Sweet Purple-Black Memories & Our Own Little Eden
A little brick shed stood at the far end of the garden with two glass windows at either side of a pink wooden door. If you looked to the left of the shed there were three or four steps leading up to a medium-height back wall. Many plants arched over the steps, narrowing the passage. You’d have to push all the branches to the left to get past, then you could sit on the garden back wall and look over. It was a small spot. But from there, you could grab teeny-tiny dark purple grapes that were growing just behind the shed. I remember they were tangy and sharp. A bright green, whitish translucent colour on the inside to contrast the deep purple-black skin. This was back when grapes had seeds.
As I write this and look back, I realise this was one of the sweetest treats of my life; The memory of standing in nanny and grandad’s ‘backroom’ (which was basically the dining room and the daytime TV room) -eating as a child- the sweet produce from nanny and grandad’s back garden. These are moments that can never be re-created or matched. I’ve never had grapes like those since, and I probably never will. The memories make my heart feel as if it’s being embraced in a warm hug. If a heart could shed tears -the warm, happy ones- they have gently accumulated, and are about to overflow, making my heart well & feel tender. The little girl in me might describe it as tickly and tingly with glitter, sparkles and fairy dust.
Good Bye To A Pretty Penny
My grandad often went over that back wall to collect food, but I can’t 100% tell you exactly what was over there because we weren’t allowed to climb over the wall. Stepping off the wall, there was a small strip of green land that ran parallel to my grandparents’ garden and behind all the houses on our street. Only a few yards farther, a live train track also ran behind the houses and so, we were allowed on the wall—yes. Go over it—no. I don’t remember being told explicitly that it was forbidden, but I knew we weren’t allowed.
Or maybe losing our Penny to those train tracks created for us children, this unwritten rule. I remember overhearing that grandad had to climb down onto the tracks to retrieve her body, which had been chopped into three pieces by the train that mowed straight through. Rumour also had it that she was in love with a dog on the other side of the tracks. They would forever bark across to one another. Maybe one day she decided that long distance wasn’t working for her anymore. A love match ended, and our beautifully gold and sandy-coloured family dog was gone. We missed our Penny, and what grew over the wall will forever remain a mystery.
From Garden To Table – The Snail
I remember being sat at the dining table in the back room, tucking into my side of cooked spinach and finding a snail in between the yummy green veggie sheets. My grandad attempted to distract me and convince me that I did not see a snail in my dinner, whilst my grandmother took the plate to the kitchen and got rid of it. Thank you for lovingly trying to gaslight me into believing it wasn’t a snail in my spinach, grandad, but I was a smart kid, and I know what I saw. I guess I was also a very confident and vocal kid, and grandad thought I would never forget it and tell the whole world about it. I mean, maybe he was right because here I am telling you all now. I don’t remember what happened when my grandma returned with my snail-less plate, but being the squeamish type that I am, I very much doubt that I finished my dinner that evening.
When grandad wasn’t home, he was either out buying his newspaper or, we were told, “he’s at the allotment”. As a child, I had no real concept of the allotment nor any appreciation or understanding of the homegrown foods and ‘hard food’ that sat on my plate accompanying the meat. As I now message back and forth with fellow gardeners, about strategies to combat snails and slugs feasting on our harvest before we can, I appreciate the time, thought, love and patience that goes into harvesting your own crops (and the odd snail – YUCK!).
Note to self: Reseed your lawn!
As you went through the glass doors in the backroom, they took you straight out onto a concrete floor in the backyard. And yes, we grew up calling it a backyard, not a garden. There was a little table to the right in the corner, which had tools and garden toys. Straight ahead was one large step, as if the garden was on a platform. Once up, immediately to your left was a beautiful, raised bed. I recall it having a rose bush and being patterned with wonderful flowers. To the right of that was a reasonably sized, healthy green lawn where we children could play. Next to the lawn was a slim pathway that led to the shed I told you about earlier. This is where we spent summer days playing, holding and observing the ants that crawled around the cracks. Besides that, the pathway was another bed full of flowers.
