Mothers Day Musings, Part Deux
















        The photo, above, is of my mother's little potting shed. Originally built to be a milk house back in the 1940's, Mom converted it into a spot to store all her pots, soil, implements, etc. which she used to install small flower gardens around the house and driveway. Every Mother's Day, from 1977 when my parents moved to the farm full-time, until her last year in 2001, I would drive down to the farm and present her with a car load of flowering (or soon-to-flower) plants. We would happily spend the weekend digging and planting together. There never was much of a plan, or any particular design in mind. Unlike her mother, Mom was not interested edible plants beyond a couple of tomato plants. She just enjoyed being able to look outside the windows to see the pretty colors and to smell the many fragrances on our evening walks around the farm. Mom was also an environmentalist to the core, even though she never would have considered herself to be making a political statement. In her seventies, she once planted herself steadfast in front of a bulldozer in an attempt to keep it from up-rooting a centuries-old tree and tearing down an old covered bridge. My father, quite well-known in the community, was appalled when a photo of this act appeared in the local paper. I enjoyed the whole affair, especially when my mother was quoted as saying "I'm an old woman and if I don't start protecting other old things, then what will become of us all?" But I digress. Back to the potting shed. Today I still use the old shed to store my "zone 1" tools, potting items, and as a contemplative spot in the shade. The maple tree pictured above is no longer standing and, in it's place is a large circular medicinal herb garden.


         In July, I will have been living on this farm for nine years. Following the deaths of my parents, I was approached by an attorney offering me quite a large sum of money for the farm. Even though exhausted from living out-of-state and caring for both parents as an only child for the last three years, I immediately recoiled from his offer. God doesn't make any more land, I recalled my Munya saying in the past. At that moment, I made the decision to  resign an enjoyable career and move to the farm. And, whenever life's loads seem difficult to bear, I find myself returning to that bench outside my mother's potting shed, remembering the love and the wisdom she shared with me, as we side-by-side, planted those little flowers. 
     
   

Mothers Day Musings

     Today is a splendid day to begin a blog on growing and gardening. Whereas my mother has been "gone" from this plane for a decade, and my grandmother for 46 years, they are never closer to my heart than when in a garden. Some of my earliest real memories are of the summer I spent at my grandparents while my parents were traveling in Europe, just before I turned four years of age. I remember trotting alongside my grandmother, "Munya", as she carried water to her various gardening areas. Huge galvanized pails of water, most likely weighing up to 35 pounds each, carried long distances by this woman, then in her early 80's. She drew the water not only from a well, but also from vessels situated at the corners of her house to capture rain water. I don't remember many of the flowers by name except the hollyhocks, rambling rose bushes, hibiscus, and hydrangea that flourished along with tons of lilies, glads, and poppies in a tumultuous mass of color underneath a plethora of fruit trees in the center. This was her "secret garden" and, when in full bloom and foliage, was a very special hiding place for a little girl to play in. Munya also had a huge variety of fruit and nut trees. I vividly recall getting so very sick from gorging myself with plums one morning! I recall apples, pears, medlar, and peach trees, concord grape vines, and an large grove of mature pecan trees. That summer, I also got my first taste of entrepreneurship as I helped Munya gather, sort, basket, and sell those pecans and apples at a roadside stand. I had a total blast, and dream of doing these tasks again soon, on my own farm. Munya also grew food to share with many less fortunate than she. Today I would definitely call my grandmother a permaculturist, but back in her day, that term had not yet been coined. She was only doing what she had learned from her mother and her grandmother before her. Today, when teaching classes, I often describe permaculture as "doing the things our grandparents did, and our parents forgot", or as "coming home again". My roots as a permie definitely began with Munya, and I can still feel her hands upon mine, as they were when she first taught me how to use a shovel, each time I dig in the earth. I have come home again, in so many ways. I will share much more about coming home in future posts. For now, I would like to close with a verse from one of Munya's, as well as my mother's, favorite poems:

         The kiss of the sun for pardon
         The song of the birds for mirth, --
         One is nearer God's heart in a garden
         Than anywhere else on earth
                  by Dorothy Francis Gurney


Happy Mother's Day everyone!