OUR GARDEN REMEMBERED

For as long as I remember, our family had a huge garden that produced
many of the things we could ill afford otherwise. It was the labour of our
parents that filled our tummies and saw to it we got all our vitamins. At the
same time it was feeding us, it gave our parents a lot of extra work of the kind
that is back breaking. First preparing the soil, then planting the seed, watering
and weeding, ever on the watch for aphid, beetle and grub. They toiled from morn
to dusk and never grumbled, because they had enough to keep us from doing without.
When I think of the workload they carried day in and day out, and that was just the
garden. I remember also the washings on the scrub board with using big yellow bars of
Sunlight Soap, for the eight of us and our Grandmother who could speak onlyFrench. I could just cry, and if I had the chance to thank them both for all they didfor us, I’d hug them and never let them go, but I know that the Lord is doing it for
me as I write. Of course that doesn’t take into account the canning so we’d have Winter stores. The house smelled like heaven and since that time, I’ve never
smelled the likes again. The aroma of corn relish simmering on the back of
the wood stove could be smelled clear down the street and set off hunger pangs that
demanded a taste. The crocks of pickles left a briny smell everywhere and after
nine days they were put into a delicious spicy vinegar substance and sealed
until they were ready for consumption. Homemade catsup tasted like a royals
feast to say the least. There were potatoes, corn and carrots, yellow and green beans, onions and tomatoes, by the basket gleaned, cucumbers cool and succulent their
texture oh so crisp, why the king himself could not have dined on a feast as fresh
as this. There were citrons cause dad loved them, and rhubarb by the score, asparagus
and blood-red beets, who could ask for more. Raspberries big, that fit you fingers like a jaunty hat, and blushing red strawberries and even some black caps. Then for a hot summer day watermelons sweet and dripping with their nectar for a drink, that left our faces hands and elbows all rosy and sticky, but we didn’t care a wink. Our garden was the envy of all our neighbours round and they too tasted of its bounty when overabundance would be found. These memories still linger as sights and odours of the past, but most of all the memory of our parents love and devotion and hard labour are indelibly written on our hearts to last.

Margaret Rose Larrivee
Feb. 28, 2007