"What the hell do you do in that garden for so long?" a friend of mine recently asked me. Every time he called or came online to chat I would be in the garden or going to the garden. Yeah...most people who knew me as a child would be stunned, more than anything else, to discover that the adult me is an avid gardener.
In fact, only yesterday I had a conversation with my dad who asked me whether I remember a child of his who would be forever down with a stomach ache or a head ache the second my parents (avid gardeners themselves) would announce the mandatory 'garden time' on weekends!! God, there was nothing I hated more than gardening then, especially when it meant that I had to pull my nose out of a book and get into a place that was full of creepy-crawlies and dog and cat shit and horrible kid brothers who would be scampering around and knocking you into rose bushes and bougainvilla pots. Sure, I loved watering the flowers ONLY. I couldn't be bothered with weeding and turning the soil over and manuring and anything else. Yet, like everything else in my childhood, it wasn't without its fun moments. How can I ever forget my mom, a botany teacher, hopping around like mad after realising that she had just picked up a long juicy earthworm with her bare fingers while loosening the mud around the marigolds?? As you can imagine, after having a hearty laugh at her hopping around in her nightie and screeching all sorts of gibberish, it was the only excuse I needed to put down my own trowel and get back to the arms of my pirate in Daphne duMaurier's Frenchman's Creek.
Marriage brought me to a house with a large garden space. My father-in-law had planned to build a second house in that space for his younger son (my husband) and had, in the meantime, begun a nice vegetable garden. Before his dreams were realised his time on earth was up and over the years that space had been used on and off by the many tenants who came to occupy the ground floor house. After my marriage I found this large space, that was both dumpyard and sometime garden, and was bitten by the gardening bug.
Gardening was tough, especially since my new-found passion was shared by no one at home. My husband and his older brother had none of their father's interest in gardening and all my mother-in-law did was reminisce about how her husband had grown truckloads of vegetables all by himself. In fact, my brother-in-law would make it a point to come and stand on the balcony every time I was weeding the wasteland (as I called it) and encourage me by saying "Its very difficult ya. What you are pulling out now will grow back again in two days. Its a waste of time." These very soothing words ended one day when I lost my temper and told him "If you can't come and help me at least don't discourage me ..."
In those early months of marriage my husband would, after much cajoling and begging and pleading, endeavour to show his love for me by helping me out in the garden. After exactly thirty seconds of weeding he would ask me "Baby, can you get me a stool? My knees are aching." After a few minutes he would want me to come and wipe the sweat off his brow. After another five minutes he would want me to come and clear the few weeds he had uprooted from near his foot. After ten long minutes of back-breaking labour he wanted some cool lemonade to quench his thirst. Well! needless to say I stopped him from helping me out in the garden as it was much more work for me having him help me garden. And yet, after all these years I'm left with the niggling suspicion that ... maybe, just maybe ... it was a brilliant scheme hatched by my husband to be let off the hook for the rest of his life!!
In fact, only yesterday I had a conversation with my dad who asked me whether I remember a child of his who would be forever down with a stomach ache or a head ache the second my parents (avid gardeners themselves) would announce the mandatory 'garden time' on weekends!! God, there was nothing I hated more than gardening then, especially when it meant that I had to pull my nose out of a book and get into a place that was full of creepy-crawlies and dog and cat shit and horrible kid brothers who would be scampering around and knocking you into rose bushes and bougainvilla pots. Sure, I loved watering the flowers ONLY. I couldn't be bothered with weeding and turning the soil over and manuring and anything else. Yet, like everything else in my childhood, it wasn't without its fun moments. How can I ever forget my mom, a botany teacher, hopping around like mad after realising that she had just picked up a long juicy earthworm with her bare fingers while loosening the mud around the marigolds?? As you can imagine, after having a hearty laugh at her hopping around in her nightie and screeching all sorts of gibberish, it was the only excuse I needed to put down my own trowel and get back to the arms of my pirate in Daphne duMaurier's Frenchman's Creek.
Marriage brought me to a house with a large garden space. My father-in-law had planned to build a second house in that space for his younger son (my husband) and had, in the meantime, begun a nice vegetable garden. Before his dreams were realised his time on earth was up and over the years that space had been used on and off by the many tenants who came to occupy the ground floor house. After my marriage I found this large space, that was both dumpyard and sometime garden, and was bitten by the gardening bug.
Gardening was tough, especially since my new-found passion was shared by no one at home. My husband and his older brother had none of their father's interest in gardening and all my mother-in-law did was reminisce about how her husband had grown truckloads of vegetables all by himself. In fact, my brother-in-law would make it a point to come and stand on the balcony every time I was weeding the wasteland (as I called it) and encourage me by saying "Its very difficult ya. What you are pulling out now will grow back again in two days. Its a waste of time." These very soothing words ended one day when I lost my temper and told him "If you can't come and help me at least don't discourage me ..."
In those early months of marriage my husband would, after much cajoling and begging and pleading, endeavour to show his love for me by helping me out in the garden. After exactly thirty seconds of weeding he would ask me "Baby, can you get me a stool? My knees are aching." After a few minutes he would want me to come and wipe the sweat off his brow. After another five minutes he would want me to come and clear the few weeds he had uprooted from near his foot. After ten long minutes of back-breaking labour he wanted some cool lemonade to quench his thirst. Well! needless to say I stopped him from helping me out in the garden as it was much more work for me having him help me garden. And yet, after all these years I'm left with the niggling suspicion that ... maybe, just maybe ... it was a brilliant scheme hatched by my husband to be let off the hook for the rest of his life!!
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