I invited my colleague Renee to write a guest post about gardening. As you know, we’re sharing a garden plot. Cross your fingers, we will be sharing veg in a couple months. Enjoy.
“Sometimes
just to touch the ground is enough for me, even if not a single thing
grows from what I plant.” ― Andy
Couturier
I stand at the edge of the tilled land.
I love how I can smell the damp underskirts of the ground, how I can
sift my fingers through braids of soil coming undone. I love how I
can see my grandfather’s shape across the way, hunched over his
hoe, stained white shirt so washed it’s pretty well transparent,
his straw hat on crooked.
I love how I can smell the damp underskirts of the ground, how I can
sift my fingers through braids of soil coming undone. I love how I
can see my grandfather’s shape across the way, hunched over his
hoe, stained white shirt so washed it’s pretty well transparent,
his straw hat on crooked.
Hello Mother Earth. Gaia. Hello roots.
I am no professional. I grew up putting
a garden in every year out behind the barn on my grandparents’
property. One year we planted over 60 potatoes. I remember hilling
them up in my bare feet and an orange and pink sundress. But I am
definitely no professional.
a garden in every year out behind the barn on my grandparents’
property. One year we planted over 60 potatoes. I remember hilling
them up in my bare feet and an orange and pink sundress. But I am
definitely no professional.
I tried growing a garden without my
mother’s guidance last year just past the 60th parallel
in Fort Smith, N.W.T.
mother’s guidance last year just past the 60th parallel
in Fort Smith, N.W.T.
I let the weeds run wild. But my
tomatoes made it . . . they were ready by the end of September just
as I was leaving. Warped and shaped like curled caterpillars or
clenched hearts, shapes you could trust. The lettuce of course
flourished. And surprisingly we garnered a few cobs of corn. The
herbs were a failure — except for some dill.
tomatoes made it . . . they were ready by the end of September just
as I was leaving. Warped and shaped like curled caterpillars or
clenched hearts, shapes you could trust. The lettuce of course
flourished. And surprisingly we garnered a few cobs of corn. The
herbs were a failure — except for some dill.
But digging around in that northern
ground, making rows, breathing hope over seeds, adding coffee grinds
and egg shells to the soil, talking to the flowers, edging the beds,
watering with tea pot until someone comes home with a watering can .
. . All of that makes me feel closer to my core.
ground, making rows, breathing hope over seeds, adding coffee grinds
and egg shells to the soil, talking to the flowers, edging the beds,
watering with tea pot until someone comes home with a watering can .
. . All of that makes me feel closer to my core.
Gardening is soul work.
My balcony is cluttered with various
pots of various colours, holding bulbs that never bloomed, a wilted
cucumber I am dead set on reviving, one luscious tomato plant, a
lipstick pepper, marigolds and lettuce. There are three balcony boxes
perched on my railing heavy with dirt and the promise of red peonies,
California Mikado poppies, Black Knight scabiosa and some type of
white daisy with a violet tint to its pedals.
pots of various colours, holding bulbs that never bloomed, a wilted
cucumber I am dead set on reviving, one luscious tomato plant, a
lipstick pepper, marigolds and lettuce. There are three balcony boxes
perched on my railing heavy with dirt and the promise of red peonies,
California Mikado poppies, Black Knight scabiosa and some type of
white daisy with a violet tint to its pedals.
A Saturday morning coffee out there
screams out, “You’re alive!”
screams out, “You’re alive!”
Crystal and I also started our
community plot last weekend. We still have no idea how we plan to
water the 60 square metres of vegetables. Looks like it will have to
be a sloshing Rubbermaid tub in my hatchback or something along those
lines. All you had to do in the Fort Smith community gardens (which
were free) was turn on a sprinkler and the sun scorched pea patch was
saved.
community plot last weekend. We still have no idea how we plan to
water the 60 square metres of vegetables. Looks like it will have to
be a sloshing Rubbermaid tub in my hatchback or something along those
lines. All you had to do in the Fort Smith community gardens (which
were free) was turn on a sprinkler and the sun scorched pea patch was
saved.
On Wednesday evening when I hopped over
with my inadequate watering can and another 1 litre squirt bottle,
the gardeners opposite us offered to share water. This is a new
gardening experience for me: community, exchanges of techniques,
seeds, tools. It’s like a renewal of faith in humanity in a world
where too many Aboriginal women are missing and too much blood shed
in Syria. Conversations start so easily as we all squat to weed the
beans or pick off potato bugs (does Alberta have this problem . . .
Potato bugs were so bad in our Ontario garden my sister and I deemed
them a natural part of the plant. It was our job to snatch them and
pop each one into a bucket of water. Tomato worms are another things
and were left strictly for Grandma to step on or crush between his
giant thumbs).
with my inadequate watering can and another 1 litre squirt bottle,
the gardeners opposite us offered to share water. This is a new
gardening experience for me: community, exchanges of techniques,
seeds, tools. It’s like a renewal of faith in humanity in a world
where too many Aboriginal women are missing and too much blood shed
in Syria. Conversations start so easily as we all squat to weed the
beans or pick off potato bugs (does Alberta have this problem . . .
Potato bugs were so bad in our Ontario garden my sister and I deemed
them a natural part of the plant. It was our job to snatch them and
pop each one into a bucket of water. Tomato worms are another things
and were left strictly for Grandma to step on or crush between his
giant thumbs).
We’re all just doing an age-old
traditional practice: food, sustenance. Conjuring up nourishment.
traditional practice: food, sustenance. Conjuring up nourishment.
It’s good to feel something real,
solid, purposeful, bountiful in your hand. Holding something free,
something taken for granted, something butchered and poisoned,
something that always gives and gives, sustains and sustains.
solid, purposeful, bountiful in your hand. Holding something free,
something taken for granted, something butchered and poisoned,
something that always gives and gives, sustains and sustains.
At my grandfather’s funeral last May,
the most emotional part was my uncle talking about how Grandpa would
grab up a pile of dirt, usually while they were picking stones in the
spring, and say, “This is where it is. This is all you need.”
the most emotional part was my uncle talking about how Grandpa would
grab up a pile of dirt, usually while they were picking stones in the
spring, and say, “This is where it is. This is all you need.”
My cousins, too, later commented about
how they can still see the dusty crumbs falling out of Grandpa’s
fist back down into the field.
how they can still see the dusty crumbs falling out of Grandpa’s
fist back down into the field.
Trowel in hand (yes I dug my two rows
of potato holes with only a little trowel) that’s how I feel: a
divine return to what matters.
of potato holes with only a little trowel) that’s how I feel: a
divine return to what matters.
RF