Pink Stuff – some that were expected to be pink, and some that came up in a different colour scheme. It’s very pretty, this pink and white columbine. But where did it come from?
The grace of the garden: you get more than you planted.
The surplus, Canadians call it.
Brawta, Jamaicans call it.
I just call it grace. And when I think about it, my whole garden this spring is an illustration of grace. The harsh winter killed off very little. The starving rabbits chomped off all our clematis vines and tender shrubs right down to the ground, but most are returning. And I’m able to walk around the garden each morning and evening, and enjoy the miracle called Spring.
The Purple-y-Blue Stuff — like this bachelor’s button — returned looking dapper.
Yellow Stuff like these day lilies bloomed early for our region.
And then there is Stuff that’s making me wait. Like the peonies and the poppies.
Anticipation. Aspiration. Expectation. These things build character. Don’t they?
Perhaps it is time for some meditation.
Whether you garden or not, I hope your spring is going well.
By the way, these photos are entirely amateur, and I won’t identify the inept photo-taker (I simply can’t call her a ‘photographer’) in order to protect the guilty. My wonderful photographer is busy with other things right now, but he will return.
**
Dedicated to the memory of Donald Moore, one of the most patient and expert gardeners I’ve ever known.
I knew she was committed when she bought her own guitar less than a week ago.
Next she cut her beautiful fingernails. One by one.
Then she watched a YouTube tutorial and downloaded a guitar chords app.
Pling pling. Twang twang…
She sings softly, willing her fingers to follow her tune.
Pling, pling, twang twang, twung…. Shi….!
She senses my presence and doesn’t finish that word.
She utters a loud sigh instead, rolls her eyes, shakes her head.
I’ve joined her on our farmhouse verandah. The day is crisp, cool, but beautiful. (Can you see the blue sky and evergreen spruce trees reflected on the front of her guitar?)
Birds are singing, her father’s gardening and our daughter’s little dog Mr. J. stops and listens for a moment to the guitar playing, before running off to bark at yet another squirrel.
But Daughter is entirely focused on the guitar strings.
Head down, dark hair falling forward and almost covering her face, she returns to a wordless, intense concentration.
Pling, pling…
She keeps going, singing and strumming, no mistakes this time. Even the flowers in the garden bed nearby seem to be bopping along to the tune.
I applaud when she finishes.
In her twenties, she’s learning to play a new instrument.
How to hold it.
How to position her left hand, her right hand.
What to do when her fingertips get tender, even sore.
“Soak them in cider vinegar,” she says.
“Oh!” I’m surprised to learn there’s yet another use for cider vinegar. “The thing’s got as many lives as duct tape.”
“It really works!” she says, smiling. “It helps me to keep going till my fingertips toughen up.Smells awful, but it’s soothing.”
It was the same routine the day before.
Her father, who has his own guitar but hasn’t played it in almost a year, stuck his head out the door, saw her strumming and disappeared inside.
He came back a minute later with his guitar. Soon they were strumming together.
I’m dedicating this poem to my friends on Canada’s west coast, hoping their sense of humour is working well today.
And especially to Louise, in Niagara-On-The-Lake, who has a lovely garden, and her husband Neil, who loved his work at a winery in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Despite the uncertain weather of some growing seasons, the story of Canadian wineries (in both the east and the west) is remarkable, with many award-winning wines. Way to go, Canadian wines!
