Planting For the Next Generation

The sun is glowing onto the west side of the house as I putter my way back into the garage. Its pretty pink flush matches my rosy cheeks, cold to the touch from several hours of winter clean-up. 

I’ve been out in the back, bent and bundling branches, snapped off over the many winter storms we endured, some arrowed so sharply and deeply into the ground that they’ll be stuck there until the ground loosens more. I’ve tentatively checked under the dried stems and leaves left matted from last year, covering the ditch lilies and tulip bulbs and wee grape hyacinths. Little white shoots are curling up and I’m elated. It always feels like a miracle when the growth starts in any garden, grand or meagre. Mother Nature shows us that life is possible again. As the first bulbs start to unfurl, so do I. 

Last year my husband, Derrick, and I dug around some of the rockery we had installed to finish the driveway and parking area, adding some plants – lavender, some creeping baby junipers with tiny blue berries on them, a lone peony, and boxwood here and there to add form. I put in vibrant daffodils and tulips that came up this spring. It was a small but valiant effort. And as the sun sets today, I unfold with a cup of tea on the rocks and consider how these skimpy offerings might fill the space in the years ahead, to become a lush and inviting entrance to the backyard. Sigh. I enjoy the view, but it’s feeling quite sparse and not like my mom’s gardens of the past.

How did she cultivate such beautiful and lush peonies, hydrangeas and hostas the size of my body? Rhubarb to make pies and jams for the winter days? Lovely and fragrant English roses, David Austin being her favourite? How could I nudge this patchy bit to a Royal Botanical alleyway greeting me and my guests?

Well, part of my problem is that I keep moving. I’ve been around this postal code in over five houses now, with many renovations inside, but not too many outside. The birds twitter around and I am often overheard saying, “Just leave it for the birds” – an excuse for no real plan to trim or upgrade the gardens or the elements within them. I think about how I’m so controlled in my work life, and so mentally full by the end of the day, that I haven’t felt like I have much room to blossom in this way.

Yet I yearn for the fragrances of my youth, to be able to pick berries or fruit, to run my hands along soft petals with my scissors in hand to cut a loose bouquet for the table. I spent an afternoon at Mono’s Valhaven Farm at the end of last summer, and their dahlias and greens awoke me to something I’ve truly been missing. I snipped as many of the vibrant flowers as I could, greedy for what I’d been neglecting. 

It took my mom years – decades, really – to cultivate her gardens. She split her plants every spring with her sharp shovel and cold, garden-gloved hands so her yields would multiply. She wheeled barrows of decomposed horse manure across yards, dumping and then scraping into protective and nourishing piles around, but not too close to, plant roots. And when she and my dad moved, she gathered seeds and cuttings to bring her garden with her. Several of her father’s prized roses from his house on Crosland Drive in Toronto came to her garden. The plants lived on for years, until she was no longer able to care for them, and then they lived on for the next owners. 

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So this year, I’m trying to follow in her and my grandfather’s footsteps with a more significant investment of time and energy. One wicked winter day a few months ago, I went in to pay my taxes at the Town of Mono office. The cheerful town staff took my card payment, and away I went with the latest newsletter in hand. Spring Seedlings Sale, it advertised! Yes, exactly what I needed to kickstart me. I went online and cruised through the photos and descriptions, and placed my order.

Now, I am just about to start on the planting journey from my haul of about two dozen seedling trees and bushes, mostly fruit-bearing. I have a dream of being able to pick a few berries, perhaps a year or two down the road. The reality is I may not even live here in a year or two. The property needs love and botanical attention, and I suddenly feel obligated to help it along. To bring it to life. These gardens won’t grow themselves, I can hear my mom saying. 

As soon as the seedlings arrive, I will grab some gloves to warm my hands just enough to tolerate the cold. I’ll follow instructions and place them carefully around the open space, digging in with my sharp shovel. It will be slow magic, their roots growing deep, divining for water and nutrients. I want to stay forever, to see that orchard, but I may not. Regardless, it will be here for the next generation, my little entrance garden and small orchard with fruit and berries.