by Glynnis Hayward

Created on: May 20, 2010   Last Updated: October 03, 2010

When I was young, I was convinced my mother was eccentric for she was never happier than when working in the garden up to her elbows in dirt.  I secretly wished my Mom would be more like my friends' mothers; more exciting, maybe more adventurous by expanding her horizons beyond just one acre of earth.  I vowed that when I grew up, I would never let the dust settle around me as I would be off seeing the world. 

Other than her garden, one of my Mom's proud achievements was an exquisite sampler in delicate petite point needlework that read, 'Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.'   I later discovered that this was a quote from Marcel Proust.   The sampler was adorned with flourishes of roses and vines, her initials and the date in the bottom right hand corner.   It hung in the hallway leading to the garden and was one of those things that was always there yet went unnoticed.  I was constantly out with my siblings and friends in the garden she had created, running past the sampler daily without ever reading it let alone pondering the meaning.  Someone asked me once once what it meant and I shrugged my shoulders, saying, "Who cares?"

Yet, by osmosis, I absorbed my mother's love of gardening simply growing up surrounded by her vision of beauty.  Abundant  flowers, trees and vegetables made her happy.  She seldom bought fruit or vegetables as we had them fresh from the garden, long before organic became a buzzword.  My mother never used pesticides or chemicals of any kind; she had remedies that her mother had used before her which solved most issues, but primarily she looked after the soil.  Her mantra was "Look after the earth and the earth will look after you."  We had a compost pit into which kitchen refuse went daily - nothing was wasted.  My brother and I had to take turns aerating the pile once a week, which was one of our chores.  And did I mention that my mother was a rosarian?  What was good for the vegetables was good for the roses too, even though we complained every autumn when she did her annual application of chicken manure to the garden. The smell was an embarrassment and more than ever, I wished my mother could be more like other mothers.  She was a saint to endure my endless complaints. 

"Mom," I would whine, "How can we eat this stuff when you keep covering it with manure? 

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