after today, try an aptitude test—they’re very useful.

Another thing, a Chinese mentor, Mr. Chu, told me something when I was in my twenties that I’ve never forgotten: we were discussing a training program for interns, and I proposed a certain period of time, like a month, for training and then another month or so for practice. He said, “George, I never do anything I know how to do.” I never do something that I have learned! After I learn something, I move on to the next thing I don’t know.” But the way he actually meant it was, “Never do anything; learn everything.” According to Mr. Chu, there was no value in occupying a job. I had a sort of “practice-oriented” perspective inherited from my German background, but he said, “No—keep moving forward into the unknown!” Startling, and great advice. So unexpected—I’ll never forget exactly where I was-like where I was when JFK was shot. But this sort of anti Zen, pro-Yankee spirit—coming from an Asian—was just odd and strange enough to make a deep impression on me. And Mr. Chu’s lesson helped me to mellow out the “You must always be working!” mentality of my German ancestors.

A reporter from The New York Times once asked me what new books I had read. I thought a moment and answered, “King Lear”, and then also the John L. Stephens book about his travels through Central America in 1839, “Incidents of Travel In Yucatan”. The reporter thought I had misunderstood and asked again, “Any new books?” Then I was the one caught off guard. I explained, “A new book is one I haven’t read yet.” This is another lesson. Our society, our contemporary culture, emphasizes the superficial, the glittering, the oven fresh, the brand new. This emphasis is misplaced. The ancient is more avant-garde than what is going on in the local art gallery or symphony hall or internet. Turn to the classics, and make sure your roots are fully watered. It’s like a musician practicing scales. Make sure you are schooled in the basics, the foundation of your chosen field. Vocabulary, too: study vocabulary books—there are excellent ones, like the Vocabulary Builder, a thick two-volume set by Johnson O’Connor. Priceless.

But beside the basics, I’ll always remember traveling through rural Egypt and seeing two things: first was an entire family expertly planting onions in a perfectly prepared field with a thousands year old irrigation systems—the same as Uncle Chick laid down. They were dreadfully poor, completely uneducated, and yet they had learned agriculture perfectly—traditionally. And in another rural town in Egypt, several kids surrounded a late 1920s Ford Model A. They had the hood up and were cleaning the gorgeous 4-cylinder and it was in beautiful condition. These kids had filthy clothes and tattered shoes, and yet they spoke English and were utterly conversant in the mysteries of the automobile. It was amazing. They had a lot of the basics down in desperately poor, middle-of-nowhere Egypt. Get yours down too.

And the foreign travel reminds me of another point—if you show even a basic skill at foreign language—push yourself hard and push now. As much as the direct value of learning another language, it is the indirect effect it will have on your English—because you’ll see it from an outside perspective—you’ll possess an enhanced English ability—a double gift from one study.

Also, my grandfather said, “Avoid rich food” and he meant it broadly. Butter, thick soup, heavy sauces, but also high anxiety, business schemes that are too good to be true, dense language. Rich stuff, loaded with empty calories. Unnecessary fat. Baggage comes in many forms. Things loaded with expense or costs. It’s going to turn out to be junk. Remember all those little shops in strip malls that advertise, “We give cash for gold coins, jewelry, watches.” Just try to avoid excess. You can still have it, eat it or acquire it occasionally. No one can resist the Gucci loafers or, if you’re really successful, the Porsche. But just being conscious of their potential dangers will keep you healthy. And I don’t spend a lot of money. Think about how important certain inexpensive things are, like a good pair of sox. Invest in those things and behaviors that solve practical problems, and also those that create successful results for your career. Like they say all the time in Holland, “Be careful”.

Finally, there is much to be said for having a sweeping visionary goal or two. They’re extremely powerful. Keep working on your own private set until they become realistic. Mine are to use seed to replace money in relief projects in devastated areas of the world. We started in Somalia in ’93 then worked in Rwanda in ’94, and Haiti in ’95. We did the last one in Iraq in 2004, about 2,000 pounds of squash, onion and tomato seed. The other is to reintroduce the phonetic system of reading instruction in the public schools, where it was replaced about 60 years ago by the “Dick and Jane” style of whole word instruction, and damaged the literacy levels of several generations of US citizens. I have two desks at work—nothing fancy—one for business, one for the two charitable projects.

