Scott Brinton

A garden grows in Merrick

Posted

“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything.”
— Cicero

In my backyard, in the shadow of my creaky wooden deck, a holly bush grows. A little over four years ago, I thought it dead. It was, however, just hibernating, regaining vigor after life-altering trauma.

Saltwater inundated my south Merrick yard when Hurricane Sandy rolled across the South Shore on Oct. 29, 2012. Like so many of my plants — and my entire lawn — the holly was crippled by the salt and started to mottle and brown in the weeks after the storm. Soon it was a brittle shell of its former self, its leafless branches seemingly a symbol of the crushing blow the South Shore had suffered in the worst natural catastrophe to hit Long Island since the great hurricane of 1938.

I didn’t have much time to attend to my yard in the weeks and months after Sandy. The storm had destroyed a sizable section of my home, and restoring it was my first priority. I did, however, manage to spend a day lopping off dead branches from the bushes and trees and sprinkling handfuls of gypsum, which removes salt from soil, in the beds and on the grass.

I truly believed the holly bush was a goner. It had been a perfect specimen — full and thick for shaping. Then I found myself on a frigid, gray day removing every one of its abundant branches. I cut it down to its base and left it. I figured I’d dig out the main stem and roots when my house was back in order and I had more time.

When I returned to it the following spring, I was astonished to find a single, spiraling shoot popping out of the base, with tiny, dark-green leaves starting to spread wide. Could it be? Was this apparently lifeless plant raised from the dead? Would it live?

Yes, it did — and it grew that year. One shoot became two, which became three and four. By fall, the bush was again a recognizable holly plant, its distinctive, jagged-edged leaves shining brightly.

It was still relatively small and fragile, however. Would it make it through the winter?

I returned the next spring, in 2014. It lived — and grew again. It had survived — much as the South Shore had.

Each March I am full of anticipation, awaiting the last snow and cold to give way to the sunny warmth of spring, when I can return to gardening. I begin at the beginning, with my lawn. I aerate and dethatch it by hand, with tools of a bygone era. I refuse to employ power tools. They consume fossil fuels, the burning of which sends untold — and unnecessary — amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, leading to the global warming that, scientists tell us, will intensify big storms like Sandy in the future.

Aerating and dethatching by hand is hard work. A hand aerator has a long, tubular handle and two hollow spikes at the bottom. You must push the spikes into the ground with your foot, over and over again, to create hundreds of little divots across your lawn. The divots allow water and fertilizer (organic only, thank you very much) to reach the grass roots. What can be done in a matter of minutes with a power aerator requires hours with a hand tool.

Hand aerating is a monastic exercise. It requires no thought, so your mind wanders as you work. In my head, I write articles and columns and poems. Then I take a shower and sit down at my computer, and the words flow. I’ve done much of my best thinking while punching divots in my lawn.

Dethatching is a similarly contemplative chore. A thatch rake looks like a level-head rake, but has longer, more bowed teeth. It scrapes the surface to pull out tufts of dried grass between the live grass blades, allowing light to fall on the dirt, encouraging grass to grow thick.

Then I spread corn gluten across the lawn to prevent dandelions and limestone and to balance the soil pH so it isn’t too acidic.

When that’s all done, I prune the trees, shrubs and rose bushes, and plant pansies and marigolds, which burst like fireworks in yellow and red. Each May 1, I plant tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and eggplants. They make for hearty eating from late July through early November.

Last year, many of the perennial flowers that I had planted before Sandy, like gerbera daisies and tiger lilies, began appearing again after a four-year hiatus. So, too, did my spurge ground cover.

And, just like that, my yard returned to normal. I have returned to normal.


Gardening is perhaps the most human of activities. It returns us to our roots, literally and figuratively. Particularly when you garden by hand, you’re close to the soil, to the earth. In the end, you come away with a deeper appreciation for the fragility — and resilience — of life, helping to explain, in simple terms, our very existence.

Scott Brinton is the Herald Community Newspapers’ executive editor and an adjunct professor at the Hofstra University Herbert School of Communication. Comments about this column? SBrinton@liherald.com.