My father liked to look distinguished, work in his office, and not get his hands dirty in the garden. He grew up in the city and was happy to buy his fruit and vegetables ready for the kitchen, without having to pull weeds, or have insects crawling on him.

 

My mother grew up in a small rural community where everyone had a garden in their yard. She loved growing vegetables and couldn’t bear to see a bit of land wasted on lawn when you could grow a potato on it and eat it later on.

When we moved to a city house that had a big back yard, my mother wanted to put in a garden. My father put his foot down and said we would have a “nice lawn” instead.

So when my father was at work, my mother went to work too — in the back yard. Yes, she mowed the lawn, but two feet from the back fence, she found a small strip of bare dirt (that grew into a wider strip of soil) and she sneaked a few potatoes into the ground.

When the potatoes grew, my father didn’t notice — he had no interest in gardening or yardwork — but when it was time to eat the potatoes, mother and children were happy. My father grumbled when he saw all our happy faces, but grudgingly accepted that there was no changing my mother’s gardening instinct.

He just said, he preferred noodles. “Potatoes belong in the cellar.”

*****

 

So, the point of this little story is to say that I’m a hopeless gardener and I’m not a landscaper either.

Anything that wants to grow in my garden (except really bad weeds) is allowed to grow there.

My squash patch is now totally overgrown with too many squash plants and all sorts of things in between.

Three little squashes all in a row, holding onto my flimsy fencing for support.

What big and beautiful flowers they have.

And speaking of flowers, these poppies are volunteers. I didn’t plant them there but they’re allowed to live because they make me smile.

By the way, there are a few volunteer potatoes growing in there too.

So whom, do you think, do I take after — the city mouse, or the country mouse?