The Third Act: A Column on Ageism and Ageing

The sign said “Free Tomato Plants!” Why not, I thought. I randomly picked one. Turning to leave, a voice from alongside the house asked. “Do you know which kind you got?” She was every inch the gardener, this Madam Appleseed…wide brimmed sun hat, trowel, weeder and hand rake sticking out from her apron pockets. She’d been working in her backyard where she grows fruit trees, vegetables and flowers. Ambitious, especially by high desert standards. She said she had also successfully reintroduced a variety of native desert plants, gesturing to those that thrived in the flower bed fronting her house.

Per her question, I read the plastic label stuck in the dirt of the tomato pot I was holding. “Bella Rosa.” Did I realize how big the Bella Rosa would grow? Not exactly. Or how big a pot I’d need? Not really. I mean, sometimes a tomato is just a tomato, right? Wrong. After her ensuing discourse on all things Solanum lycopersicum, we took a moment to marvel at the hundreds of bees feasting on the blooming cat mint, showing no nectar-collecting interest in other flowers in her sidewalk flower bed. As this garden guru admired a small bud here, pinched off a dried stalk there, she told me that one blossom doesn’t fit all bugs and vice versa. Some insects prefer certain blooms, some blooms prefer certain insects. Over eons, it turns out, plants have developed defenses against insects while insects have figured ways to overcome those defenses, especially when the plant provides convenient and critical nutrients. Take butterflies. Milkweed is what monarchs need to survive their annual 3,000-mile migration. But other butterflies require different host plants which humans are also inadvertently destroying. “We must plant them, too.”

I suddenly saw her sidewalk and backyard gardens as small-scale efforts to realign the universe, as reminders that everywhere we look we are observing a carefully choreographed give and take, a vital, essential and fragile connection between everything and everyone. The actions of this one lone gardener strengthen the inherent self-regulating, reciprocal nature of nature, including you and me. This horticulturist’s practice cleans the air and nourishes the soil, benefitting insects and birds. The attention and caring she brings to her gardens, never mind giving away tomato plants, sends pheromones of generosity into the world.

It was once explained to me how our nation’s social welfare system evolved. Neighbor helping neighbor was the original model, but when neighborhoods, communities and churches became overwhelmed by the needs of growing populations, the states and federal government put their shoulders to the wheel. By extension, the same was true of sustaining the arts or humanities or schools or health care, legal or defense systems, the environment or libraries or museums or maintaining peace. All this was brought to mind by the generosity of my neighborhood gardener, by the welfare she is cultivating through her actions.

In environmental protection and conservation efforts, there are five distinctions commonly used when discussing species that directly benefit ecosystems: indicator, charismatic, umbrella, keystone and apex. In some cases, there is overlap. In others, all can apply to one. The presence or absence of indicator species provides a measure of the good or bad health of the ecosystem. The charismatic species are generally known and beloved worldwide and are often used to bring the public’s attention to broader ecological problems. By protecting the habitat of an umbrella species, numerous others that share the same ecosystem are also protected. A keystone species is the glue that holds a habitat together. The kings or queens of the jungle are the apex species. They function much like the keystone species, however, have no natural predators of their own. Does my neighborhood gardener qualify for all of these? I wager so.

I headed home to find an appropriate pot for my fledgling Bella Rosa. My mind was spinning with the names of hardy natives she suggested I plant in my suburban, high desert plot — Agastache, Salvia, Buckwheat, Coreopsis, Echinacea. I committed to memory her adage, “Sleep, creep and leap,” underscoring the seasons it takes for a new planting to thrive, and the concomitant patience required of the gardener. But new plantings aside, at my seven decades and counting, I feel the need to reverse her maxim’s order to leap, creep and sleep. If I am going to go somewhere or do or stand up for something, time is of the essence. I had better leap now. I’ll be creeping soon enough and a longtime asleep.

—Poet and author Ellen Waterston is a woman of a certain age who resides in Bend. “The Third Act” is a series of columns on ageing and ageism.

This article appears in Source Weekly June 26, 2025.