These are unattainable goals, perhaps, in the sense of being difficult to complete in a lifetime, but they are all the better for it. Have goals to which you can dedicate a life and never be satisfied, never be done, until late, when you’re ready to stop.

Which for you is a long time from now.

Last but not least, believe me, your parents understand what you face. They have stories and examples just like these, but from their occupations, their walks of life.

Talk with each other about the leadership of yourself, of your life. Each of your parents—both mom and dad—could give you their own version of this speech, take certain elements of it perhaps, or the spirit of it, and make a great commencement address for you.

Congratulations and the greatest of luck to each of you.

Thank you.

The Wall Street Journal Monday, November 6, 2006.

After closing our fiscal year at Burpee Seeds, I noticed some intriguing figures in the sales of flower and vegetable seeds to home gardeners that, while displaying great differences, also show affinities that would warm a compost heap.

Politics, in my opinion, is not so much a contest between different states of red and blue as between different shades of green—a comforting reality in today’s frosty political climate.

Let’s first examine garden flowers. Both red-state Republicans and blue-state Dems grow sunflowers, zinnias and marigolds. However, the differences quickly bloom.

Blue states buy many more impatiens, snapdragons and columbines—expensive and sophisticated sun or shade flowers with varied and subtle colors. On the other hand, red states favor overwhelmingly boisterous morning glories, traditional nasturtiums and inexpensive four o’clocks. The sunny red states like to keep it plain and simple; the dappled blues like to make it diverse and edgy.

But wait—in vegetable veritas.

First, the comfort zone consists of a big garden with both Democrats and Republicans happily weeding squashes, cucumbers, peas and basil—everyone grows a lot of them. But blue states grow a surprisingly wide range of tomatoes, along with both sweet and hot peppers and a fair amount of cilantro and dill. Think homemade salsas, poached salmon and heirloom vegetable collections.

Yet red-staters are equally surprising and almost exotic in their preferences for green beans, onions, potatoes, carrots, sweet corn, parsley and oregano. When they do grow tomatoes, they choose only big slicers and paste types—no fancy heirlooms. Again, they like vining in both vegetables and flowers, and easy-to-sow crops, half of them to be dug from the ground. To call red staters “earthy” and blue-staters “well branched” would be accurate.

Like a gardener with arms full of sweet corn, “green state” preferences run straight into the kitchen. Blue Dems are gourmet and fashion-conscious cooks; they like a few of every kind of tomato and pepper that exists, while their herbs tend to be diverse and savory. Red GOPers favor traditional cuisine, picnic fare, lots of stews and relishes, and enormous crops of green beans.

So, green is good. All gardeners agree on a patch that includes the basic “squash-cuke-pea-basil-tomato” requirement. But they also literally distinguish themselves in the backyard, just as in the voting booth.

The Republican is a sun-drenched, green-bean, elbows on the table, vine-loving gardener, while the more passionate Democrat picks and chooses from a wider range of cultivars of spicy and savory peppers, European tomatoes, and flowers that prefer afternoon shade cast by mature trees.

Let’s rejoice that there are 50 states where we make up a mosaic of gardeners and gardens—daring and avant-garde blue or tried and true, risk-averse red. But in the end, we are all still deep in the green.

The Wall Street Journal Monday, November 6, 2006

My next project is night gardening. Once during the Q & A part of a speech I gave in New York City, a petite elderly lady popped up and asked, “What do you offer for a night garden?” I mumbled something about moonflowers, four o’clocks and an especially iridescent pale petunia I’ve since forgotten. But her querulous Miss Evesham voice haunted me like The Night-Blowing Cereus in Thornton’s painting. Last year, as I collapsed on my coverlet after a day gardening carelessly without a hat (I kept telling myself, “Just a little while longer”), I swore I’d have only a night garden one day. Little darling, it’s been a long and lonely winter.

Who knew? The World We Live In, the wonderful Life magazine book from the 1950s, illustrated with spectacular diorama-like scenes of the nocturnal world of the desert, filled with night creatures, mostly different types of mice. I used to study these illustrations for hours.

Sometimes, full-sun day gardening gets so dazzlingly intense that my vision momentarily slips like a photographic negative, and I become blind. I should garden at night with a miner’s helmet, or better yet with my eyes closed. I’ll start training during the day with a blindfold.

Or maybe set up lights like at a ballpark. Anything to beat the heat and the grueling sunlight. Perhaps the bugs would get tired of me after awhile, or I with them.

The ultimate shade garden!