Reflections on a Warm Garden from a cold place

I remember very little of my great grandmother, but I do remember the things that belonged to her. Maybe through love of those items I have gained some of her numen—as if her personality drenched the old books, the antique furniture, the ancient pots and pans. When I think of her I remember the hillside the old house clung to and the feral garden that rampaged over it—the wild strawberries and the five petaled purple flowers that peaked out from behind the vines and creeper that were her pride and joy. The white fountain glossed over with the patina of age lost in a torrent of ivy and tree trunks. The switchback of a path the zigzagged down the steep embankment—shadowed by lush greenery and tall trunks of sycamore and maple. Here and there the ghostly pale spikes of aspen trees loomed through the dimness. I remember it was always a little otherworldly—but before I could frighten myself too much there would be a well placed corner bench soaked with sunlight and the shroud of reality.

At the bottom of the hill was a brake of raspberry canes, carefully tended in the sandy soil of the ravine. No trees overshadowed this bower of buzzing, pollen drenched sweetness. I seem to recall that she would laugh at my fear of the insects that loved this part of her garden. I know as an adult that there had to be a regular old vegetable garden somewhere on the property—she was a pioneer after all. But I only remember the wild wonder of her witch’s garden.

I remember that we would receive the summons from Great grandma that the raspberries were on, or that the concord grapes were finally ripe. Then we would load into the old blue Honda and set out for the house in Layton. Mom and Great grandma would walk down to the brakes, carrying the old bent metal colanders that would soon be filled with raspberries or grapes—or both.

Great grandpa would show us his miniature steam powered trains and the figures of Restoration age heroes with their plumed droopy hats and then send us out the back to find the train tracks that were hidden by the greenery of the hillside. He always sent the dogs with us—Duke, the large Doberman Pincer with his lithe gracefulness and sad eyes; and Queenie, the spoiled Boston pit bull terrier with her pouty muzzle and her sharp teeth. They would race us down the seven flights of stairs and set off down the switchbacks. Soon outdistancing us they would disappear for several minutes leaving us to the dim magic of the hillside garden, to later burst forth from the undergrowth smelling of sweet grass and perspiration.

Most of the flowers in her garden/world were wild flowers, weeds to the uncultured. My great grandma believed that all plants were beautiful, weeds and all. She loved dandelions and fox grass, even the dreaded Dyer's Woed had some sympathy from her. All the plants needed were some love and some discipline--that is how she treated childred too.

Lately I have been thinking of gardens and growing things, anything that will take me away from the cold. For some reason Georgia always comes to mind--the guardian spirit of growing and of wild things.