I have always been fascinated by gardens. Entering a garden or a nursery is a thrill, a destination, not a chore. It took me some time to realize how important they were to me because I grew up in the inner city and had no knowledge or experience of growing things outside a pot. I was in my 30’s when I found my first bit of dirt to play with.
My first garden was a community garden in Montreal where I learned from watching master gardeners at work. Although I longed for a piece of land I could call my own I soon realized that the community garden exposed me to many cultural practices, garden designs, sensibilities, tricks, tips, aesthetics. . . . Even the season’s end informal seed exchange was an advertisement for the benefits of open pollination. This was learning by doing, not reading, or worse, hiring someone to do it for me. I have often wondered if I would have bothered to grow vegetables had I started in an isolated suburban yard. I probably would have come to them eventually but vegetable gardening would not have been my first choice.
When I got my small community plot I lusted only after floriferous vistas but the beauty and elegance and my small successes at the community gave me the drive and remembered expertise to always include edibles in my yard for all they have to offer – beauty and taste.
The cabbage – beauty of form & function & gorgeous as a giant blue rose
My garden muse first lured me to an inner-city community garden built on former church land and taken over by the city of Montreal sometime in the 1970’s. Twenty-odd years later (sometime in the late 90’s) I hooked up with this small determined community and learned just profound the smallest bit of dirt can be – and how accommodating.
This is a photo of a photo of me taken in 1997 of the community garden plot in Montreal.
The following is part of a series of character studies in garden settings
June 24th 1997 St. Jean Baptiste Day
Alphonse & Me at the Garden
I went to the garden early because, although St. Jean Baptiste Day is a provincial holiday, Anglos in Quebec are always a bit wary on this day. During and immediately after the Quiet Revolution Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day became highly politicized. Religious symbolism associated with the celebration was rejected by younger generations and this day became a rallying point for separation from Canada. Anglos generally keep a fairly low profile on this day and the more annoyed amongst us loudly celebrate Victoria day for obvious reasons. But I had no beef either way. The majority of Montrealers get along well no matter which is their first language. I didn’t have the day off as I was working as a copywriter for a company with a large American clientele so I would be spending the day like any other, at the office. This was kept under wraps because St Jean Baptiste is also a mandatory holiday in Quebec, much like the 4th of July here. Unofficially, we would be getting an American holiday in exchange for this one but we knew better than to broadcast this.
I left my apartment early that morning so I could spend time in the community garden before going into work. I looked forward to peeking in at other gardens then settling at the communal picnic table to write in my journal before tackling the day. But when I arrived, the garden gate was open. I was surprised – it was early for anyone to be there.
I recognized him immediately although I didn’t know his name. He had an interesting face; matte black hair and deep set ice-blue eyes. My mother would have called him “one of nature’s bachelors.” I first encountered him working soil in a plot that had been abandoned mid-season. I had pointed at the empty garden and shrugged my shoulder as if to ask what had gone wrong, but Alphonse (as I later discovered was his name) only smiled and kept on raking. Next day he motioned me to his own plot crowded with tall tomato plants attached to hand fashioned bamboo poles, artfully staked green peppers and dense well-manicured herbs.
He smiled at me, motioning towards his plants with a flourish. I caught enough key words to understand that he was claiming an expertise so superior that he had produced this growth overnight. Our verbal exchange was reduced by mutual linguistic ineptitude; after this introduction we always smiled when we passed each other.
That morning he began a conversation with me and I tried to hide my annoyance. I had less than an hour to myself but didn’t want to appear impolite.
It became obvious that he spoke no English so I immediately switched to French. Something remarkable happens in this city when the English and French encounter. An immediate assessment is made regarding who speaks which language better and by instantaneous and mutual consent, that language is adopted for all future discussions. This is not a political process, it is a practical one. And one that has always amazed me. This time, my French was better than his English, and so the conversation about our gardens began.
I knew he liked a good joke. But common humor is tough enough when language is not an issue so I was frustrated, hyper aware that we were operating at a serious deficit and so made the old familiar vow to improve my language skills.
Defeated, I followed him mutely and watched while he knelt down and began pulling radishes and piling them neatly. Then he asked me if I wanted any, and because I was not sure and because I was so moved by this gesture, I said “j’en ai d’la salade. T’en veut un peu?”
If you have never produced vegetables, it may be hard to understand why I was so moved by this gesture. All I can say is go ahead and try to make a radish happy enough to fatten up and develop that rosy glow.
I had two kinds of lettuce, a tender lacy green and a trendy red variety called “Bacardi” that had been producing for weeks so I was happy to offer him something in return in case I had heard him correctly. I went to my plot, filled a small bag and returned, no longer concerned about the time. When I gave it to him, he presented me with the radishes, the greens neatly removed. I was so touched by this gesture that I blurted, “pour moi?” He bent down to his neat row of young spinach, twisted one out of the ground, to form a perfectly shaped bouquet, looked me in the eyes and said “Joyeux St Jean Baptiste,” and my eyes filled with tears. I had to look away.
Until then I hadn’t known how affected I was on this day, how left out I had always felt. But I will never forget the way he held out the fine spinach bouquet; Alphonse and I as constant and unworldly as a silhouette in a Hallmark greeting card.
