Born and raised in Calgary, my thumb is more concrete grey than green.
I’ve always loved the site of beautiful gardens overflowing with endless blossoms reaching up to the sun. It just boggled my mind that someone actually bought them, planted them and nurtured them to create that seemingly magical oasis.
The closest I’ve come to “growing” anything is that small bean my science teacher gave me in a Styrofoam cup in elementary school. (Sadly, my busy schedule as a seven-year-old meant Mr. Bean didn’t make it past a sprout).
Don’t get me wrong, when I was a kid I sat beside my mom on those colourful gardening pads and watched her plant pretty flowers while pulling what I thought was weeds and getting scolded for ripping up her hard work.
Despite my mom’s best efforts, every living plant that has ever come within my reach has met its demise. In fact, when I moved in with my then-boyfriend in an apartment in Calgary four years ago, all of our greenery was from the Silk Plant Warehouse – and then we got a cat with a taste for plastic leaves.
So when I moved into my new house with a builder-created garden plot in the front yard and June rolled around, my first thought was “I need help.”
Enter my only friend who grew up on a farm. She agreed to help me out and came to my place equipped with shovels, pots, rakes and some other tools I have never seen before and have no idea what they are called.
We went to the local garden centre and bought snapdragons, petunias, geraniums, shrubs and dirt. We are good to go, right? Nope, my partner in gardening tells me we need to purchase one more thing… poop.
That’s right, this city girl went to a store, purchased manure, hauled it to her Sunfire and worked on her hands and knees, elbow deep in excrement. Digging, pulling, raking, hauling, crawling and sweating for two hours are not usually in my workout routine.
However, the most surprising part of my gardening experience was not the fact that I smeared doody across my forehead – more than once; it was how much fun I had. Tilling the earth with your hands and helping beautiful living things grow and thrive is a great feeling. Getting your hands dirty and having the feeling of creating something gorgeous for your family to look at everyday is inspiring.
I guess you could say I got down to my roots and I think mom would be proud.
No matter what kind of day I have had, I feel better driving up to my house with the colourful utopia I created with my own hard work and sweat (and that of my friend).
I find taking the time to water, deadhead and weed our garden relaxing and almost therapeutic. It is a way to get away from the real world and take some time to yourself to think about something other than the hustle and bustle of your day.
In fact, I am protective of my garden and have taken a very aggressive stance towards weeds. Those impostors think they can grow around my blossoms and steal their nutrients. I didn’t work this hard for quack grass to choke out my snapdragons. I will take you down chickweed.
I am happy to say my garden is flourishing and is one of the most colourful in my neighbourhood, pretty good for a girl who couldn’t even keep fake plants in the house a year ago.
That reminds me, I should really take a picture of this phenomenon because no one is going to believe me. And unfortunately, September – and frost – are just around the corner.
