| Essay Non-Fiction posted April 10, 2015 |
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Spring gardener's itch
My Secret Gardens
by Spiritual Echo
Inspired by the idea of a secret garden, I began to leave pieces of my dreams behind, like talisman or breadcrumbs to guide me home. I planted seeds at every stage of my life, near every home where I lived, scratching through clay and coarse dirt, watering from plastic bottles and hoping for germination even though I knew I was often not able to nurture the growing plants.
My mother was the true gardener. I have vivid memories of the flower beds and vegetable gardens she created in every house in which we lived. The impression of her turning a vacant lot into a paradise was etched into my brain, starting when I was only five years old.
My father built our house with his bare hands, my mother at his side, lifting, shoveling and laying bricks, contributing raw labour. For months as the home was being erected, I amused myself with scraps of lumber, a pail and a shovel as I watched. To this day, the smell of damp earth takes me back to my childhood. But as strong as those impressions became, it was only after the house was finished and we'd moved in that my wonder expanded to awe.
The house was in a gully, with the next house a full two stories above our home. Most people would consider the steep incline as a geographical handicap. My mother treated the ton of soil as a blessing. With no help, and nothing but a shovel and a wheelbarrow, my mother carved out the most incredible tiered rock garden, using the excavated dirt to level the rest of the property. In all, the area was fifty feet in length and thirty wide, from the highest level to the base. Without landscape architects or consultants, her vision slowly took shape, and within a very few years our backyard evolved into a photographer's dream.
Scattered among spreading junipers and yews used as living screens, each section exploded with colour beginning with a riot of glee as the spring bulbs burst into bloom. By mid-summer and continuing until frost the rock garden was a kaleidoscope of colour. What made this transformation even more amazing was that most of the plants came from other gardeners who split their expanding perennials and shared pieces of their garden with my mother.
Trumpeting Calla lilies shaped their space with towering sunflowers, looking like sentinels guarding the garden from above. Following down the tiers, daisies and Black-Eyed Susan's spread at such a prolific rate, my mother was constantly splitting, transplanting and giving away a piece of her paradise. She swore by sheep's manure, but I recall her excitement when she was invited to a horse farm.
"It smells like poop," I said, not understanding what manure consisted of, but for Mother, it was pure gold. Digging in with such relish and humming her happy songs as she spread the bounty, I stomped away, angry that she was making our backyard stink like a toilet.
The only time she visited a nursery was to purchase trees and bushes. Our home was surrounded by cherry trees, and my favourite--the snowball tree. I never learned the proper names of the flowers and trees she planted, and I suspect she didn't either. My favourite memory is of the lilac bushes, from deepest purple to dazzling white. To this day, it is the scent of hope and renewal that greets me each spring, and I tragically mourn that I will have but one short season each year to breathe in their perfume.
The roses like garden divas, occupied centre stage. In every shade from butter-yellow to a rich burgundy, they were nurtured more than any other flower bed. It was the time when the release of a new horticultural wonder was reported in the newspaper and became the sought-after plant-of-the year. It seemed ridiculous to me that my mother addressed them by name each day, a practice of talking to plants never heard of during my childhood. But she fussed and congratulated them so often I found myself jealous of her attentions.
It's that time of year again when gardening enthusiasts get itchy to feel dirt in their hands, and like thousands, I too will go to the nursery to purchase a few plants to brighten my gardens, but I never developed the passion and truly hate the work. But I did inherit the respect for flowers and all plant life that change our mood.
I don't ever recall my mother buying sectioned planters with greenhouse forced seedlings, but I do remember the packets of seeds we purchased in supermarkets. She planted these directly into the soil, never starting the seeds indoors. Between the perennials, a carpet of marigold bloomed in every shade of yellow and orange. It is those seed packets that stir my memories and have continued to be an annual purchase in my shopping cart.
My mother used to say; "If everyone made their own corner of the world beautiful, the whole world would be beautiful."
Wherever I lived after leaving home, I always planted a lilac bush, hoping its scent would linger after I left. When I lived up north and was struggling with many personal issues, I planted seeds inside the forests that surrounded my home. I used the seeds as an excuse to escape into silence and return to water the struggling plants. The flowers became a metaphor for my healing. I sobbed when my secret garden failed; mourning the demise of my plants and hoping my tears might regenerate the limp stems.
But even my failures did not stop me from planting again each spring, and I still scatter seeds in odd places, vacant lots and playgrounds, hoping they will spring to life and startle some passer-bys.
Ahhh...the rites of spring. By August my spring efforts will have been abandoned, but even as I apologize to my dying blossoms, I know that by next spring the itch and the memories will return.
