Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Garden
‘The Garden’
By
Hollis Hiscock
Buying a new house meant we would eventually face ‘the garden’.
Not knowing what the previous owners had planted, we waffled between a total makeover and ‘a wait and see’ approach.
The warm spring winds blew us towards the first option.
Our daughter, who worked in a gardening centre library during her university years, became our consulting guru.
Unfortunately, she resides in Nashville and we live in southern Ontario.
She planned a spring vacation with us, so we requested one hour of consulting time to develop our ‘back garden blueprint’. It never materialized.
The night before her leaving we panicked.
But ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ and we found both.
The last strands of daylight retreated across Lake Ontario as we savoured our dinner in a favourite restaurant.
‘We didn’t take time to map out our backyard garden’, lamented my wife..
‘Let’s do it now’, I suggested.
Somewhere between salad and dessert, we planned our perennial garden.
Our daughter used the back page of our special menu to design the masterpiece.
Weeks later we amused several master gardeners by showing them the ‘menu’ for our garden. They laughed and offered several practical suggestions.
They confirmed another master gardener’s advise re organic gardening.
‘The soil’s the thing. Prepare your soil. Feed it properly. Flowers will grow’.
Off we went to the garden centre. After purchasing manure, black earth and compost, we were ready for battle.
Then winter returned.
Initially we resisted, but one freezing afternoon the sun beckoned us to abandoned our cozy fireplace and venture outside to work.
Our first line of attack was the removal of three small stubborn shrubs that no longer fitted into our plans. Armed with shovel, spade, saw and axe, we marched from the shed to the back field, about 3 metres away.
We dug, sawed, chopped and pulled until the shrubs released their anchor- like grips. We flung the remains into a heaping pile for recycling. We relished the hope that next year the city would return the shrubs to us, transformed through their free composting program.
A friend said, ‘I lived in Burlington forty years ago. The soil is very rich and fertile. Anything will grow there’.
Some things, including agricultural grade soil, change.
Probing my digging fork into the earth I encountered small and large tentacles from the cedar and apple trees lining the property. Instead of digging down 20 cm, I was reaching about five. It was discouraging work.
‘What happened to all that rich and fertile soil where anything will grow?’, I pondered while chugging a long sip of cool water.
I consulted my wife.
‘Rent a roto-tiller’, she advised.
I did.
Two hours later the underground ecosystem had been totally destroyed. Even the worms appeared dazed after their ‘earth-quaking’ experience.
The soil was returned to its earlier splendour, maybe.
We were ready for planting.
On Saturday we purchased perennials, with exotic names like heuchera sanfuinea, novi-belgii and alcea poseawe, (roughly translated red, purple and yellow flowers).
On Sunday, our neighbourhood garden centre announced a sale. Off we sailed to buy more before they were all picked over, which is a fate worse than death, I was assured. We loaded up on pansies, lupins and primrose.
Friends donated hellebores, sedum and bleeding hearts. The hosta and solomon’s seal were rescued from our former garden.
Visions of a canopy of colours, orchestrated to reach their crescendo each month from spring to autumn, maybe even winter, danced in our imaginations.
I noticed my wife in deep contemplation after we finished planting.
‘Several larger rocks would add visual beauty and variety to our garden’, she said.
I remained silent.
‘Where could one find spare rocks in an urban jungle?’
I wondered inwardly.
Days later, two blocks from our home, I spied a woman depositing rocks near the curb. Making a quick u-turn, I inquired of their pedigree.
‘They came from Ontario’s French River, where we had our cottage’, she replied, ‘I brought them here over 20 years ago. We’re changing our garden and no longer need them’.
As I loaded them into my car, I promised them a good home, where they would be treated like family.
These northern Ontario rocks do beautify our southern garden.
I also added my Newfoundland rock, brought from my birthplace.
Someday, we may have rocks from all the Canadian Provinces and Territories.
Meanwhile, as the flowers and shrubs sprout, the rocks settle and the solar lights recharge, we wait with childlike excitement and anticipation for the garden orchestra to begin the overture.
And the worms have started rebuilding their ecosystem.
