Mary Mary Quite Contrary, How Does Your Garden Grow?

I love to garden. I love the feeling of dirt between my fingers, the smell of tomato plants with ripened tomatoes waiting to be picked and the reward after every winter of springtime with green trees, ever-faithful daffodils and flowering roses. My yard is like an artist's canvas to me and I love coming up with new ideas for plants and flowers whenever a spot becomes available. It soothes my soul. And I like to think that gardening somehow connects me to my ancestors, my grandparents, my father, and most of all my mother.

We always lived in the suburbs growing up, and my earliest memories of mom and dad were out in the yard. On any given summer day, there my mother would be with her horn-rimmed glasses, short auburn hair, and beige pedal pushers on her hands and knees with a kitchen paring knife digging weeds out of the yard. “Come and help me, Cathy” she'd urge. Bah. That was the last thing I'd want to do on a sunny summer day. Sometimes she'd force me—hand me the knife and make me do weed duty. I was good for 5 minutes top then wiggle my way out of it. It was an endless chore for her but mom was tirelessly vigilant. I remember my parents sitting in lawn chairs at twilight on the front lawn after working in the yard—sipping a drink and proudly perusing their verdant domain. We kids would be playing on the grass as well, doing cartwheels and playing hide and go seek. I always loved it when they sat outside and desperately wanted them to watch me play. But my memories do not include their sitting there as having anything to do with us kids. Looking back I imagine my father's purpose there was to watch the grass, flowers and shrubs with a jealous need to protect them from overly playful and exuberant children.

We visited my paternal grandmother once in 1960 on a family vacation to Missouri. She lived on a farm without running water, but she had a two-seater outhouse and a good sized vegetable garden with a root cellar to boot. She must have sensed a kindred soul in me because she used to write me long letters after that visit which, for the most part, described her garden, her dog and various wildlife they'd see on the farm. Her world seemed so small to me, yet so content and always filled me with wonder.

As my parents got on in years, they eventually acquired a gardener and discovered Weed n Feed. Mom's weeding days were over. I'd go visit on the weekends and she would talk to me about what she'd want to do in the yard. Even though she couldn't get down on her hands and knees and garden much anymore, she still had plans. “I want to hire someone to tear up that concrete patio and re-do it right this time. And plant some gladiolas and Easter lilies along the back fence. I do love Easter lilies.” I'd listen and nod my head, knowing the desert terrain would not support those flowers but determined not to burst her bubble.

My dad did put in a rose garden on the large lot on the side of their house several years before he died, along with a vegetable garden. He tilled it and cared for it and it was quite lovely—a rock path around each section that was squared off with railroad ties. I expect his green-thumbed ancestors called to him down through the years to do that just like they do me.

After dad died the vegetables went to seed but the rose garden still grew. Beautiful apricot, yellow and red roses. I'd cut them now and then and take them to his grave. I never felt his presence there. Although I feel no guilt, I took him flowers too seldom. But on the up-side, it was always quiet and windy and lonely in that graveyard. Just he way he would have liked it. And I imagine he would have preferred I not trample that beautiful cemetery lawn too much anyway.

Towards the end, mom became pretty much bed-ridden but never gave up her love of her flora and fauna. About two months before she died, she had the gardener plant rows of yellow and orange marigolds in the spot outside her bedroom window where she could see them from her bed everytime she looked outside. She was so proud to show them off to me next time I visited. She knew she wasn't long for this world and I think they soothed her soul in those final days.

I expect when I get to heaven she'll be there to greet me with open arms and that big smile that I remember so well. “Come here Mary Catherine” she'll say with delight as she tucks my arm under hers and leads me to her backyard. “Come and see what I've done to the yard. Just like I told you—gladiolas and Easter lilies. You remember—I've always loved an Easter lily!”


~ Mary Catherine