“The most important thing in a garden are the footprints of the gardener.”
~ Ed Lawrence (on CBC)
I had two aunts. Well, I had/have many aunts but for today it’s about these two in particular. Both of these aunts have gone on ahead, but I’m often aware of their past presence and influence on me as I go about the everyday tasks of daily living. One sits on my right shoulder, the other on my left, but it’s not as black and white as the proverbial angel and imp. They both have added a richness to my life that I treasure and strive to emulate.
Aunt Edna and Aunt Elmina – one a sister to my mom, the other a sister to my dad. When I see pounds of butter by the dozen lined up in my freezer door, I’m reminded of the one. When I’m reluctant to throw something out, I’m reminded of the other. A china serving dish piled high with dressing and generously drizzled with brown butter bears the mark of one while the sourdough starter that sits in my fridge and yields loaf after delicious loaf (and makes one wonder if man could indeed live by bread alone) has the mark of the other one. At first glance, one might think that they are a study in opposites, but as with most contrasts, they serve each other well.
Our family lived in a little village called Savant Lake, far removed from the hustle and bustle of Waterloo county where both of my parents were born and raised, but most summers we would head east and hunker down at a relative’s or an available farmhouse to spend the holidays with extended family. I remember being at my Aunt Edna’s during one of these summer visits when I was a little girl and standing with her on the sidewalk that led to the back door of their rambling farmhouse while she talked to one of her egg customers. She had an apron tied around her pleasantly ample girth and a kerchief over her hair and knotted at the nape of her neck. I remember the bright summer air and the easy conversation that was tinged with jolliness. The customer commented that I looked like my aunt. I remember at the time feeling uncertain about this observation. In my child’s mind this meant I literally looked like her. In later years, when the literalness of childhood gave way to nuance, I understood the resemblance and held it with pride. (And when one of my own daughters would be approached by complete strangers (to her) exclaiming that she must be Judy Martin’s daughter, I always emphasized to her that that did not mean that she looks like a middle-aged woman).
Aunt Elmina, widowed in the early years of her marriage and left with an infant son, carried both a woundedness and a resilience that can come from surviving a tragedy. She put herself through nurse’s training in order to support herself and her son. Travelling off the beaten path sometimes carried with it a thorniness that you had to get around in order to enjoy the roses. I remember visiting her in her tiny house surrounded by flowers and gardens. There was a cuckoo clock on the living room wall and a beautiful, antique china cupboard with a curved glass door (which I still regret that I didn’t bid on when she sold her things at an auction). My dad had put up a shelf that ran across the upper portion of the wall. Here Aunt Elmina displayed her prized collection of plates and bowls, each with its own story.
The day before my seventh birthday, Grammpa Shantz, my mom’s dad, died suddenly. I remember Mom’s weighted sadness when I got home from school that day. On my birthday, we loaded up into our puke-green station wagon to make the 21 hour trek from Savant Lake to Yatton for his funeral. And my newly-turned-seven-year-old-self wondered if Aunt Edna would remember my birthday in the midst of it all. And – I still have the little china tea set that she gave me on that visit, making a little girl feel unforgotten. In my adult years, I ended up living just a few kilometres down the road from her and Uncle Noah. They chuckled when I showed up at their door one night, a 21-year-old who got spooked in her own rambling farmhouse, and let me in without shaming me. They picked me up at the hospital where I worked when I got sick and couldn’t finish out my shift. In later years, when I took to running, they would meet me on the road and wave cheerily and I think with a measure of amusement at my activity.
For about a year after we were married, we lived in the same town as Aunt Elmina. On a visit to her, she gave me a version of a pedicure (sans nail polish, etc.). I don’t remember the context or whether I had sore feet, but she filled a bucket with warm water and put a large marble in the bottom for me to roll under my feet. Using a rough washcloth, she scrubbed and exfoliated my soles. And while she worked, she talked. She told of her travels. She told of her husband’s death and her subsequent move to a relative’s home. She told of her decision to pursue an education in nursing. I got a glimpse into her story and that glimpse provided me with a bit of an understanding of her approach to life and people. Eventually I had my own brood of kids, and she came one day to craft with them, showing them how to make little boxes out of paper, origami style.
Both of these aunts were gardeners. Aunt Edna always had lush, vibrant flowers overflowing out of their pots and boxes. She had a rockery that was tended and cared for where flowers spilled among the stones. Aunt Elmina grew flowers too and had garden boxes where she nurtured her vegetables and edibles. She tended her growing things with a maternal tenderness. Perhaps her garden was her safe place.
My own garden, both literally and figuratively, has their imprint. Aunt Elmina brought me a shoot of a brambly white rose bush from which she used to like to harvest the rose hips to make a tea. For a week or two each June, it showcases its vintage, creamy-white blooms. In the Fall, the red rose hips lend their own colour to the garden. Aunt Edna dug some of her perennial geraniums from her own gardens and passed them along to me. They continue to live happily tucked in a corner or two of my gardens.
In some ways, we are all gardeners leaving our footprints in the gardens of the lives of the people around us. Be it as aunts or uncles, siblings or parents, friend or foe, strangers or neighbours, we leave our impressions in the “soul-earth” of people, every last one of them a human who is of infinite worth. The organic interactions, uncontrived and natural like those with my aunts, are the kind that leave lasting impressions containing both legacy and goodness. It need not be a hard thing.