Inspired by the idea of a secret garden, I began to leave pieces of my dreams behind, like talisman or breadcrumbs to guide me home. I planted seeds at every stage of my life, near every home where I lived, scratching through clay and coarse dirt, watering from plastic bottles and hoping for germination even though I knew I was often not able to nurture the growing plants.
My mother was the true gardener. I have vivid memories of the flower beds and vegetable gardens she created in every house in which we lived. The impression of her turning a vacant lot into a paradise was etched into my brain, starting when I was only five years old.
My father built our house with his bare hands, my mother at his side, lifting, shoveling and laying bricks, contributing raw labour. For months as the home was being erected, I amused myself with scraps of lumber, a pail and a shovel as I watched. To this day, the smell of damp earth takes me back to my childhood. But as strong as those impressions became, it was only after the house was finished and we'd moved in that my wonder expanded to awe.
The house was in a gully, with the next house a full two stories above our home. Most people would consider the steep incline as a geographical handicap. My mother treated the ton of soil as a blessing. With no help, and nothing but a shovel and a wheelbarrow, my mother carved out the most incredible tiered rock garden, using the excavated dirt to level the rest of the property. In all, the area was fifty feet in length and thirty wide, from the highest level to the base. Without landscape architects or consultants, her vision slowly took shape, and within a very few years our backyard evolved into a photographer's dream.
Scattered among spreading junipers and yews used as living screens, each section exploded with colour beginning with a riot of glee as the spring bulbs burst into bloom. By mid-summer and continuing until frost the rock garden was a kaleidoscope of colour. What made this transformation even more amazing was that most of the plants came from other gardeners who split their expanding perennials and shared pieces of their garden with my mother.
Trumpeting Calla lilies shaped their space with towering sunflowers, looking like sentinels guarding the garden from above. Following down the tiers, daisies and Black-Eyed Susan's spread at such a prolific rate, my mother was constantly splitting, transplanting and giving away a piece of her paradise. She swore by sheep's manure, but I recall her excitement when she was invited to a horse farm.
"It smells like poop," I said, not understanding what manure consisted of, but for Mother, it was pure gold. Digging in with such relish and humming her happy songs as she spread the bounty, I stomped away, angry that she was making our backyard stink like a toilet.
The only time she visited a nursery was to purchase trees and bushes. Our home was surrounded by cherry trees, and my favourite--the snowball tree. I never learned the proper names of the flowers and trees she planted, and I suspect she didn't either. My favourite memory is of the lilac bushes, from deepest purple to dazzling white. To this day, it is the scent of hope and renewal that greets me each spring, and I tragically mourn that I will have but one short season each year to breathe in their perfume.
The roses like garden divas, occupied centre stage. In every shade from butter-yellow to a rich burgundy, they were nurtured more than any other flower bed. It was the time when the release of a new horticultural wonder was reported in the newspaper and became the sought-after plant-of-the year. It seemed ridiculous to me that my mother addressed them by name each day, a practice of talking to plants never heard of during my childhood. But she fussed and congratulated them so often I found myself jealous of her attentions.
It's that time of year again when gardening enthusiasts get itchy to feel dirt in their hands, and like thousands, I too will go to the nursery to purchase a few plants to brighten my gardens, but I never developed the passion and truly hate the work. But I did inherit the respect for flowers and all plant life that change our mood.
I don't ever recall my mother buying sectioned planters with greenhouse forced seedlings, but I do remember the packets of seeds we purchased in supermarkets. She planted these directly into the soil, never starting the seeds indoors. Between the perennials, a carpet of marigold bloomed in every shade of yellow and orange. It is those seed packets that stir my memories and have continued to be an annual purchase in my shopping cart.
My mother used to say; "If everyone made their own corner of the world beautiful, the whole world would be beautiful."
Wherever I lived after leaving home, I always planted a lilac bush, hoping its scent would linger after I left. When I lived up north and was struggling with many personal issues, I planted seeds inside the forests that surrounded my home. I used the seeds as an excuse to escape into silence and return to water the struggling plants. The flowers became a metaphor for my healing. I sobbed when my secret garden failed; mourning the demise of my plants and hoping my tears might regenerate the limp stems.
But even my failures did not stop me from planting again each spring, and I still scatter seeds in odd places, vacant lots and playgrounds, hoping they will spring to life and startle some passer-bys.
Ahhh...the rites of spring. By August my spring efforts will have been abandoned, but even as I apologize to my dying blossoms, I know that by next spring the itch and the memories will return.
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