The Growing Connection

In spring I prepare the beds. I take the time to plan out my garden. Where each bed will go, the size and shape, which plants I will choose. I reflect on the days of childhood when the toy catalogue would come out before Christmas. Leafing through the colourful pages, circling desired items with a marker. But now instead of toys, it’s vegetables. Juicy red tomatoes, carrots that come in yellow, orange, and red. Luscious green snap peas. A variety of savoury herbs. My mouth waters.

I am drawn to plants I know from my grandmother's garden. The yellow wax beans that were always served with dinner in the summer. Rhubarb she would bake into pies with strawberries. Carrots that got stockpiled into the garage; foisted upon us whenever we visited with the accompanying cries of “I couldn’t possibly eat them all myself”.

Then the hard work comes. I pour my excitement and imagination into the labour of digging up the bed. The sky is grey, and though the days are getting warmer, the wind still carries a bite to it. Under grey skies, I sweat. I go to the hardware store to get supplies: soil, fertilizer, and lumber. I build the frame for the garden as the rain drizzles, mist coating my cheeks.  By the end, there is dirt under my nails and the tips of my fingers are numb. Then the finishing touch: the seeds. I place each individual into the cool soil and wait.

I am taken back to childhood. My grandmother would scoop me up into the wheelbarrow as we made our way down to the garden.  At our destination, my grandmother placed a small yellow trowel in my hand. Not trusted enough to identify which plants were weeds, the tool was for show. While my grandmother cut vines and branches,  I tottered along behind her. Weeds and trimmings piled into the wheelbarrow for composting. To this day, the scent of plant trimmings mingling with the earth and fresh spring rain brings me back to my grandmother's garden.

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Spring turns to summer and the garden explodes with life. I am in awe at their progress each day as I water them. Soon I have more spinach than I know what to do with. I learned to cook from my grandmother and I turn to her now for recipes to help deal with this growing stockpile of food. I turn my mint into mojitos and soak it in alcohol to create an extract for baking. Fresh parsley accompanies every meal. Tomatoes become sauce and salsa. I invite friends over to share in the bounty, after giving the mandatory tour of the garden of course.

I take inspiration from my grandmother and use a hands-off approach, letting plants grow wild. My childhood nickname for my grandmother’s garden was ‘the jungle’. By mid-summer, every surface of her backyard was covered in greenery. Flowers blooming all around, creating a wonderful scent. Vines crawling up all the fences. The untamed way that everything grew all around and flourished was breathtaking.

I would wander through the rows of plants towering above me, pretending to be a brave explorer in a foreign land. My grandmother would point out the different plants. She taught me which beans were ready to pick, which berries were ripe enough to eat. For each that would go in the basket, one would go in my mouth: sweet, ripe, and delicious. 

The squash vine in my own garden winds its way through the garden, taking advantage of any open space it can find. Soon, it crawls up the fence, it’s large fruits dangling in the open air. I wonder how the whole thing doesn't collapse under the weight. One squash finds its home at the top of the fence, sitting proud as if offering its bounty to the neighbours.

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Soon my garden yield transforms from leafy greens to hardy root vegetables.  As Halloween rolls around, it feels wrong buying my pumpkin from the grocery store. I opted not to grow pumpkins in my garden, choosing squash instead. As a kid, my grandmother would always present my family with a selection of pumpkins from her garden to take home with us.

The air becomes crisp. Things in the garden are winding down and I turn to preservation. Whenever we would visit my grandparents, they delegated fetching beverages to the grandkids. We would make our way down the rickety stairs into the basement where the cellar was. As a kid, I only paid attention to the cans of pop on the shelves. But as I work to can my vegetables I recall the towering wooden shelves filled with mason jars.

Pickled beets were a staple at every family meal. My grandmother’s own from her garden, canned every fall with love and care. Before my garden, I often tried store-bought beets to satisfy my cravings. But it wasn’t the same. For this reason, beets were the first plant I picked to grow in my garden. They are now ready, and I bring them inside. I peel, boil and stuff them into jars with vinegar and spices. My hands are stained red by the end. In my adulthood, I moved across the country. Far away as I am, I have missed many a family meal. My harvest is my connection to my home and my grandmother.

My beets taste wonderful. Sweet and tangy, with a hint of earth. I think she would be proud.

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Each day is colder than the next. Each day, there is less sunshine and light. I pull the last of the onions from the ground. The last tomatoes fall from the vines. I select which items to till into the soil and what to remove to compost.  It is time for rest, for stillness, for slumber.

Soon a fresh layer of snow becomes a blanket for my garden bed.  I am reminded of the last time I saw my grandmother, lying in a hospital bed. Crisp white blankets tucked over her frail form. But her spirit is still strong. Her illness does not phase her.

Winter has come for my grandmother too. She is growing sicker every day. The sun is setting, the light fading. I find it difficult to find the words to express my gratitude for everything she has taught me.  The knowledge she has shared. How to express the love and wonder of the natural world she has instilled in my heart? It is hard to see this faded facsimile of the strong, wonderful woman I look up to. It is even harder to say goodbye. 

So we talk about my garden.  She can’t visit, so I share pictures.  We discuss the failures and successes of the year. My grandmother suggests next year I move the cucumbers beside the tomatoes. The peas didn’t work out, I need to invest in some fencing to prevent whatever creature comes in the night to take big bites out of my harvest. 

It’s sad to see the green wither and fade to brown; to see a once-thriving garden become barren. But we plant seeds anyway. They will be dormant, waiting for the right conditions to burst forth with life. Spring will come again.