This behemoth once fit in an elevator...

One of the great pleasures of creating gardens is watching them evolve and mature over time; indeed, a new garden takes several years just to provide the shade, structure, and privacy intended, and it takes at least a few seasons to eliminate poorly performing plants where needed, fill in bare spots, and make the garden “work.” One of my favorite gardens, in Seattle, turns ten years old this summer, and needless to say, it’s aging much more gracefully than its designer/field hand, me.
Every site provides its challenges, be it poor soil or drainage, unsightly neighbors, privacy hazards, too much sun or too little, steep slopes… you name it. Few, however, are also seven stories above the street, where each plant must be transported via elevator, along with the containers and soil, where they will then be buffeted by high winds, baked under relentless sun, watered by a complicated (and demonstrably not foolproof) drip irrigation system, and must look as good from the street as they do from within. With customary modesty, I’m ready to declare this one a success.
The space itself is something of an anomaly, a creature of Seattle’s hilly terrain and height restrictions, which are strictly set at 65 feet along this stretch of Pike St. between downtown and Capitol Hill. The developer was therefore unable to build out the entire seventh floor at the lower portion of the lot, and had to come up with a way to monetize that freeloading corner of the building, so they put a “flagship” penthouse there with an astounding 2800 square feet of roof garden, punctuated by these weird trellis outcroppings for chimneys and plumbing vents that essentially divide the space into three sections, and discourage helicopter landings as an added bonus.
When I first saw the place, I was floored; sweeping views of Lake Union, Queen Anne Hill, the Space Needle, Puget Sound, The Olympic Peninsula with its snow-capped peaks, and if you leaned on the railing you could look all the way down Pike and see the famous “Public Market” sign, where Seattleites have been buying fresh fish and local produce for nearly 100 years. (many buildings, and a ghastly new  skybridge across Pike at the Washington Convention Center, now have popped up, like mushrooms after a rain, to almost completely obscure these views, as you can see…) On the down side, there were three sets of cheesy white plastic “French” doors giving onto it (since replaced by commercial brushed aluminum) with no cover from the rain for which Seattle is rightly famous (now sheltered by glass awnings), three crappy porch lights, two non-dedicated 15 amp electrical outlets (now joined by another 10 amps of juice to light the palms at night,for the benefit of boats on the lake and diners in the Space Needle…) blindingly new and banal concrete pavers, and the perimeter was trimmed in shiny prefabricated railings above a bunch of ugly metal flashing. And those trellis thingies… What the hell? I-5 roared below, and a large building across Minor St. to the west was some kind of halfway house, unfortunately built long before the height restrictions were in place, where unnerving people could always be found peering out the windows.
Since the owner, Bob, was not known to be an avid gardener (at the time; I’m proud to say that has changed….) I wanted plants that required little maintenance and created minimal litter to schlep downstairs, and I wanted to avoid anything that would be bare in Seattle’s long, dark winters. I also wanted to take advantage of the street identity of the place; Pike is a very busy street, with cars, pedestrians, and an electrified bus line, and my idea was for everyone who looked up to be green with envy. Why wouldn’t you? “Palm trees,” I cackled to myself, in a manner not unlike the Wicked Witch of the West when she said, “Poppies.”
Of course, there were still challenges aplenty; at that time no one sold mature specimens of Trachycarpus Fortunei, the only palm that was hardy in Seattle, but by dangling such a lucrative order before the manager of my local nursery in Portland, I was able to persuade him to order 100 of them from California, the other 92 of which are now all over town here, along with many that followed. The remarkable and rare four foot trunks of which are now eight feet and more , as you can see.  Win-win, I call it.
He also trucked the plants and soil up from Portland, and spent a few days helping me with the daunting task of stuffing them into the elevator and planting them, along with the rest of the plants, in the containers, which now number over 150, ordered in bulk from Seattle’s Herban Pottery, with whom I obviously developed a close relationship. Since I was already as busy as a whore on Saturday night painting the interior, installing floors, lighting, ironwork and cabinetry, I couldn’t simply, as a practical matter, run back to Portland to pick up the Stonehenge-style benches I had custom ordered, so I was  even forced to press into service a still-ardent ex of mine to “visit,” and I got my benches, all the cable laid under the concrete tiles for my lighting, and all I had to do was, well, you know. Beats a seven-hour round trip any day.  And the fuel costs and automotive wear and tear were reportedly considerable for hauling a half ton of cast concrete 168 miles.  Thanks, Doc.
Over the years, many “challenges” have come along. A freak windstorm toppled two palms, shattering their own pots and everything in their path, a snowstorm clobbered the magnolias, two irrigation failures, one of which occurred when Bob had inconveniently been shot as a bystander in a gang incident (this, obviously, is a story in itself, but kind of OT…) and the dreaded “failure to thrive” did beset a plant or or two (or 20) over the years.
The 6.8 Nisqually earthquake several years back, during which I happened to be visiting, spilled a lot of water from the fountain and rearranged everything slightly, but otherwise left the garden just fine, but the elevator was shut down afterward for several days, making the party Bob was having that weekend, with its panting, gasping guests and horrified caterers, seem like the sequel to “Barefoot in the Park.” But this weekend was a something of a happier occasion… ten great years, a happy client, and a garden that has truly come into its own.  And the beer store across the street has one of the the characters that make Seattle special. (at right below)