Three years ago I bought a jasmine bush at an open air market in the nearby town of Bisenti. It was over five feet tall, full of blossoms, and cost only 12 euro. The ones I'd seen at nurseries were smaller, less flowered, and cost upwards of 25 euro. I had been searching for one for several weeks. It was a serendipitous find, I believed. Greg was coming in just a week.
I wanted to plant the jasmine on my tiny terrazzo for him. So he could enjoy its fragrance on his first visit to Casa da Carmine. He discovered his love for the scent of jasmine on his first trip to Italy in 2006. It was a trip whose anticipation filled me with hope and dread.
"What if he hates the place?" I'd ask myself. How might THAT play to his batty for the boot Italianate partner? But on one of his first days in the country, he pulled to a stop as we walked down the sidewalk of a Tuscan town.
"What is THAT? " he blurted.
"What?", I asked. I looked towards the window of the bakery across the street.
"That smell!" He inhaled into all of his 6', 220 pound, his rapture more like a Jane Austen heroine than his he-man adventure guy self.
"Oh." I looked to the edge of the walk and saw a block long, 5 foot high jasmine hedge. "It'sthe jasmine. It's the season."
"Wow." Was all he said. And continued inhaling deeply.
From then on, whenever we found jasmine, he would pick blossoms and put them in my hair, stuff them down my blouse, okay, yes, even in my underwear. I imagined fumes trailing me as I walked down the street. But Greg was gaga for the scent. That and the Dolomite section of the Alps were his
favorite parts of the trip.
I couldn't very well plant the Dolomites on my terrace. So I scored the jasmine bush.
Bringing it home, I had to nestle to root ball in the front passenger seat and hang the top out the rear driver's side window. I seat belted it in. I balanced it on my shoulder to get it into the front door, up the stairs, through the bathroom to the terrazzo door, and down the winding stairway to the terrazzo. When I unwrapped the twine that held the branches together, I saw why it was so cheap. The guy had to get rid of it. It had been compressed for so long the vines were compacted and tangled in a twisted
mess not unlike a thin gold chain that had knotted itself. I had no idea where to begin. So I randomly picked a vine. Like the untangling of a chain, I would follow a branch so far - and be halted by an unyielding knot. I backtracked and tried a new route. Over and over and over. I analyzed. I cajoled. I
asked it for guidance. I prayed. I cursed. I apologized for accidentally snapping off branches and shredding flowers. After two and a half hours, both jasmine and I looked beat. White starbursts and
delicate green tendrils covered the terrace.the vines hung spread out, gaping and sproinging in
haphazard directions. I cut open the burlap sack that held the root ball. The roots looked no better
than the vines. The ball resembled a roadmap to nowhere. But I went ahead and lopped off a few
inches from the bottom, like the man at the stand had instructed. I planted roots and vines in a huge
aluminum washtub. I had not idea if this was good for the plant. It was all I had. It was already full of dirt. I watered jasmine until the surface of the dirt was wet, just like I had been told. I stood back to survey my accomplishment. Splayed out against the grey stone wall, still sagging but thick with white blooms, it looked like a weary bride at the end of her wedding reception. One who was ready to bolt after realizing her mistake. I swiped a hand across my forehead, leaving a smear of dirt that ran down the side of my face with the sweat.
"Just like me", I thought. "Leap into a project just because I had the idea in my head. Having no idea what the hell I'm doing."
It was kind of like the whole process of getting the house in the first place. All at once, this jasmine seemed like my familiar and my great white hope. A metaphor for this dream of owning a house in
Italy. Jasmine and I stared at each other.
"Please don't die." I said.
She spent several days curling up her leaves and shedding them in the pot. Half the blossoms turned
brown and brittle. I nursed her with plant food and water retention goblets. Then shiny green leaves began to appear. More and more each day. Bright bids burst into bloom like flashes from a film noir newsman's camera, by the time Gregg arrived, the terrazzo was a fragrant paradise.our first dinner there was a full-blown sensory spectacle.
Throughout the rest of the summer, I would sit on the terrazzo, a glass of wine or limoncello in hand,
and beam at the jasmine.
"You and me, kid! We made it!"
We survived my impetuous dreaming on faith, guesses, intuition, and dumb luck.
Last summer, the day I returned after my nine months in the US, I dumped my suitcases in the
entranceway, ran to the door to the terrazzo, and flung it open. The jasmine had exploded! It spread
out so thickly it practically obscured the wall; it snaked around the stair railing and up the stairs
nearly to the bathroom; it reached out beyond the pot, tendrils bobbing in mid-air, searching for new surfaces to conquer. I ran laughing down the stairs, clapping my hands.
"Good job, jazzy!" I said.
This year, I again flung open the terrazzo door as soon as I arrived. I saw the jasmine. It felt like someone had pitched a fast ball at my heart. Jasmine was scrawny and spindly. Most of the leaves were red or rust colored and fluttering off the vine as I stared. I saw not buds or emergent white stars. Jasmine looked ......defeated. Like a boxer who had gone down in the tenth round. I wept. Before I could get down the stairs, a cold rain began to pelt the terrace and all it held. Huge droplets hit the ground and exploded, looking like mini mines were detonating up from the ground. I retreated into the house.
Today I went down for a closer look. There is more green than I thought. Nodes on the vines sport
tiny buds, still balled up in fear but open to possibilities. I set to my hope and by gosh by golly work, pulling off dead and dying leaves, pruning, topping off the pot with fresh soil, feeding and watering.
As I do, the church bells herald a funeral procession. They peal low and slow like sobs stifled to prevent an all-out weepfest. I am saving jasmine. Oh yes I am! Jasmine is my will and my hope for the future. She needs to be here to encourage me. To help me believe. And she needs to be here as my final resting place. My family knows this. This is where they have to put my ashes. Some day. When jasmine and I have bloomed here for many, many years. Buck up, girl! I need you!
P.S. I am happy to report that Rosemary is doing splendidly.
Jasmine- this year
Jasmine- last year
Rosemary
