In praise of wisteria

I first fell in love with wisteria when I was five years old. My family went to visit a friend of my grandmother in Wilmington, North Carolina. The house was a gracious, red brick building with a large veranda covered, I mean covered, with wisteria. I thought it was the most beautiful stuff I had ever seen. It was the first plant I knew I wanted for the new house and had three of them planted to climb up the pergola.

Foliage abundant and chaotic, mauve flower clusters hanging down like bunches of grapes, it is hardy even in this semi-arid climate. The only problem is, it's not the best climber in the world. It sends out long shoots, runners, which can wind around a support or around each other. But they seem to need lots of encouragement before they will cooperate.

Unlike every other house on the kibbutz, my pergola does not have a roof. The plan was for the wisteria to grow and cover it with leaves and flowers forming a canopy. The runners, however, have a habit of hanging down between the beams and not staying on top where they belong. Every day I am out there with my magav – that’s a squeegee on a broom handle for you non-Israelis – pushing them back up, but it's like pushing an overcooked noodle. Then comes a gust of wind, and I'm back where I started. Two and a half years later, the pergola is maybe one quarter covered.

Still, it is the most beautiful stuff I have ever seen. I love to stand at the kitchen window and just gaze at it. I often think back to that first time in North Carolina. I found out much later that the rest of my family hated the wisteria. To me, it's magical.