Malcolm has just finished the biweekly trim of the boxwood hedges that border two stone paths. One path leads to a greek-like statue, another ends at a focal point — the fountain. Terraces dotted with topiaries surround the boxwood. There’s the swath of perfect lawn, cut short and edged, like Malcolm’s hair. Malcolm loves to weed, edge and prune in his high-maintenance garden. Like the formal English garden, boundaries are well defined and symmetry rules.
Malcolm’s garden began with a bulk supply of graph paper and months of planning that produced neat stacks of color-coded sketches. Then came the heavy equipment — the backhoes and graders that moved, shaped, graded and re-graded until every natural contour was obliterated. Next a white fence, topped with decorative latticework, was erected to enclose his compound.
Then he searched for plants — some rare, temperamental and expensive varieties.
Early in our friendship I helped Malcolm prepare for a large garden party. He asked me to run to the kitchen and get some cilantro from his spice rack. “Just look in the Cs,” he said. I was confused until I discovered his multi-tiered, fully revolving, electronic spice rack was alphabetized. (I know I’ve wandered into kitchen profiling, a sub-niche of garden profiling, but it’s an illuminating digression, I believe.)
Malcolm’s color combinations are as refined as he is. The analogous pale blue flowers of bugloss are followed by delphinium’s deep blue — a perfectly planned succession of blue blooms. Every plant relates to each other and to nearby architectural elements. He uses the fence as a backdrop for single “specimen” plants.
This is the garden for clarity and conservative clothing.
Behind the fence, among the orderly hedges, we discuss Malcolm’s recent trip to the Cotswolds, books and the theater, in a logical fashion. My words are careful and considered. I find myself saying “precisely” and “ostensibly.” Nothing like the “ya right” and “in your dreams” I let loose in Patty’s garden.
Malcolm wears a bow tie to a profession that suits a man who owns eight well- sharpened edgers. He found his calling in contract law.
Then there are gardeners who confound, like my friend Barb. While single, she was smitten with wildflowers and made and sold her own soap. When she married a man with money, she quit the soap business and hired a crew of 12 to rip up the fields of wildflowers. Lured by catalogues and magazines chock full of glossy photos of the newest plants and the latest designs, she’s what profilers call an “aspirational gardener” or a “serial sower.” She renovates her garden to reflect the latest fad. Recently, she added a pergola, a scented garden, a cutting garden, an herb garden and what she calls “a water feature.” By the way, that’s a fountain.
But I remind myself that it’s gardeners like Barb who make the work of this profiler so challenging.