poplar road

My mother's garden had very little interest for me growing up, beyond things one could eat from it; I paid little attention to how it all came together (how does her compost work, I have no idea?) and my last memory of actually working in it was trying to hack a thistle out of the ground. The first plants I learned to recognize say it all: dandelion, thistle, johnny-jump-up, horsetail. Weeding seemed to be an excellent reason to leave the gardening to someone else. And even though the book The Secret Garden remains one of my favourite stories, I have never had the slightest urge to grow roses – the idea of learning Cockney was far more interesting.

But where I did pay attention was indoors, with houseplants. And then I discovered as a writer what an asset it is to know the names of these plants, and even more so, outdoor plants. My "garden tours" with writing friends in college days were slow walks through Victoria's residential neighbourhoods to a litany of "hydrangea, azalea, forsythia, camellia..." while my friends made mental notes for later projects. Which required that I go back to my mother and grandmother for more information on this plant and that, time that I'm grateful to have spent with them. Thanks to Mom and Oma, I eventually developed a miraculous thing: a green thumb.

However, proud as I am of my growing collection of houseplants, I can't really claim any gardening ability up to this point. Yes, my orchid survived the awkward "stick" phase and is putting out new roots like a mad thing despite Richard's frequent insults, and I can boast having taken a forced gift shop variety gerbera and made it a regular show on my spring windowsill for four years running. And I have resurrected my 9-year-old ivy, gift of a former roommate who was living with leukemia, from attacks of scale four times. (I had to give up on my roommate, but I will NOT give up on this ivy. It cleanses my rooms of the very toxins that can give one cancer, so it’s fitting that I keep it around.) But let’s be honest, ivy is nearly indestructible unless you forget to water it. And my orchid is listed as “easy” by those in the know. The gerbera may be beginner’s luck. Whether it survives the move to Pritchard or not will probably be dependent on another Sunday morning question period with Mom. In any case, houseplants are one thing, but a plot of land in an unfamiliar climate is quite another.

So that’s the state of my gardening knowledge as I look forward to next spring, when everything in my half-acre or so of garden-friendly yard is going to come under scrutiny. Richard will take care of the fruit trees – if it can fill a pie, he pretty much knows how to care for it – but I’m claiming the rest (whatever doesn’t fall into the “shop” zone), and hoping for some more luck, and a lot of help. The image at right, for example, shows the Granny Smith apple tree, and a weedy rectangle that was formerly a vegetable garden. The only "vegetable" remaining seems to be a large, alien-looking fennel plant in the centre of it. Next year I hope it might boast climbing spinach and zucchini vines, and maybe a row of sunflowers.

It was wonderful to dream as I wandered around our property this Thanksgiving weekend, and photographed the wild and lovely corners of fall colour, fruit and seed, some of which I’ve included here. I hope my houseplants forgive me for having forgotten them for a while. But it’s a long way until spring and I’m not in any hurry.