TOO EARLY, TOO LATE DEAR FAMILY, HELP essay

When I lived in Northern Quebec, the only garden we ever grew was covered in stones. Some were pretty with copper pyrite flakes. Never rounded like those I found later on the shores of large lakes, but jagged as if the mining countryside I lived on was determined to protect its territorial hold on the landscape.

Yes, it was said the only things you could grow “up north” was rocks.

When our family moved to southern Ontario, I could not believe how well everything grew. The farmers covered their fields in tractors, thrusting forward over great sheaves of growth, especially corn and hay, sights I had never seen before. Tomatoes, carrots, beets and asparagus spread lusciously in backyard patches of black earth full of zing. There seemed to be nary a rock to come between finger and seed.

“My turn to grow a garden!” I yelled to friends cheering me on.

I was determined to produce the best garden there ever was. My son, ten years of age shared my eagerness. My wife, born on a farm in New Brunswick, smiled knowingly as I dug fingers into the churned up earth. Such peace as I closed my eyes and absorbed the humus scent, felt the black earth creep under my fingernails and finally awoke from this revelry as my son spoke up.

“Come on dad, I opened all the packages of seed. Let’s put them in now. Okay?”

He was more like my wife, a no nonsense kind of person. ‘Let’s get the job done’ kind of guy. I was the dreamer, oh, the scenery of the fruits of my first garden. I could see my wife smiling from the window. She will be so pleased when her man stomps into the house carrying an armload of potatoes.

My son and I built up long mounds, which we filled with seed. I wasn’t sure how many should be sprinkled in, but I felt the more the merrier. My son suggested we follow the directions, but what does he know? He’s only a kid. We quickly scrabbled in the dirt to complete our task, since it began snowing. Snowing in April, in Sarnia, Ontario? Impossible, I thought. Somehow we managed to get the seed under protection as an assault of the white stuff covered our little garden, my first efforts.

My wife did advise it was much too early in the season.

When it was finally warm and proper (according to my wise wife) I had two son’s help me, except this time it was late June, and much more accommodating. Yes, I thought, there will be a garden of plenty with my twelve rows, about six inches apart, with more goodies to harvest.

I didn’t mind the weeds, which came out in great abundance, determined to overcome my first garden. As my very wise wife said later, “Your rows are too close.”

“Next season I’ll do better,” I promised.

My children were older this time, and my daughter and two sons helped me with suggestions. They met with neighbor children and cautioned them about raiding my garden-to-be. “Be kind to our dad,” they wished upon their friends. “He tries so hard.”

Now I thought, I was prepared for any weeds. My rows were less, but they were three feet apart, and using my lawnmower would keep the weeds down. Fellow workers thought it strange, when I regularly announced, “Got to go home and mow my garden.”

Our family taught me well over the years. We did grow a variety of crops, berries and cucumbers, and carrots, and corn, and…I finally allowed my wife to captain the ship.

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© Richard L. Provencher 2007

Richard & Esther Provencher invite you to read their first of three novels ‘FOOTPRINTS” now available from www.synergebooks.com. “Someone’s
Son” and “Into The Fire” will also be available soon by the same company. These books were written during the first several years while Richard was recovering from his stroke, which felled him in 1999. He is still recovering.

The link to “FOOTPRINTS” is as follows: http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_footprints.html