As a child, I loved the hot humid summer days of Ontario summers and I recall Mum, red faced, hairline soaked in sweat, coming in from her vegetable garden with mounds of fresh vegetables. She’d prepare some for dinner and freeze or can the rest. She grew enough vegetables to supply our family for the full year.
Mum was a gardener. Her gardens were never very tidy, but they were always prolific, and she spent hours from early spring to late fall digging, weeding, planting, watering, and harvesting. Dad helped with heavy work like tilling and digging in compost. He liked straight rows of vegetables. Mum didn’t care. She planted seeds in wandering lines that drove Dad crazy. He’d peg and stretch strings along the ground for mum to follow, but she didn’t like the strings and would plant her crooked lines anyway. He’d complain and she’d say, “Really Dave, what does it matter?” What did it matter? Every seed she planted germinated. Mum didn’t mind if a few carrots showed up in a wavery row of peas.
Even as her health failed, gardening remained a passion. Now as I tend my own less than tidy garden, Mum is in my thoughts. This summer – thanks to all the work completed during the winter, followed by the gentle spring weather – my garden is more colourful and prolific than it’s been for a few years. As I water tomato plants that are taller than me, memories of Mum remind me to pinch them back. As I dead-head roses, Mum watches over my shoulder.
Around me bees hum and a crazzed humming bird whirs past my ear. I harvest the last of the peas and strawberries. I’m red-faced and sweat drips from my hairline. Without a family to feed, I sit in a shady spot to nibble, absorb the intoxicating scents of merigolds, sweet peas, roses, lilies, lavender and alysum, and to thank Mum for installing in me a love of gardening.
Here’s to you Mum.
🥰