Just Can't Help But Smile

There can be no other occupation like gardening in which, if you were to creep up behind someone at their work, you would find them smiling. ~Mirabel Osler

The other day, as I was digging up day lilies at my momma’s house in the sweltering heat, I chuckled, leaned on my pitchfork, and asked her, “Who ever would have thought I’d be enjoying this?”

“I did,” was her reply.

It was near ninety degrees outside, and my silly little self had decided it was high time to grab those tiger lilies and day lilies we’d been talking about. As I wrestled with the pitchfork and gingerly removed each chute with great care, I found that the heat wasn’t really bothering me. I even caught myself smiling.

My Grandma Irene – Momma’s momma – was a world-class gardener. She had a house on the lake with a gigantic, sloping lawn, over half of which was teeming with beauty. The hill under the garage, which could be seen by all who pass by on the channel, will always be my ideal garden. I find myself thinking, “I like that…it’s pretty…but it’s not as great as Grandma’s,” fairly often.

Grandma spent all the time she could in her garden, wearing – I kid you not – faded salmon-colored satin pumps. She grew up in a time where that’s what women wore, and it’s what she was most comfortable in. Besides, her garden got all dressed up for her; why shouldn’t she return the favor?

During our visits every week, there came a time when – no matter what else we were doing – Grandma and Momma dropped everything and went outside. I, of course, tagged along many times, and I couldn’t be happier with the decision; this was not something I’d have wanted to miss. Twilight: that’s the time for the Garden Walk. Grandma would take us through the garden behind the garage, and to her other islands in the yard, and I’ve never seen anything more magical. Momma and I giggled this past week when we realized that we’d started doing the Garden Walk at our own houses, at exactly the same time of day when we used to go with Grandma.

She traded plants with over fifty people, and that’s just the trades of which Momma was aware. I’m sure there were more. Most of my mom’s plants originated at Grandma’s house and travelled home with us either in the boat or the truck at some point in time.

My garden is a baby, in all senses of the word. I’m just starting, and there’s a long way to go. My lilies – the tiger lilies from Grandma’s, in fact – will fill in over time, and more layers will be added until the entire east side of my house is a secret garden oasis, complete with a path leading through an archway back to a patio where we’ll put a bistro set for summer meals.

It’s hard work. My muscles remind me of that when I wake each and every morning. No matter how much intense physical labor it takes, I always feel more connected while I’m doing it. Connected with nature, connected with other gardeners, and – most of all – connected with my grandmother. While sweat is pouring down my face and I’m covered in mud from head to toe, I know she’d be proud of me…and I just can’t help but smile.