Beauty in the winter garden

When I was a kid growing up in a nice, middle-class housing development in upstate New York, there were three styles of house--and only three--in my neighborhood: the raised ranch (which is now widely referred to as the bi-level), the split level, and the colonial. Of course, the variety of colors and other accoutrements on each individual residence (shutters v. no shutters, the presence or absence of screen doors, brick face v. aluminum siding, etc) ensured variety, but there was a certain "sameness" that was both comforting and disconcerting.

That uniform mindset, so prevalent in buildings from the 1950s through the 1980s, even extended to the plantings around the houses. It was an era of builder bargaining in landscaping: mini blue spruce trees and arborvitaes bought in bulk by the developers because they were reasonably priced and hardy enough to last through harsh New York winters.

Every house had these evergreens in front of them. And like the houses themselves, only the sizes and maintenance varied. Most people's shrubs were cut into neat little shapes: circles, squares and triangles of living plants lined along walkways like geometric soldiers ushering me onto the school bus, and making me grimace in the process. How I hated math, and any reminder of it in my life.

The more creative neighbors, like the artists who lived across the street from me, let their requisite arborvitae grow uninhibited, and in a matter of a few years it had spread its branches far and wide, all but obscuring their nearby fence. I liked their free-spirited approach to gardening (or their reasonable facsimile) and the plants appealed to me because they didn't look like all the others in the area.

Don't get me wrong; I had a wonderful childhood, full of friendly neighbors and tons of kids my age to play with. Our development was state-of-the-art back then: a place everyone and anyone would be thrilled to call home. Yet as I ventured into the wider world, I began to see new things. And these new things were full of variety. I had tired of the same old arborvitae, yew, barberry and spruce. And when I bought my own house I avoided what I thought of as inferior plants.

In fact, for the better part of 15 years I experimented with exotic grasses and perennials, and those plantings paid off big time--in the warm weather seasons. But after the last leaves of autumn fell, my lush landscape looked downright barren. All the evergreens I eschewed mocked me from neighboring lawns. Each winter they'd sparkle with newly fallen snow, their minty leaves peeking out from beneath their powdered lashes like coy coniferous flirts.

I couldn't help myself: I was entranced. I've now planted a plethora of evergreen bushes, and each winter I relish the shot of greenery they contribute to the gray and white landscape. The same plants I'd discounted I now value--not only for their year-round beauty, but their humble ability to teach me that everything has a purpose and a rightful place in this world. I--we-- just need to recognize it.

I took this shot a few weeks ago because although it's a municipal setting, I like the idea of massing the various evergreens into a whole new shape. I think similar plantings would complement residential areas, too.