Garden of Wonders

 "One of the wonders of Santa Ana is a hidden garden. It's a garden in which the science of botany is developed to veritable zeniths, for here thrives countless varieties of flower and plant life of intense interest to everybody. If motoring past the residence at 1317 Spurgeon Street, a stranger would not have the least idea of the existence of such a wonderland thereabout. Yet, there it is, just around the corner of that residence. 

Blauer's Nursery and Cacti Garden, one of the busiest spots in all Orange county under the able management of Fred C. Blauer. 

In strolling through one section of the place, one gets all the illusions of being on a far-away desert inasmuch as all kinds of cactus specimens abound. Then a visit to another corner is for all the world like being in the tropics while adjacent nooks are remindful of flower filled decks back in the old Missouri or Indiana home in the merry month of June.

Everywhere in this hidden garden Nature is at its glorious best and it's an ideal place to go to renew one's faith in the munificence of a Higher Power."

 These words are from a newspaper article describing my Grandfather's nursery and it can't begin to exaggerate the beauty and impression it left on me. The love I have for gardening is foremost inspired by the boyhood play and work in this wonderland. I suppose the property was about two acres. As a boy I wandered though wisteria covered arbors, blossoming gardenia, hibiscus and rose. The scent of which lingers still. 

 I'm not sure when it was built, but my memory is of aged buildings with squeaky slat doors, worn from years of use. I explored with childhood curiosity every nook and cranny, old potting sheds, the tropical smell and humidity of the large glass house used to start cuttings, and it still rushes to memory whenever I find myself in the rain-forests of Oregon or in a local nursery selecting a flower seen in the old family business. Dark backrooms with a bare bulb, or no light at all but what comes in through the slats. Tool sheds filled with what would be antique treasures today. I'm sure my love for the old and worn is shaped by these boyhood memories.

 My work ethic was born from the labor under Dad's watchful eye as I watered the stock or filled countless gallon cans with earth. Like the old blacksmith, my father's hands and arms were muscled by his labor there. Giving up a career as a pilot trainer to come to his Father's and in maintaining the family business, I'm sure he loved the work, but always looked back. 

I look back too, would that I had stepped in and continued the work....