Visiting Monet's Giverny Far Too Early
I grew up with an ingrained sense that flowers must be grown. No matter where I lived I would plant what I knew best: marigolds, cosmos, bachelor buttons, and any of the various fall bulbs. Daffodils were my lifelong favorites. If I didn't have space, I'd go back to my parents house and plant something.
In the late 70's I'd heard that Monet's garden at Giverny were being reclaimed. In 1979 I was working at Stanley Hayter's "Atelier 17" in Paris and decided to visit the garden with my wife, Gale Murray, and two Canadians. We found the location of the gardens and plotted our trip via the train to Vernon and received directions that Giverny was only 5 kilometers away.
We had prepared the typical French d'jeunier: a baguette, a hunk of Caprice de Dieux, Jambon, tomats, vin, Volvic, some cornishons, and a selection of tartlettes. Our plan was to eat our lunch in the garden.
The weather was hot and sunny; not a cloud and no breeze. Our walk from the train station took us along a "departmental road," for rural France it was relatively highly traveled. A car or truck might pass every few minutes.
Five kilometers seemed a severe underestimate. Our walk dragged on and on, under that cloudless sky. The beauty of a walk and anticipation of a goal can be devalued by increased duration and a dry dusty roadside. We had started off with the excitement of Dorothy, the Tin Woodsman, and all seeing the Emerald City in the distance. The heat was sapping our enthusiasm. When we found our way to our destination, it again was Oz like. In Oz, the gatekeeper tried to turn Dorothy and her companions away, yet relented and let them in. Our experience lacked a fairy tale ending. We didn't get in. The gardens were still undergoing reconstruction and closed to visitors. Nothing was open. We circumnavigated the tall brick fence looking for a way in or a low portion to peek over. There was none. Our trek had been nearly in vain, except for a brief moment for each of us as we took turns giving each other a boost up the wall.
These short peeks were enough to allow us to say we had looked into the gardens. Clearly they were correct in keeping the site closed. The plantings were too recent to be as lush as one sees in a Monet painting. Someone paying to visit such a garden would doubtless feel duped. We, on the other hand, held the promise in our heads and projected the opulent images in our minds, through the brick wall onto the turned soil inside.
We backed down the road a bit and focused upon our picnic. The meal was good, but the heat of the day meant that what should have been sufficient wine and water wasn't. We were too thirsty. Before starting our hike back to Vernon we looked for a place to get a drink in Giverny. There was a tavern open that afternoon and we found refuge from the sun and heat. Half a dozen, at most, locals were there already. They were probably farmers or some occupation that allowed them to escape the afternoon sun. They weren't tourists. Several of the men wore tops that looked like Hawaiian shirts; except someone managed to forget to add the designs and colors.
Beer was being delivered, in cases and kegs. A cart kept going in and out the side door. Crated empties would disappear and filled crates would come back in. The woman running the place seemed to be tied up with this activity, thus prolonging our stay when we tried to pay.
Shortly after we settled our bill, as we prepared to depart, a deafening sound filled the tavern. It was sudden, shrill, sustained, and growing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the beer delivery person struggling behind the bar. I felt something was about to explode and he was losing his fight to prevent it. I grabbed Gale's hand and hauled her out the door and around the corner. No sooner were we out when the sound stopped and the laughter began, not our laughter, the guys in the blank Hawaiian shirts and the beer delivery person. The beer person had been attempting to change the compressed gas tank and it became stuck. He and the local patrons took great delight at the sight of fleeing strangers. We returned briefly to make sure everything was fine and found out that this sort of thing happened nearly every time the tanks were changed.
The guys in the blank Hawaiian shirts always came for the "show," and today I had contributed to the scene. They wanted to buy us a drink. I wanted to find this all funny, instead of embarrassing. Gale wanted her wrist to stop hurting and our Canadian companions wanted to be back in Paris.
That fall I planted about 2,000 daffodils and 900 tulips in the yard, behind our six foot high fence. I redesigned the entire sideyard. Next spring the Horticultural Arts Society called on me. Someone had peeked over my fence and nominated my garden for an award.
P.S. A letter from the judges arrived several weeks later with a check. It seems the Grand Award came with enough money to allow me to add another flower bed outside the fence. Casual passers by can view the beds for free.
P.P.S. I have since let my lush garden become overgrown.
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