The Rural Voice, 2002-09, Page 52All of us who enjoy gardening
collect memories of beautiful
eardens in our life. These
recollections influence our choices
as we select plants and design
borders years later.
One of the earliest gardens in my
memory belonged to two ladies who
lied a fox concessions away from
our farm. Two older couples shared
the family homestead and one of the
men owned a threshing machine. He
contracted to do the threshing for the
neighbouring farms.
We were relatively new to
the community and my father
knew that establishing a good
working relationship was
important. Therefore he made
a point of making prompt
payment. He also made a
personal visit each summer to
arrange for the threshing
date. My mother and I went
with him, on a Sunday
afternoon or early evening
after chores were done, to
visit with the ladies.
There were two women
who lived there, both
noticeably older than my
mother. Mrs. Brown was
taller, thin and bird -like.
energetic, with thick glasses:
Mrs. McDale, was short,
cushiony and slower moving,
always smiling. Mother
chatted with these ladies
while my father discussed
matters of importance in the
barn with the men, finally
getting around to the real
business, the threshing. After
a few minutes of polite
conversation, the ladies invited us to
visit their flower garden.
We walked slowly along the
perennial border, Mrs. Brown
stopping to point out a plant,
explaining how it had been thinned
or moved or fertilized. Mrs. McDale
spoke with enthusiasm about the
colour combinations and which
flowers made the best table
arrangements. Mrs. Brown urged us
to sniff the exotic perfume of a
particular velvety crimson rose.
Mother responded with appropriate
and genuine admiration for the
graceful day lilies, the red and white
roses, the royal purple phlox, the
innocent daisies and the delicate
bluebells.
1 must explain that my mother was
horn and raised in the city of
Toronto. where my grandfather grew
morning glories on strings in the
pocket handkerchief back yard of
their duplex. Although she loved
flowers and always put a bouquet on
the table after supper, she satisfied
herself with the sturdy plants already
established on the farm where we
lived. A shrub rose grew by the back
porch, peony and hollyhocks outside
the pantry window, lilacs and orange
happily occupied sliding my tongue
around a square of buttery goodness
as the ladies talked and we waited for
my father to conclude his business.
Is it any wonder 1 associate
butterscotch with flowers?
I also liked to slide my tongue
around all the wonderful names,
given to the common garden flowers
long ago, the biblical ones that tell a
story, ferny Jacob's ladder and many
coloured Joseph's coat; others named
for what they most resembled,
crimson bleeding heart, soft woolly
lamb's ears, dainty waving
Coral bells. Then there were
the flower's named for
women, or were the women
named for flowers? Rose,
iris, daisy, marguerite, black-
eyed susan, lily, were all
gracious ladies with long lacy
dresses and wide brimmed
sun hats in my mind's eye.
As I caressed my
butterscotch and thought
about the flowers, the ladies
discussed the neighbourhood
news. That was in an era
when children were to be
seen and not heard, but you
could learn a lot by listening.
Gossip you say? Much too
harsh a word for the
exchange, never harmful or
hurtful, news of church
suppers, weddings, funerals,
babies, visitors, thunder-
storms, heat waves.
Eventually, the men would
appear, and my father would
say, "Well, are you ready to
go home now?" as if we were
the ones ,who had been
dragging our heels.
The butterscotch and hollyhocks
served up with gentle conversations
have lingered in my memory these
many years. Now I have my own
perennial border, which boasts many
of those same old fashioned flowers.
I think about dividing and fertilizing,
what likes sun and what will grow in
shade. I show the neighbouring
children the lamb's ears and
bleeding hearts and we talk about the
names. When visitors come we
explore the garden, enjoy lemonade
on the patio, and I give visiting
children McIntosh taffy to slide
their tongues around while adults
engage in amiable dialogue.0
48 THE RURAL VOICE
lilies along the road fence, phlox in
the bed by the house. Her
appreciation of the flowers
themselves was authentic, but the
intricacies of sun and shade, height
and colour, dividing and fertilizing
were certainly lost on her, and even
then I knew that despite her many
talents, flower gardening was not her
area of expertise
After the flower tour Mrs. Brown
served us tea or lemonade, while
Mrs. McDale brought out a plate of
her home -baked goodies, ginger
snaps or oatmeal raisin cookies.
Mrs. McDale also gave me a red and
yellow -plaid package of McIntosh
butterscotch taffy which kept me