I enjoy a good book or two, consuming several every week. One of my latest selections included a dialogue about the attributes of what it takes to produce a beautiful garden. When accepting an invitation to dinner, a guest brought as a gift a pot of primroses. As the discussion continued the two agreed that primroses are happiest in a shaded area. They selected a spot under a maple tree and while supper awaited them, they proceeded to plant. The homeowner had purchased her lovely butter yellow cottage the previous year, with thoughts of replicating a Monet painting to grace her backyard. Her over-consuming job as a literary agent swept her along, tumbling the weeks and months in such a torrent that she had not even noticed that her dreams had yielded nothing. Although I have accumulated years of gardening experience from my background, I have little interest. I have assisted with countless vegetable gardens, seeding carefully into the slight trench carved by dad's angled hoe. We each took our turn in weeding, progressing on hands and knees down the lengthy row or two assigned to each of us. Mom had several flower beds that she lavished with loving attention. For her the activity was relaxing and rewarding. Jane, my mom-in-law, also loved to garden, to get her hands dirty in order to produce a spot of beauty. My in-laws' property, originally a farm, was reduced to a small acreage, inhabiting the southwest corner of town at the time. Their old farmhouse sat near the current four-way stop at 57th Avenue and 54th Street. …cole Deer Meadow School now sits where Jimmy's old, abandoned chicken house squated, isolated and well away from the yard. The grounds around their house were heavily wooded, with a large garden between them and the nearest neighbour. To the west and south of the house Jane had several flowerbeds and sheltered spots where she placed heavy wooden Adirondack-style chairs. The chairs were continually needing scraping and repainting. I recall bright red being the colour of choice during my time. Jimmy rested often on one of those chairs, his length stretched out and feet propped on an overturned bucket. The Calgary Herald had slipped to the ground or was placed over his face as he indulged in a catnap. He too enjoyed gardening but he worked with a casual flair. Jimmy trudged across his garden spot, dragging the hoe without a backward glance. He then retraced his steps, dropping seed and simply walking on it, pacing on the newly seeded meandering trail. He planted potatoes in a similar manner, dropping a chunk in the soft earth and stepping on it. As his garden progressed a little, he ambled through with the hoe, idly scraping here and there. His garden produced with enthusiasm. Hearty veggies grew in creative patterns, mixed with lush blooms, wayward offerings from the widespread flower beds, both Jane's and the neighbour's. Everything seemed to be drawn to Jimmy's garden. It held special delight for Old Tom, the resident cat that we brought from one of our neighbours years before. I often wondered if Jimmy gardened so that he could enjoy his naps with renewed vigor. Maybe Jimmy and Jane recreated the Monet painting the book I read was referring to. Their plants were lush, hearty, released from structure to yield exuberant colour and patterns: a place to grow and flourish in tranquility.
