May 25, 2011
I’m sitting in a Chicago backyard where my friends are planting their garden in above-ground boxes. It is cool and about to rain. The US Midwest is currently plagued by tornadoes, the warnings flying across Oprah during her epic goodbye.
I remember planting the garden with my mother. I suppose it would be right around now or probably even June since it takes a while to warm up in PEI. She’d dig, hoe and rake, building perfect rows. Each seed type needed correct spacing. I remember the carrots didn’t matter as much and the corn was quite particular. The corn kernels were pink-purple, an odd colour going into the ground. Carefully she’d cover the seeds behind me and gently tap the top with the hoe. I loved this. How did she know how to make a garden? How could things so dry and small be brought back to life. Both she and the yield amazed me.
Beside the garden were bushes and bushes of raspberries. My Gramma would pick for hours. With those my mother made the best raspberry pie on earth. I treasure the times when the berries were fresh going into the pie. The glory of it, the preciousness of being present in the short season. The jam we’d eat in winter reminded us it would come again. My part time job planting at a local U-pick farm in the fall felt like a contribution to assuring its return.
Carrots, beans, peas were best, sweeter early and pulled right from the ground and stalk. Corn came later. Beets and turnips we’d take into the fall with onions, zucchini, pumpkins, squash. Pickles were made.
Gardens we plant are temporary and brand new over and over again. With the right conditions they do nothing but give but they give at their best regardless. Tornadoes, fires & bugs detroy. But each year the garden can be planted again, we rebuild. I want to build a garden. Something to be said for how many times we get to start over.
In my player: Fleet Foxes – Helplessness Blues, Freelance Whales – Weathervanes, Hey Rosetta – Seeds
Read and reading: Lures – Sue Goyette, Outskirts – Sue Goyette, Rolling Stone Mag
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