Gardening – Part 3 – My Garden

Gardening is an ancient ritual. The garden of Eden was the very first garden, mentioned in the bible as “an earthly paradise”. Yes, God set the bar very high right off the bat! Then along came my ancestors (and yours) and for generations I’ve had gardeners on both sides of my family!

I love gardening but I didn’t always. Growing up, it was an unwelcomed chore. It was like a switch turned on about the age of 22. I found myself wanting to work in the garden (what?!?), I loved the smell of the fresh tilled dirt and weeding became a labour of love, exposing the young plants. Looking at the rows of weeded vegetables gave me a sense of accomplishment and pride. “I did that”! I was hooked and thus began my serious gardening years!

I generally stick to the same planting routine. Spring brings the thrill of new beginnings. After I plant, I merely survey the garden for the first couple weeks and then start checking daily to see what’s popping out of the ground. Potatoes usually show up first in my garden and I count them daily. I excitedly report my findings to my family members. (They are not as excited as I am). All the vegetables are like a nice surprise coming out of the ground, their various shades of green pushing their way to share the sunlight with all of us! Beans tease by pushing their seed coat and attached cotyledons out of the soil first. It looks like the seed is hanging off the brand-new stem coming out of the ground. (Oh, that’s not going to work! but it does!)

Summer is a time of abundance, of lush growth and busy bees. I often go to the garden to be alone and spend hours picking and observing. All life’s problems fade in the middle of the garden and the mind feeds on the joy of newness of life.

I remember one time when my daughter was about 2 years old, walking through the rows of new plants. A marigold had toppled over, roots exposed. It lay on its side slightly withered. My little daughter bent down and slowly picked up the marigold, her hands and face gently showing her grief. The sun shone on her golden locks making her look a bit like an angel, caring for each little plant. She extended her arms to me, offering the suffering blossom, “mommy fix”. So, I did the best I could and quietly dug a new home in the soil and stood the ailing sunshine flower up, covered the roots all in, and gave it a drink of water. She seemed quite happy with that “fix”. Another time my son (who was probably 4 years old) was picking potato bugs and putting them in his red plastic bucket. The potato bugs trembled in their leafy hideouts as his tiny fingers poked and prodded, gathering each one and depositing them into the bucket. His intention was to feed them to the chickens. As he marched towards the chicken pen, bugs in tow, the hens gathered for the spectacle. With all the seriousness of a royal butler, he reached into his bucket and presented the first bug. A flurry of feathers and squawks erupted. My son giggled and then cheered them on like a tiny sports commentator, as he dumped the pail of bugs out in the middle of their huddle. What a big adventure for a small boy!

One of the profound joys of gardening is its constancy. No matter what kind of growing year it is, I always get something out of my garden. Autumn, sadly for me, means the end of the gardening season but also offers the satisfaction of harvest. I love digging potatoes and putting them in burlap sacks. Mission accomplished!

Winter holds the pleasure of reviewing seed catalogues and the “hope” lying dormant beneath the snow.

Mine may not be a “garden of Eden” but am thankful for its bounty. Life is best lived with mud on your hands and hope in your heart.