Why do I do it, year after year, I’m asked. I could flippantly say why not? But the answer grows deeper. It is in me blood, me name, under my fingernails. Seen in weathered laugh lines, freckles, scars. Heard in me crackling knees, the “o shites” , argghhhhs and sighs. Felt in this body seizing after a good days toil, heart felt thank you’s, and life nutured.
The “it” is gardening. I became one with the earth many moons ago mostly at me fathers side. Allowing me to turn up a perfect lawn and create carpets of colour. I’ve gardened with a fine ole English gentleman even though he was a tad anal making me use a ruler to plant his Marigolds. Each plant 8.5” apart, not 8 or 9 but exactly 8.5” I humoured him as his wife made the best homemade lemonade I’ve ever tasted. Thank you Mr. Stephenson. I gardened with a mad Irish Doctor, hell bent on testing me every time. Staking peas with branches, under planting corn with squash, not tests but lessons and well learned. The worst was hauling loads of wood thru the bull pasture, not in the contract but as stubborn as he was, I am more. Slainte Doc. More importantly, I learned from a grand ole gal Winnie. O she would shudder hearing her referred to as a gal. A proper English woman she thought she was but born here she wasn’t. I learned so much. The most bountiful Asparagus beds held the secret of salt and Iceland poppies. Who knew ?
I have bookcases of gardening books mostly purchased for the pictures. Hey I’m a visual person ! I can look at one and figure it out, no instructions needed just trial and error. That’s why I do “it”. There is something in me that enjoys a challenge. If I ponder deeply it is not so much as a challenge but more so tickling life from nothing. Much like an artist takes a blank canvas and with a few brushes and paint pots creates a master piece, I take a warm patch of earth and with a few seeds create me own.
This is me masterpiece. :)