(Hollis Hiscock lives in Burlington, Ontario, Canada, and can be reached at hollisrn@hotmail.com )
By
Hollis Hiscock
Buying a new house meant we would eventually face ‘the garden’.
Not knowing what the previous owners had planted, we waffled between a total makeover and ‘a wait and see’ approach.
The warm spring winds blew us towards the first option.
Our daughter, who worked in a gardening centre library during her university years, became our consulting guru.
Unfortunately, she resides in Nashville and we live in southern Ontario.
She planned a spring vacation with us, so we requested one hour of consulting time to develop our ‘back garden blueprint’. It never materialized.
The night before her leaving we panicked.
But ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ and we found both.
The last strands of daylight retreated across Lake Ontario as we savoured our dinner in a favourite restaurant.
‘We didn’t take time to map out our backyard garden’, lamented my wife..
‘Let’s do it now’, I suggested.
Somewhere between salad and dessert, we planned our perennial garden.
Our daughter used the back page of our special menu to design the masterpiece.
Weeks later we amused several master gardeners by showing them the ‘menu’ for our garden. They laughed and offered several practical suggestions.
They confirmed another master gardener’s advise re organic gardening.
‘The soil’s the thing. Prepare your soil. Feed it properly. Flowers will grow’.
Off we went to the garden centre. After purchasing manure, black earth and compost, we were ready for battle.
Then winter returned.
Initially we resisted, but one freezing afternoon the sun beckoned us to abandoned our cozy fireplace and venture outside to work.
Our first line of attack was the removal of three small stubborn shrubs that no longer fitted into our plans. Armed with shovel, spade, saw and axe, we marched from the shed to the back field, about 3 metres away.
We dug, sawed, chopped and pulled until the shrubs released their anchor- like grips. We flung the remains into a heaping pile for recycling. We relished the hope that next year the city would return the shrubs to us, transformed through their free composting program.
A friend said, ‘I lived in Burlington forty years ago. The soil is very rich and fertile. Anything will grow there’.
Some things, including agricultural grade soil, change.
Probing my digging fork into the earth I encountered small and large tentacles from the cedar and apple trees lining the property. Instead of digging down 20 cm, I was reaching about five. It was discouraging work.
‘What happened to all that rich and fertile soil where anything will grow?’, I pondered while chugging a long sip of cool water.
I consulted my wife.
‘Rent a roto-tiller’, she advised.
I did.
Two hours later the underground ecosystem had been totally destroyed. Even the worms appeared dazed after their ‘earth-quaking’ experience.
The soil was returned to its earlier splendour, maybe.
We were ready for planting.
On Saturday we purchased perennials, with exotic names like heuchera sanfuinea, novi-belgii and alcea poseawe, (roughly translated red, purple and yellow flowers).
On Sunday, our neighbourhood garden centre announced a sale. Off we sailed to buy more before they were all picked over, which is a fate worse than death, I was assured. We loaded up on pansies, lupins and primrose.
Friends donated hellebores, sedum and bleeding hearts. The hosta and solomon’s seal were rescued from our former garden.
Visions of a canopy of colours, orchestrated to reach their crescendo each month from spring to autumn, maybe even winter, danced in our imaginations.
I noticed my wife in deep contemplation after we finished planting.
‘Several larger rocks would add visual beauty and variety to our garden’, she said.
I remained silent.
‘Where could one find spare rocks in an urban jungle?’
I wondered inwardly.
Days later, two blocks from our home, I spied a woman depositing rocks near the curb. Making a quick u-turn, I inquired of their pedigree.
‘They came from Ontario’s French River, where we had our cottage’, she replied, ‘I brought them here over 20 years ago. We’re changing our garden and no longer need them’.
As I loaded them into my car, I promised them a good home, where they would be treated like family.
These northern Ontario rocks do beautify our southern garden.
I also added my Newfoundland rock, brought from my birthplace.
Someday, we may have rocks from all the Canadian Provinces and Territories.
Meanwhile, as the flowers and shrubs sprout, the rocks settle and the solar lights recharge, we wait with childlike excitement and anticipation for the garden orchestra to begin the overture.
And the worms have started rebuilding their ecosystem.
(Hollis Hiscock lives in Burlington, Ontario, Canada, and can be reached at hollisrn@hotmail.com )
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