I don’t know if it could be described as a large garden, but it wasn’t small. It was a good size and relatively big to me as a kid. I can’t remember where I read it, but apparently, a garden must be bigger than a tennis court to count as a ‘large garden’ these days. Though it wasn’t tennis court-sized, it was pristine. I never saw overgrown grass or excessive weeds. I don’t remember the lawn having patches of mud and needing re-seeding in some areas, like my garden at my home does now. Though they never said it, with hindsight, I realise my grandparents took much pride in their backyard.
PRESERVING FOOD AND PRESERVING MEMORIES
My regret is not playing in it more. As adults, we all know that playing often becomes a lost art as we age. I wish I had held onto more of the memories we made out there, so they could bring me well-needed smiles. Good childhood memories are balm to soothe an exhausted adult soul. Had I known how valuable those memories would be, I would tell my little self to write down special moments on little notes, keep them all in a jar, and preserve them like all those Instagram mamas I see canning their food for future use. Or the way my mother-in-law takes bulk fruits and makes them into an array of fancy curds. That way, I could take one sweet memory out each waking day and spread them on my mornings like jam on toast. An energy boost to start each day with gratitude.
That’s the beauty of fresh produce: fresh nutrition for today can be preserved for tomorrow, and saved seeds give hope for more of the same well into the future.
Bloom Anyway
Despite my parents, who were high school sweethearts, separating before I could own a memory of them together, I still saw my grandparents on my father’s side. They lived only two roads away from my maternal grandparents and grew their own food in their garden, too. As I grew up into my tween and teen years, I had more frequent Sunday visits because I could do the short walk on my own. Their garden was a little simpler. I don’t recall flowers, colours and play, simply a centred concrete path providing access to two long raised beds running beside it, each filled with rows of green ball-shaped vegetables. Maybe they were cabbages, cauliflower or lettuce. Maybe a mixture of them all? I don’t quite recall. All my memory holds is that there were very high walls, darkening the space of this no-fanfare garden that grew and protected my grandparents’ harvest. It was a space of practical beauty. A very intentional garden where the use of this space was solely for growing food. As grey as I remember it, veggies still bloomed.
The Creator Chose the Garden
I now realise the vase of flowers we sat around at every dinner on my nanny’s table were from her garden, and my everyday veg was grown on the land where they lived by choice. I see this as richness. Often, we think of riches as an accumulation of finances, and trust me, I’m not opposed to that kind of riches (Can you hear me, Lord? I don’t mind lots of money, if you are listening). However, I think growing your own food is a type of deep richness. To watch the little miracle of seed to fruit or the magical spell of garden veg to plate is a feeling that is indescribable. I can testify to this as I sit and type this in my living room, with 8 trays of seedlings absorbing the light from our tall park-facing bay windows. It’s the art of seeing the creator’s creation, enveloped in full-stop sized packages of potential – so tiny are many seeds – then bloom into the most tasty and nutritious foods to grace our plates. It’s also the idea of providing for your family. Making the most of what we have around, what is natural to us, the black soil, the seed, the sun, the water, the land, the hope.
I always had this thought: If the 7-day creation story in Genesis is true, when God made mankind “in the beginning”, God could have put us anywhere. The beach, the mountains, in a cave, but he chose The Garden. It’s where daily afternoon walks took place for the supreme being. In the ‘cool of the day’, our creator walked the garden to adore and spend time with his beloved creation. It’s where the first man and woman loved, worked, ate and communed with one another and their creator. And when things did go tits up, it’s where God harvested resources to make the first-ever organic garments.
