Read Online Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart by Carol Wall - Free Book Online Page A

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    “This tree is a fine example of a popular type of birch that likes to get its feet wet,” Giles finally answered. “I have pruned the species before, and will not need a yardstick.”
    “Don’t let me interfere.” I closed the landscaping book. Apparently, Giles saw this as his prompt to get down to business. He took two giant, backward steps, his face reflecting concentrated energy, and I realized with horror that he was planning to climb the tree. I called out to him, “Don’t you need a ladder, Giles?”
    He sprinted past me, a streak of energy advancing toward the tree. He pushed himself off with one foot, and as I watched him rise, I was amazed that a person of his age could be so nimble, strong, and fearless. The branches shuddered as he found a place within. His tennis shoes scraped the bark until they settled on the first of the substantial horizontal limbs, about six feet from the ground. From there, he climbed until he disappeared into the canopy of leaves. Aware that I had absolutely nothing to contribute to this endeavor, I retreated to the asphalt pad thatmade up our basketball court, and pulled out a black metal lawn chair to sit in. I couldn’t see Giles, but I could hear him working and see the shaking of the leaves.
    I set my book aside. My gaze fell on a brand-new pair of dark green garden gloves that Giles had taken from his pocket when he arrived (although I’d prayed he would forget). They lay on top of his folded gray sweatshirt, in the shadow of the birch tree, exactly where he had placed them with what seemed a careful glance in my direction.
    A ripple of annoyance passed over me. He brought them, but then gave no explanation. I walked closer and confirmed my initial impression: two green cotton gloves that were bulky and too large for me. I studied them. My mouth went dry. I hoped he didn’t intend for me to dig in the dirt. The very thought of it made me queasy. I could have simply asked Giles what he meant by needing my “assistance.” But I sensed I’d pressed the limits by reading to him from the book.
    The leaves that shielded Giles shivered. “Are you okay, Mrs. Wall?”
    Rhudy tilted his snout up and barked to let me know that he was on the job. I scrambled back to get my book. “Are you about to make your cut?”
    “I will await instruction,” he said.
    I pictured him hanging precariously by one arm, one foot propped against a sturdy limb and the pruning saw poised for action. I needed to hurry. “Here it says you don’t cut flush against the tree when pruning,” I called up to him.
    “Okay.”
    “You’re supposed to leave an angle, which I thought was interesting. I wish you could see this picture. It shows why you don’t want it to be flat, because disease and weeping can result from the way it used to be done, in the old days. Flat against the limb, that is. We don’t want that.”
    “Very good,” Giles said. “It’s very true.”
    I heard the sound of sawing and pictured sunlight flashing on the steely blade.
    “Giles, how long have you been working with plants?” I was surprised to realize I hadn’t asked him this before.
    The sawing stopped.
    “I have loved them ever since I can remember. Especially the flowers.” His voice was soft, yet vibrant with feeling.
    “Do you have the river birch in Kenya?”
    “There have been cultivars from other lands. But they are not native.”
    I felt my cheeks grow red with embarrassment, and the tiniest suspicion that I had made a mistake in thinking that Giles needed my help in pruning the tree properly. I skipped to another page I’d marked. It showed a row of inkberry hollies intermingled with some rhododendron, planted in an interesting design at the base of a traditional brick house like ours. Azaleas played no role in the design.
    Perhaps I just needed to modernize Giles’s perspective on azaleas. I called up to him, “Don’t you think certain plants go in and out of style?”
    There was no