Someone recently asked me, “How did you get this into gardening”? Most have an easy answer like, “My parents or grandparents were gardeners” or “I had an interest in plants from a young age”. For me, there was no simple answer.

With that in mind, I started to analyze where my passion for plants originated. And I realized it came from a series of events over the past 17 years.

Here is the story of one of those events:

When last we spoke, I left you with quite the cliffhanger; the arrival of a stranger in a beat-up white Ford Taurus in my driveway who just happened to know my name. Before we get to the exciting conclusion, let me give you some additional back story.

That morning back in the summer of 1998, I purchased four Barberry shrubs from my my favorite garden center with the intention of replacing my aforementioned “lollipop shrubs”. Through all of my new found research on shrubs, I became infatuated with red/maroon/scarlet leaved plants. They had so much more of an impact and were more interesting than the ubiquitous green versions and I had plans to dazzle my neighbors with color.

I some how managed to squeeze four of the shrubs into my bad ass, black, 1995 Geo Prism, gashed hands from the shrubs’ thorns notwithstanding. I was so anxious to install them when I got home that I ignored everything else going on around me (we call that foreshadowing in the industry).

As soon as I arrived home, I pulled the shrubs from my tiny car and left them in my driveway so I could plant them as soon as I removed the old yews along my foundation. There were numerous Barberry stems/thorns remaining in the car and they were awesomely intermingled with my Motley Crue and Metallica cassettes.

And then he showed up …

I clutched my shovel tightly as he emerged from his automobile. The showdown was on. As Mr. Stranger asked if I was in fact “The John Markowski” (OK, I added the “The” for additional drama) I tried my best to quickly determine why the Angel of Death was just now dropping by. My thoughts at the time were:

1. He was there to collect my gambling debts. It fit the profile but I never had a bookie in the first place.
2. I was some how involved in a criminal investigation. Always a possibility I guess, but the car didn’t scream detective unless he was truly undercover or his office had truly fallen on hard times.
3. I won Publisher’s Clearing House. But there were no balloons visible in the car.

The answer was #4, none of the above.

Turns out, our mystery guest …

… had found my wallet sitting in the middle of Rt. 206 in Hillsborough, NJ and was here to return it out of the goodness of his degenerate heart. He apparently found my license inside the wallet, still in tact, and drove the five miles or so to return it to its rightful and careless owner. I thanked him profusely, gave him all of the cash I had in the wallet (around $20 or so) and bowed my head in shame. Stand off over … and I lost.

Here’s what happened …

I left the wallet on the roof of my car as I was loading the Barberry shrubs at the nursery. It then flew off as I pulled out of the parking lot and on to Rt. 206. I didn’t even know it was missing until the dude showed up.

Lesson learned right? Not a chance. I can even one ten up that story.

Four years ago, while on our way home from vacation in Connecticut, we stopped at a gas station to refuel. I pumped the gas like a champ (never an easy feat for a NJ’er) and the trip home was back under way.

Two and a half hours later, we pulled into a Starbucks in Oakland, New Jersey for some coffee. You guessed it, no f’n wallet. I had used it to pay for gas back in Connecticut, so it no doubt fell off somewhere along Rt. 95. No chance I see that again. The entire family was ready to hand me divorce papers.

When we arrived home, the goal was to cancel all of the credit cards immediately. As I picked up the phone to call the first credit card company, I noticed we had a voice mail. I hit play and this was the exact message:

“Hi John, it is your Uncle (blank), I have your wallet. Give me a call.”

Want to try and piece that together Encyclopedia Brown? You don’t? Good, because it would be impossible. Here is how it played out:

• My wallet managed to stay on top of the car from Connecticut and all the way to NJ. No lie.
• It fell off when we pulled off of the highway and into the Starbucks parking lot.
• An off duty police officer found it in the middle of the road and scooped it up.
• My uncle’s PBA card was inside the wallet.
• The police officer who picked it up was best friend’s with my uncle’s son (my cousin), a fellow cop.
• He gave the wallet to my cousin and asked my uncle to call me.
• My uncle was at a wedding when he called me … with my parents.

This was clearly my last warning to get my shit together. These kinds of things don’t just happen. There was a higher being at work here and I was all ears. There was no third chance available.

Ever since that day, I refuse to wear shorts without pockets. I haven’t placed my wallet on top of anything since then. But most importantly, I started an OCD like ritual to make sure I have all the essentials on me at all times. It goes like this:

I say out loud “Keys, wallet, phone, work ID  (always in that order)”. I tap each pocket to ensure they are all securely in there. I do this upwards of 100 times a day and I haven’t lost any of them since then. So if you see me mumbling to myself, just know to not interrupt me or there could be dire consequences.

I’ve even extended that same mentality inside my home. “Alarm on, garage closed, refrigerator door shut, lights off, dog has water, etc.” It can look bizarre but dammit, it is effective.

How will I magically weave this tale into a garden related post? Don’t know, but hopefully I entertained you a bit. Actually I’ll give it a shot just to see if I can pull it off.

Back to the Barberry shrubs …

I mentioned I planted 4 of them, correct? Two on each side of the front door at my old home. Nice and symmetrical. That worked for me at the time until years later when I discovered the “rule of three” with garden design.