(Personally, I think things went wrong all too soon. Could we not have had a few more chapters of blissful glory? It could have been called “Daily Life in Eden”. A glimpse into the original family life. Just imagine that in church “Turn to book Daily Life in Eden, Chapter 7 vs 7-10, “At the end of the perfect day, caring for the garden, Eve, Adam and the children foraged for Elderberry flowers to make homemade cordial. It was the perfect accompaniment to Adams Olive and sundried tomato sourdough. The children’s bedtime routine started at 6pm with a bath in the river Cush, after which mum and dad sang them hymns. Angels harmonised in the background. Once the children slept, Adam and Eve cuddled with a glass of holy water and watched the gold-dust speckled sunset over the Havilah river”. I mean how perfect? The perfect home-steaders and home-edders tee-hee)
Home Edder's And Homesteaders
As home educators, one of the main subjects at the core of our curriculum is nature. To grow up in a world and not know it or understand how it works, to not love it and care for it, would be a travesty. Imagine living here, on this planet, all of your life, and never knowing your environment. It doesn’t make sense (to me anyway). We must connect to the Earth from whence we came and to where we shall return. My five-year-old is forever in the garden, checking on’ what is happening in our falling apart pre-loved greenhouse. He helped to harvest the potatoes to make fish and chips. He waters the beds. And he is currently very proud to tell anyone about the Iris he planted last year that are currently blooming.
My times in both my grandparents’ gardens are core but faded memories. I wonder if they had embraced us into their gardening experiences and taught us about the foods they were growing, the what, the why and the how, would those memories be stronger, detailed and brighter, rather than reachable but dull. I wish I could tell you in detail what the flowers were called, the varieties of brassicas and carrots they grew. I wish I had learned from them -and not just books, Instagram and Youtube -the gift of gardening they clearly beheld. As a child, I remember mowing the lawn and shearing the edges to make them neat. I am yearning to have experienced more with them. For them to have “intentionally” passed on more, and for me to have shown more interest. Had they been more intentional, would I have started my own garden journey earlier, learning about Heirloom veggies, organic produce, how to look after soil, sow seeds, etc.? Yet, I’m grateful because if it weren’t for them, maybe I wouldn’t be gardening today at all.
Legacy Leavers
Today, after I trimmed off the holey outer leaves of our growing cabbages and cauliflower, I checked in on the things growing in our falling-apart pre-loved greenhouse, and I cut myself a very small bouquet of spring flowers. 5 red-pink tulips and 4 daffodils of varying yellows. I pray that the budding love that I have for the Earth and all that it springs forth from it, is something that I can pass on to the next generation. My sons, my grandchildren. In a world where we are encouraged to depend on industrialised produce, may we develop a love and passion for growing our own unique and wonderful foods, in our very own spaces.
I asked my mum if she has a hedge trimmer I can use. She said no, but my grandad might have one I can borrow, and we can ask and have a look in his shed on his birthday. My grandmother passed away of cancer many moons ago, and at the time of writing this, my grandad turns 101 next week, so I plan to travel to London to see him. 101, what an age! Can you even imagine what he has seen and experienced?
His old shed was always full of tools, but the house where he lives now is not the childhood family home I have told you all about. I am grateful that, as I write this, I may still have the opportunity to ask him all the questions I have, and I can take home something more important than tools. Maybe he can fill in some gaps for me, about his joys, passions and hopes, in the garden and/or out of it. Maybe gardening is not something he realises is important to me because I have never told him, and rather than expecting him to give me a legacy, because that’s how I see it, I can take it. If you’re running a relay, the runner behind you can’t pass you the baton until you get going, and then reach your hand back to show that you are ready to receive it and ready to run. I’m also acutely aware that my grandad might tell me nothing. He is not the most talkative in his older age. To be fair, he was always a quiet man, even in his most youthful years. We had a family where my grandmother handled most of their communication on their behalf. Since her passing, it has become even more noticeable.
Regardless, I suppose, of the outcome of spending time with my grandfather, my hope is to be intentional about passing on the gift to my children and grandchildren. Apart from life itself, it is one of the greatest of gifts from the creator to us. To plant a seed, then watch it open and bring forth such beauty. May this tradition, and the significance of hand to Earth be passed down from generation to generation. May this heirloom continue to be cultivated and thrive in value from one generation to another. Because oh, what a prize it is to witness the miracle of growth in your garden. The cycle of life. To connect with the life-giving richness of black earth. May I give my offspring the moments to embrace their own unique sweet -purple-black memories.
At our very own finger, our own little piece of Eden.
