Knowledge v. Wisdom
One of the best lessons I ever received was from the man who taught and certified me to be a Texas Master Gardener, Stacy Reese, gulp, 22 years ago. “I will teach you how to give an educated ‘I don’t know, but I know how to find out.’”
Stacy was a character. Texan through and through, from Comanche, wore broken-in square-toe boots every day of his life, a big ol’ belt buckle and was a total hippie. Hippe cowboys, it’s a thing. (And if they don’t love the land and see themselves as Her protector, they’re all hat and no cattle.)
He wanted us to be stewards of the land, to understand how to meet challenges and most of all, to respect the soil. “Don’t call it dirt. Dirt is on the bottom of your shoe. You grow plants in soil.” For months we met every week to learn from him and other experts on trees, native plants, vegetable gardens, pests, lawn maintenance, etc. He was also a believer in guerilla gardening, illegal plant swaps, and getting rid of year-round jewel-green lawns.
At the time, I was the youngest person to go through the program at 31. It’s usually the refuge of the retired, plus the hundred hours of volunteer work you must do to finish your certification and rightfully earn your title and badge isn’t easy to do. But I was determined to learn and had good in-laws who loved spending time with my small children.
I did very well in the program, loved working the Extension Agency desk where I had fun with the calls and walk ins. If you ever wondered if Parks and Rec exaggerated small town bureaucracy, I can assure you they barely scratched the surface.
Mind you, this agency is meant to answer questions about gardening, pest management, and tree and lawn care. I usually got calls from bored men who were struggling with retirement, looking for an ear for their gripes. One of the more memorable calls was one of those types, whose home butted up against a small pond, and did I have a recommendation for a duck cannon?
“I’m sorry, sir, a what?”
“A duck cannon. Duck cannon,” he over enunciated. “I don’t want ducks on the water by my house.”
I’ve heard about people irritated by their neighbor’s trees (you do not want to mess with Tree Law. It’s a thing and you will lose), folks who brought in zip-lock bags of bugs still alive and the office was in the basement of a municipal building. Please do not bring nor open bags of wasps inside buildings because you’re curious about the type of wasp it is.
I loved the puzzle of solving what fungus was taking over a leaf, calculating how far a French drain should run, and using the old timey card catalog and pigeonholed data in the “research room.” I loved it so much I ended up opening a bespoke gardening business and was a general go-to for friends and neighbors alike when they were struggling. At one point I’d mapped out a TV show, Mastering the Garden, and even shot a pilot ep. Think “Alton Brown’s Good Eats, but in the garden.”
(I hate those gardening shows of old where they’d surprise a homeowner with a grand garden with crazy Vegas bells and whistles, then… leave. What did those yards look like a month later? Three months later? What if instead we just taught people the science of why things keep going wrong and how to make them right? My oldest child had a mental health crisis that ended that show’s trajectory, but I still think it’s a good idea.)
You can “know” what plants look pretty and “know” what you want your garden or landscape to look like, but do you have the hard-earned wisdom to make it work year after year?
And now we get to the marquee, the whole purpose of this! I knew a lot of data at the start. I could take a test where you showed me 200 common plants for North Texas and I could tell you the name, both scientific and common, tell you everything you needed to know about that plant, where it did best, its watering needs, seasons, the whole nine yards. I’d offer up information to folks making bad decisions in the nursery, free of charge, ha, spend a lot of time leaning on a shovel as neighbors of clients would hit me up for information, give a lot of myself to others, because I wanted to share my knowledge and assumed people would value it. They usually did.
But now, after 22 years of deep work in landscapes all over Texas (including some pretty prestigious addresses for some spectacularly well-known individuals), I have acquired wisdom. Deep understanding that I don’t need to tell my neighbor who doesn’t make eye contact that his new garden bed looks like hell and something a four-year old designed, no rhyme or reason to anything being anywhere.
Because, you see, I know his wife looks at my garden with a little envy; she’s told me as much. But she doesn’t know why she likes my garden, other than it has flowers. A fellow gardener would appreciate the four-season aspect, the use of color and texture, marvel at how much was grown from seed, be shocked at how few resources it requires to stay lush and lovely.
She sees his haphazard and begrudging plant job and feels gratitude for her husband, who did something just for her. To her, it’s beautiful. Good enough!
Oh, those plants aren’t going to last. But I can share cuttings from mine down the road. I’d need to do a soil analysis, check how water moves in their landscape, learn how much capacity they have to maintain a manicured garden versus just wanting to see something green out of the window. I don’t know the answer to any of that without a lot of work on my part.
But if he ever asks for advice, I’ll give it. He’s not going to, so I can just offer a shrug and pale compliment when necessary, thus saving me time and energy.
See? Wisdom.
I don’t have to have answers for everyone. I can give a qualified “I don’t know… but I know how to find out.” And I can bask in the knowledge that wisdom is knowing when to offer information or guidance and when to tell some guy cheesed off that ducks are shitting on his lawn that while he can’t legally fire off a cannon sporadically, he can and should get a hobby. In town.
So light and entertaining, yet packs a memorable lesson!
“I don’t know, but I’ll see what I can find out,” was my mantra during my teaching days.