Remembrance of things past
8:18 a.m.
The day has dawned beautiful with a perfectly blue sky. When the rest of the world wakes up I will (finally) head over to the nursery to pick out my tomato and bedding plants. I�m usually so late at this task that there isn�t much left to choose from, which means I have fewer decisions to make. The big job is digging up the handkerchief-sized patch I call a vegetable garden and incorporating a winter�s worth of compost into the soil. This is the job I love to hate, since the compost, which is never completely rotted, stinks and attracts all manner of flying, biting insects, who attack my eyes (damn them to hell!) while I�m working, as well as my other orifices. I then leave the bed for several days, giving any neighbourhood dogs, racoons or other curious animals the opportunity to do their damage before I plant my tomatoes and spread out my basil seeds. I�ve made the mistake of planting right away, only to have the whole garden dug up again by pesky wildlife. Ah the joys of living in the country!
Then I have to make some decisions about my herbs: Do I dig them up and put them in pots? Do I just forget about them since I don�t really use them anyway? I just really like the idea of having a herb garden. I love brushing my hand over the lemon balm and smelling the lemony odour left behind. I love the idea that I have tarragon growing, even though I don�t use it in anything. I shall think about this. In the meantime, I planted marjoram one year and it has spread as a groundcover over a good section of the backyard. I have creeping thyme in my front flower beds that is turning into a groundcover in the front yard. I�m not complaining. I realized long ago that grass is overrated anyway. Plus when you crush these plants underfoot they send up a wonderful aroma.
One year I transplanted spearmint into my yard, behind which lies a story of childhood sentimentality. Every summer as a family we would frequent one of the southern Ontario conservation areas where the river was dammed to create a swimming area. While most visitors parked themselves at picnic tables along the beach to be close to the swimming, we always set up just outside the entrance to the nature walk in the woods, adjacent to a small tributary where it flowed into the main river upstream where it was still shallow. There was a hibachi at this site that my Dad barbecued on and my brothers and I would play in the stream where it entered the main flow. We would build dams, collect clay, swat mosquitoes, go for a walk on the nature trail, and generally have a good time. Sometimes we even went swimming, our favourite spot being just on the other side of the dam where the water was very shallow and we could catch crayfish and minnows. We especially liked walking under the sheet of water that flowed over the top of the dam to stand next to it and look out at the world through a transparent wall of water. I haven�t thought of these things in years!
Anyway, the reason I bring all this up is because growing alongside the stream where we built our little dams was a variety of wild spearmint that was always getting crushed underfoot, sending up its particular scent. I cannot remember these outings without associating the smell of this mint with them. My father dug up a clump and transplanted it into his garden, where it flourished until my mother had the whole yard grassed over after he died. My brother transplanted some to his yard, and several years ago I too brought some back with me from one of my visits and now have it growing in my yard. Every time I crush a leaf between my fingers and sniff the smell of spearmint, I am brought back to this childhood remembrance. That one herb in my garden is a keeper.
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