Spring flowers – Page 4

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A Fine Canadian Whine

April 30, 2014April 20, 2018 Cynthia Reyes

That funny sound across the land

Is not the geese in flying band

That sound across this country mine

Is just a fine Canadian whine

Photo by Hamlin Grange — Photos by Hamlin Grange ©

We whine and whine about our weather

Spring and Summer, Fall and Winter,

We whine at snow, heat, fog and rain

We whine, we carp and we complain

“Winter is hell”, we cried and said

(Forgetting hell is hot and red)

“Come Spring, come soon, or we shall rot”

So Spring herself is what we got

We’d dreamed of Spring’s so-pretty flowers

Forgetting Spring’s cold wind and showers

Spring came with those accompaniments

Arousing such crude sentiments

“Can you believe this awful cold?”

“Come on now Spring, break Winter’s hold!”

“Can you believe this awful wet?”

“Good God, this Spring is the worse yet!”

And on and on Canadians go

As if our lives were full of woe

Day in, day out we moan and groan

As if bad weather were ours alone

But grateful gardeners aren’t such grumps

We take the good and take the bumps

We welcome all the days of Spring

And give our thanks for what they bring

And so we wait the Winter out

And though at times we feel some doubt

We know that flowers need the rain

Without it, we would toil in vain

Without it, what would be the point

Without it, we’d be rolling joints

Oh, wait – out by our West-Coast way

Some people do that night and day

Okay, alright that was a slur

‘Gainst folks whose Springs are oft a blur

Of rain. Offense, they do deserve it not

(Their “B.C. Bud” is known as hot)

My West Coast friends, I will refrain

From mention of your weed and rain

I will not write about your pot

At least I will not write a lot

Back to my garden I will go

Back to a subject that I know

And walk between the growing plants

And tend to what the garden wants

At evening, sounds rise o’er the land

(It’s not the geese in flying band)

That pleasant sigh is me and mine

Sipping a fine Canadian wine.

****

All Photos by Hamlin Grange ©

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!

A Good Home, Architecture, Canadiana, Canadians, Country Living, Couples, Courage, elderly Parents, Flowers, Following your dreams, Garden, Home, Home Decor, Inspiration, Interior Design, Life in canada, Lifestyle, Photographs, Prince Edward County, Renovating, Restoration, Restoring old houses, Spring Bulbs

Almost There – John’s House Pt. 5

April 24, 2014April 24, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

Ever get the impression that this blog is my way of living vicariously through others? That I write stories about people who do things I wish I could do — or used to be able to do?

If so, you’d be partly right.

But what John Garside is doing – almost entirely by himself – blows my mind. And now, as he nears his self-imposed deadline for moving Ann and himself into their house in Prince Edward County, I find myself holding my breath every time a new email comes from John.

Will this be the email where John finally confesses that he needs a break from all this work, and that – promise or no promise – the idea of moving in this spring is ridiculously un-do-able?

But it never is. Not when he has to repair major cracks in the coach house foundation (below). Not when he undertakes the delicate restoration of original ceiling medallions. Not even when he is clearing out the basement.

A lot of the work has been onerous. As for the basement, John says it “was very crowded — 100 years of clutter — and cut up with old wooden partitions etc. This was totally removed by me. 6,300 lbs. of stuff!!”

Right now, John’s working on finishing up the library.

The more John restores the house, the closer he feels to it, and the more he learns about its past. He’s made a few intriguing discoveries. Like the original signatures of the first owner and his young son, written in concrete.

“William W. Bedell,” explains John, “was the father. Willet V. Bedell was his only son. The boy would have been only 7 or 8 years old when he did it.”

Sadly, Willet died as a young man. It was during the First World War, “on a Troop Ship in 1917 en route to France”.

The second family to own the house were the Wards, though John doesn’t yet know who exactly “Envers” was. There’s still a lot to learn about the home’s history.

John’s original move-in date was April 30. But life follows its own course.

Just a few weeks ago, John’s mother’s health declined suddenly. She died within days.

This spring is a time of change for John, Ann, and family.

It’s also a time of renewal.

After a rough winter, a flock of tiny blue scilla flowers is blooming in the garden. It’s one of the first flowers of spring.

And inside the house, John keeps repairing and restoring.

Another room done, one left to go. Then, after all the cleaning up, comes the big move.

The movers are now booked for May 7.

We’re cheering you on, John!

Photos by John Garside.

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A Child At Easter

April 20, 2014March 29, 2015 Cynthia Reyes

I’m dedicating this story to the child within each of us.

My first garden had everything we children needed: tall trees with big outstretched arms, a wide stream and acres of fields to play in. All this stood beside and behind a tiny pink farmhouse where a mother and father and five children lived.

A pink farmhouse? Yes.

Seven people in a tiny pink house? How tiny?

Two bedrooms, two front rooms.

Must have been crowded, I hear you thinking.

But this was a land of mild temperatures and hot sun. Children spent many of their waking hours outside. Nature – the wildness of it, the near-danger of it, the freedom of it – was our garden. A child’s own garden.

It wasn’t until our family moved to our grandmother’s much larger house in a nearby village that the first memories of a flower garden — the kind that people tend — lodged themselves in my seven-year- old mind. It was in front of the house, under a window.

via public domain.net — via publicdomainpictures.net

I remember that garden now as a small space full of pretty flowers. Roses, zinnias and dahlias, Joseph’s Coat of Many Colours and other things grew there, each cheerfully elbowing out the other, competing for space and sun.

Crocus in Spring — Photo by Hamlin Grange

And I remember these, above everything else: the fairy flowers.

Clusters of tiny flowers bloomed in gentle colours: pink, white, yellow, mauve. Unlike the other flowers in the garden, these huddled in small patches, as if supporting each other — or seeking warmth from the cool, early-morning mountainside air.

“Luminous”, I’d call them now, because their petals seemed to glow, as if someone had polished each one very tenderly till it shone.

It was magic: they simply appeared one day, as if a fairy had waved her wand above the soil. The size of them – about three inches tall — and the magic of them made me think that these were the sort of flowers that fairies would have growing in their own garden.

Then, when I wasn’t looking – perhaps when I was at school during the day, or asleep during the night – the flowers disappeared completely. When that happened, I imagined that the fairies had brought them to another garden where other children could enjoy them. It was a sad and hopeful feeling all at once.

The timing of the flowers’ arrival always seemed spot-on: Easter time, or Holy Week, as church-going families called it. And so, surrounded by the mysterious stories of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, my sisters and I decided that the tiny flowers were to be called Easter Lilies. Easter lilies — brought by fairies.

It wasn’t the first time – or the last – that I’d get my magic and miracles mixed up. For a child who is told ghost stories and biblical tales of miraculous resurrection finds it easy to believe in fairies.

Unknown to my parents, I even thought of ghosts and fairies in church. When the pastor got too fiery, or too boring, or glared at me for giggling and whispering to my sister, I imagined a kind ghost or fairy – or maybe God himself – putting him to sleep right there in the pulpit – just for a while.

Now – with a garden of my own – reality overtakes imagination, most days. I know that pretty gardens take a lot of work. Those magical moments of my childhood were hardworking times for my parents.

It was my mother who tended the little garden and made sure the flowers would bloom. It must have given her great pleasure, but it was work — along with her other duties as a mother, wife, designer and seamstress of women’s dresses, and active church member.

Still, I hope Mama would forgive me for wondering — at least when it comes to the little garden — if she got a bit of help from the fairies.