My Mother's Garden


Gardens today benefit from better species of vegetables and newer, brighter strains of flowers. More exciting developments will come in the future. However, nothing will ever surpass my idealized memories of the gardens of the past.
Like grains of sand sifting through an hourglass, countless minutes have abraded the surface of those memories, erasing all rough spots, all flaws, to leave only a burnished golden luster, an illusion of perfection.

One polished gem in my book of memories is my mother's garden. It was my sanctuary during my childhood. I can still see it shimmering with iridescent raindrops after a summer shower.

In the rich, black Alberta soil, row upon row of tangled pea vines grew, weighted down by pods bursting with succulence. Carrots waved lacy fronds between a row of dark green spinach and the spikes of pungent green onions. Ears of corn ripened beneath golden curtains of silk.

I remember the pale green heads of cabbage, the glowing red tomatoes ripening on the vine. It's all so vivid in my memory, the symmetry of those perfect rows, the aroma of an onion stem bruised beneath a careless bare heel, the sweet taste of peas picked and eaten right off the vine.

My mother always grew a border of bright flowers. She graduated later to tea roses and even dabbled in orchids, but the garden I remember sparkled with a rainbow of annual flowers -- golden California poppies, pansies with impudent faces, double petunias and snap dragons. And, sometimes, a row of flowers that erupted from a package of mixed garden annuals.

I used to walk by her side through the garden as the sun was setting and the whole world had a golden glow. Long evening shadows stretched tentative fingers along each row as a shy harvest moon peeked over the treetops. The evening dew accentuated the exotic fragrance of sweet William, red rocket, shy mignonette and timid violet. The spicy aroma of honeysuckle in full bloom mingled in wanton abandon with the scent of wild roses from the meadow.

Time has scrubbed away all memories of long days beneath a hot summer sun battling deep-rooted dandelions and stubborn pig weed. The pain of hands scratched and bleeding from an encounter with a Russian thistle faded away years ago. Gone, too, are those years when the rain failed to fall and the pea

The copyright of the article My Mother's Garden in Prophecy is owned by Florence Cardinal. Permission to republish My Mother's Garden in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.

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