Read by Matilda Longbottom

“The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.” – Rabindranath Tagore

“Oh!”

It was rare for my mother to be speechless, but as she gazed at the garden of my new home just outside London, she was lost for words.

On a newly built estate, the plot was a mere 20 square feet of compacted rubble, topped with a thin layer of topsoil and a few rolls of turf.

“Well,” she finally said, still searching for the right words. “I suppose it is a blank canvas to work with.”

As a child, I had grown up in a house with a lavish garden. A large expanse of lawn for play was bordered by plants that provided interest year-round: forsythia, kerria, and Spring bulbs gave way to Summer’s gentle hues of lavender and mallow, fiery flashes of crocosmia, and carpets of wild blue geraniums. These reliable perennials were supplemented by annuals like marigolds, petunias, and masses of busy-lizzies.

And, in pride of place were Mum’s favorite white lilies. Even when they were no longer in bloom in the garden, peace lilies would be flowering indoors.

My preferred Summer spot was in the shade of a huge weeping willow, sitting among the hostas and watching frogs and dragonflies play on the pond. As one of four children, it was one of the few places where I could enjoy a little peace.

Autumn brought a kaleidoscope of copper, bronze, and gold foliage, giving way to Winter’s hardy stalwarts: Winter jasmine, robust skimmia, scarlet-stemmed dogwood, and Lenten rose or hellebores.

With the arrival of snowdrops, the whole glorious carousel turned once more.

It was all a far cry from the small, barren plot we were facing now.

“O…kay,” Mum said. “You do, at least, have a south-facing brick wall, perfect for espalier pears, with room for a small greenhouse in the corner. You should always try to grow some produce in your garden, however compact.”

I thought of the fruit trees at my childhood home: apple, plum, and cherry, as well as the black-currant bushes, beds of strawberries, and rows of raspberry canes. Mum could never work out how she lost so much soft fruit to the birds, considering it was all properly netted. Of course, that was no guard against her children’s thieving fingers!

The greenhouses were stuffed with salad crops, while potatoes, beans, and onions grew in regimented rows. Yet, my mother taught me that there should always be a place for a little chaos, too. The wild patch at the end of the garden, beyond the compost heap, was guarded by brambles and nettles, home to bees, butterflies, beetles, and all kinds of other insects. With the rewilding trend, “No Mow May,” and the like, the importance of wildlife habitat is now understood. But this was back in the sixties. Before it was taught in schools, I learned all about the importance of wildlife conservation from my very own “green” Mum.

Crowded in, cheek by jowl, most of the gardens on my new estate were overlooked by several neighbors. My mother planted whips of willow along the borders but warned me that once they had reached the desired height, I had to keep on top of them. Unless I wanted to pay for my privacy with all my natural light, I should avoid leyland conifers and ”mile-a-minute” Russian vines that some others resorted to – although a properly managed Virginia creeper, as a reliable source of Autumn color, was always a good idea. A young eucalyptus in the corner would provide pretty blue, penny-shaped leaves but, again, unless carefully controlled, it could uproot the whole house.

Finally, as a housewarming gift, Mum bought me a “family” apple tree; three varieties grafted onto a single stem. She firmly believed that every garden, whatever its size, should have at least one tree. We planted it at the corner of the tiny patio to provide a little shade.

It was to become the most cherished plant in the whole garden.

I had been in my new home for a year, steadily stocking my plot with seasonal favorites, when my mother suffered a stroke.

Completely paralyzed down her right side, unable to speak or do anything else for herself, she spent several months in the hospital. Working full-time and driving the three-hour round trip to visit her in a specialist facility most nights of the week, I was beside myself with anxiety and fatigue. Again, my garden provided some much-needed respite. However, as I tended to each plant, I was reminded of how Mum and I had planned and built this little oasis together.

In the Spring, just as the family apple tree she bought me blossomed, Mum returned home. Hobbling out of her house, she burst into bitter tears at the state of her beloved garden. We children had done our best to control it but there simply hadn’t been time. To cheer her up, I took her to our favorite place – the garden center. Over a cup of tea in the café there, we planned her new garden in miniature. She (finally) accepted that she could no longer manage the whole plot but we could build a smaller, more contained version, close to the house.

And so, our roles were reversed.

Soon her patio boasted a little pond in an old butler’s sink, a few growbags for fruit and veg, and lots of pots of flowers. I even included a hellebore for Christmas cheer.

Two weeks into December, Mum died.

A second stroke ended her life. We walked behind the coffin, covered in white lilies, to watch her be lowered into the earth she loved.

I went home, sat beneath the family apple tree, and wept.

When my next birthday came around, about seven months later, I mourned her all over again. Christmas had been hard but, only a week after her death, we were all still numb with shock. Now, as the roses were in full bloom, I grieved for the birthdays of the past when Mum and I would celebrate at the garden center, of course.

Friends arrived with birthday bouquets but when they had gone, I removed any lilies and threw them away.

Later that day, I found out that I was pregnant.

Eight months later, baby Amy arrived to a fanfare of congratulations and a flurry of flowers. There were lilies but I no longer felt the need to weed them out.

I would have loved to be able to show my darling daughter to her grandmother but life doesn’t always work out that way.

My mother learned everything she knew about gardening from her own mother. I never knew this wonderful woman but the seeds she sowed have borne fruit through two generations. As I sit in my little back garden, I am surrounded by this legacy in fruit and flower and so many other forms.

One day, I hope to introduce Amy to the love of all things horticultural but for now, my baby sleeps in the shade of the family apple tree. ❖

About the Author: Petina Strohmer is a traditionally published novelist and successful short-story writer. She lives in the magical Welsh mountains with a raggle-taggle assortment of rescued animals and a steeply sloped garden that she has never quite been able to tame. For more information, visit www.petinastrohmer.com