“Rule of three” pushes the design theory that all plantings look better when the same plants are grouped together in odd numbers. It is more pleasing to the eye. I don’t fully understand why this is true, but oh boy did I subscribe to the theory.

For a long time, all of the plantings at my current home were in groups of 3. Like freakishly so. I was that taken by the theory.

I even had to show you three photos in order to avoid the shakes.

It extended into my every day non gardening life as well. The mugs on my desk had to be grouped in 3’s. My deodorant and toothpaste and cologne triumvirate looked great on the bathroom counter. I considered asking my wife for a third child just so they would look “right” in photos. I had “Rule of 3” OCD.

I’ve since let up some and have allowed my garden design to relax a bit. I can even drive by my old home where the 4 Barberry shrubs still sit and not hyperventilate. But through it all, I am a believer in rituals and how they saved me from myself and my garden.

Someone recently asked me, “How did you get this into gardening”? Most have an easy answer like, “My parents or grandparents were gardeners” or “I had an interest in plants from a young age”. For me, there  was no simple answer. 

With that in mind, I started to analyze where my passion for plants originated. And I realized it came from a series of events over the past 17 years.

Here is the story of one of those events:  

October 12, 1997:

Two weeks prior, we had just moved into our first home in Somerville, NJ. I’m 25 years old, married for one year and 100% clueless when it comes to home ownership responsibility. It is exciting, intimidating, overwhelming, fun and cozy all at the same time.

I know the exact date above because it was the perfect fall Sunday, in the heart of the NFL season and truth be told, I actually looked it up online a few minutes ago. I vividly remember watching a specific game while standing on a ladder and looking through the picture window at the front of our house. Why was I watching TV on a ladder and what does that have to do with gardening? Glad you asked.

The curb appeal on our 1950’s Cape Cod styled home was decent but it needed something more. Believe it or not, landscaping didn’t even enter into the equation at the time. I couldn’t have told you the difference between deciduous and evergreen. There were a few “green bushes” along the foundation and I had already (cover your ears) sheared them into lollipops. Perfection.  

Eventually, that something more ended up being new shutters. Once that decision was made, I confidently volunteered to hang said shutters. Did I have any idea how to do it? Hells no.  And there was no You Tube to lead the way. Here we go Johnnie Boy.

This was a huge moment for me. This was my first chance to show my new bride that she married a man who could “do it himself”. Well technically not the first time. Upon moving into the house, I did pull up a hideously awesome 70’s carpet and proceeded to pull out each and every associated staple.

Those are some solid shorts you got on there buddy. Whew. But I digress …

I knew my wife quietly feared that we would have to outsource simple tasks like the replacement of light bulbs. Failure was not an option if I wanted my lady’s respect.

That October morning, I grabbed my ladder, my newly opened drill, a couple of screwdrivers and the shutters and got ready to amaze the world. As I climbed up the ladder and caught a glimpse of the football game through the front window, I strongly considered crying uncle and hitting the couch, beer in hand. It took all of my considerable strength to push on. 

I’m not sure how, but I managed to get on two of the shutters without much of an issue. I could have quit then and been happy for a lifetime the day. End it on a good note.

I moved on next to the side of the house near my driveway (key piece of info here as you’ll see in a minute) and was all set for shutter set numero deuce. As I climbed the ladder for the third time, I could see my wife through the window and I gave her a cocky nod like “I got this shit.” Apparently “having that shit” means you proceed to fall off said ladder while perfectly framed through a window while your wife looks on in horror.

Yes, I fell off that ladder.

But luckily and comically, I fell onto my car, rolled off the hood and onto my neighbor’s lawn. One shutter was broken as was my already fragile ego. After gathering myself and calmly getting to my feet, my wife popped outside to make sure I was OK. I laughed it off and gave the proverbial “no biggie” and pretended to get back to work.

Except I opted for a meltdown instead. A contained meltdown from the outside but damn did I give myself an internal tongue lashing like never seen before in my 25 years on this planet.

“You suck John”.

“Your wife will never respect you a-hole”

“If you can’t do this John, all hope is lost.”

To make a long story … longer, no shutters were ever added to the side of the house. I couldn’t maneuver the ladder properly to be able to screw them in.

I also ended up requiring help from my in-laws to install the other two shutters on the front of the house. I had issues with screwing through the aluminum siding and made the desperate call for help.

So all in all, I failed my initial test.

I really started to worry that maybe an apartment was a better choice for us. That, or our money budgeted for groceries each week had to go towards a permanent handyman who lived in our tiny shed in the backyard. Panic time had set in.

That following week, still mentally beat up after Shuttergate, I set out for the local garden center to pick up some mums. I couldn’t possibly screw up placing two baskets on the front porch.  

Once there, I innocently picked up a Helleri Holly on sale and casually read the label. This is kind of nice and the label sure seems to indicate that it is easy to grow. What is a “zone” and why do I care?

Maybe we did need to address that landscaping after all. How hard could it be to add some flowers? And I don’t need a ladder or a drill to put them in. I can handle a shovel.   

And ladies and gentleman, there was no looking back from there.