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!
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