Gardening: Joy or Curse?
(photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash)
For the last ten years of my mother’s life, my husband and I lived with her to help her out with daily tasks. She had a massive garden, which was her pride and joy. However, living well into her nineties, she was mostly unable to maintain it. So I became the delegate in all chores gardening related, much to my chagrin. Working full-time and then being asked to give her a couple of hours on the weekend became my reluctant hobby.
She taught me so much. She would waddle out there using her walker and tell me how to prune the bushes and trees correctly. “Stop! Not like that! Under the joint. See where the new leaf is sprouting.” She got very passionate if I was doing it wrong.
The lilac bush was always a huge undertaking, since it reached the roof. In the fall, everything had to be cut back to a shadow of its former glory. The row of Solomon’s Seal along the side yard became a tiny row of stalks. I learned to respect rose gardeners. She had one massive bush and the only way I could get near it was wearing elbow-length leather gloves. What a beast!
She made us rake all the leaves onto the flower beds for natural winterization and mulching. In the spring all the peonies had to have their dead matter removed, because otherwise this could poison the delicate new buds underneath. She hated the bright orange poppies, which I loved, because they spread everywhere. Same for the volunteer violets, which were a constant battle.
Despite my constant griping about this work, I was able to experience the joy of seeing the flowers and fruits of my labours: the pink flox, blue hydrangeas, purple peonies, and yellow dahlias made a terrific summer show. Collecting fresh raspberries or blackberries off the canes, I would taste one and give the rest to my mum as a treat, which always made her smile.
Now that she’s gone, we have moved to a place with a tiny yard with few plants to maintain. I have more free time, but looking back, I’m so grateful for this time we had together.
