Gardening

 

When Ter and I lived on Rockland Avenue, our little deck between the gables was bright with baskets of fuchsias, pots of pansies, and assorted other vessels containing greenery of some ilk. One year, pepper, tomato and strawberry plants jostled for position with the petunias, azaleas and marigolds. The yield wasn’t great, though what fruit we did get was delicious beyond description, and my lasting memory is of fighting to remove the strawberry plant at the end of its season. The thing had sent runners beneath the planks of the deck and what looked like errant strands of twine actually possessed greater strength than a pair of human hands; alas, we resorted to shears when pride was on the line.

I say “we.” I mean “Ter.” Gardening is a spectator sport for me, but she helped her dad grow veggies in the back forty when she was a little girl. And she enjoyed it! So the Rockland rooftop garden was her doing. As has been my habit from the start of our relationship, I merely enjoyed the fruits of her labour.

Genetics can’t play that big a role in the colour of one’s thumb, however. My wee sister would have a garden to rival Buchart’s if she had the time and energy. She once told me that she enjoys planting random things just to see what pops up, and last spring she created a box garden to grow her own vegetables. I can’t imagine where that impulse comes from. As far as I know, none my other sibs are horticulturists, and the family front yard was rarely more than mowed. I think Mum might have done more, but she had her hands full with everything else domestic, and Dad was not at all interested.

It seems Ter and I have each followed our fathers’ examples. I can’t be bothered to water one indoor plant let alone a bunch of them, yet any time we’ve been house-hunting, she’s hoped for a balcony or a little corner in the yard where she can tend a few herbs and flowers.

I am happy to report that—ta da!—we now have a balcony! It’s not a big one, but Ter has kept it vibrant with a variety of plants that gets switched out as the seasons change. She’s out there every day, watering the tomatoes, trimming the mint, and deadheading the pansies. As one flower fades, she brings another home to replace it. She’s never happier than when she’s puttering with her ... I want to say “pot” garden, but in BC that means something entirely different.

Let’s go with “container.”