My Adoptive Garden

I remember times when I was forced to take a rake and rake the apple tree leaves in the fall in our garden which was the most hated activity ever in my early teens. But I also remember times when I used to spend all day long at my cousin’s garden with her and my sister until late in the night. It was usually in the summer when we stayed at my grandma’s for holidays. Throughout the summer we would satisfy our hunger during the day by picking whatever fruit was available from cherries through red currant, black currant, goose berries and apples and pears late in the summer and in the fall. Maybe the childhood and a grandchild’s affection to a grandmother and a grandfather have led to plant a seed of a need of a garden in me. Interestingly enough I have never build a good relationship with our or rather my parent’s garden. But to go further into this topic I would really digress from the gardens of my life. After several years I have again found a garden which I call an adoptive garden.


My adoptive garden lives its life in a different town and so every time we meet it always starts with the most welcoming stroll and greeting. Even before I greet my potentially future in law family, I have to greet the garden. When I arrive the dogs come running with a wagging tales, but the dog that deserves my attention the most is the neighbour’s dog. I will never comprehend why the family has bought the dog because they totally ignore him. He spends all days long in the garden alone and even when they come out of the house they do not respond to his happy face and look past him. At that moment the sadness in his eyes is so deep that I could drown myself in it. Whenever I arrive or walk in the garden we have a minute to ourselves. Then I continue to walk past the house. As I pass a corner of the house the whole garden opens in front of me and I can immediately tell what is new. One time, it is the cherries that acquire the purple colour of the blossom of Nonea pulla, other times the strawberries peek at me from behind the carpet of green leaves or the red currant no longer screws my face with verjouice. I make a round trip, walking past and under the cherry tree to the end of the garden where the hen house which is guarded by an old pear tree and a walnut tree is. If the fowls are outside I say hello to the girls and respectfully greet the self-important cock. Then I cross the patches and have a look how the vegetables are doing and slowly return stroking each of the apple trees on the way back to the house.



The garden does not only provide the most delicious vegetables, does not only make us happy when we run there bare feet in the summer and pick strawberries. It is more than that. It is a friend I look forward to whenever I travel there. It speaks to me. It speaks to me not in words but in smells and touches. Sometimes when the branches of the red current bush are bend under the weight of the fruit the beg me to pick the fruit and save them from breaking. Sometimes the rhubarbs catch my attention when the leaves are big enough to be collected. They remind me of how delicious they are on a cake and force me to hurriedly walk upstairs and bake a cake. When I have to leave, usually after a weekend I always say goodbye to the garden. When it is dark I simply stand close to the house and smell the fragrance of blossoms or the soil resting over the winter. When the garden feels satisfied with my visit, it even rustles its leaves in goodbye. If the neighbour’s dog is around I never forget to tell him what a good dog he is and assure him that I will come again soon.


My adoptive garden is resting these days. It seems to be asleep most of the time, but it deserves its rest. When I feel lonely I open a jar of red current jam or apricot jam and chase away my loneliness with the smell and taste of my adoptive garden.