This is a photo of my parents in their acre-large garden in the '80s. Dad had a nice moustache that carried through to the early '90's. They are sitting in Mum's herb garden where she grew all the herbs she could find. Lavender, peppermint, sage, thyme, borage - you name it. She had a heap of herb books that she would pour over and send us looking for plants when she wanted to make a fresh herbal tea. I remember her sending us into the garden with the promise of a dollar if we found a plantain (the leaf variety - we were in temperate southern Australia). They had a vegetable garden where Dad enthused about fresh peas and some chooks. When I moved out of home, I took herbs with me. Mum had given me the bug.
Side note - they're sitting at the start of a brick path my father made. He finished it with what he said was a dragon's tail, but when we all stepped back to admire it, someone said it looked like a penis, and none of us could unsee it. Later they had an arbor. Mum loved her climbing roses.
This photo is my parents in the weeks before Dad died, just over a year ago. He'd struggle out into their beautiful garden to chat to us before hobbling back in to go to pained sleep. They both hate this photo. They said they look old. IN the background, a huge pile of mulch that needs moving. This garden is extraordinary, even though the oxalis is taking over. It's full of beautiful trees and native plants. Poor Mum is struggling to stay on top of it. WE all gardened like mad when Dad died, channelling our grief into productivity.
Side note, he was buried in that blue shirt.
Dad was always roping us into garden projects or helping with ours. Gazebos and compost bays, pizza ovens under cover, bamboo forests. He loved bamboo. We used to joke he was a panda in a past life.
Dad would have been an architect if he was to retrain (he was a draftsman) and loved design. It shows in the organised beauty of the garden, and various features like bird baths and posts on jaunty angles. We'd go visit botanical gardens and he'd always want to bring an idea home, though Mum would be furious at things she didn't like, like cactus and hard to maintain grasses. There's a cabbage tree in the garden she's finally chopped down in a kind of defiance. He can't veto that now.
In the last few years when he was sick, he gave up on gardening projects. He couldn't be bothered. Mum wanted a gardening shed, the vegetable garden to be fenced, various other things but it was too much for Dad. Those things would carry on after he was gone. Next week I'm helping her put in some more raised beds, though I worry it's all too much for her. The garden is looking worse for wear. She needs to get some help in but is procrastinating. She misses him.
Dad painted these totem poles in the garden - totally cultural appropriation on aggy pipe. He loved the story that a kangaroo came past whilst he was painting them.
When he was in hospital once we all did a working bee and made a gorgeous garden outside of their bedroom with my uncle, nephews and husband. He had to let go of pride and was chuffed that we did it.
It's hard to say why they loved gardening so much. Maybe because Dad's Mum was a green thumb, brought up on a farm in Germany. Maybe it was because they loved nature and beautiful things. Maybe it was because it helped calm Dad down when he was stressed. Maybe it just became a habit. Maybe he just liked things neat and tidy and organised. Maybe they respected the environment. Maybe all those things.
Every time I rake I think of Dad. It's the last garden thing he could do, gently raking the gum leaves that would cough up off the trees in a wind. You'd be in the car chatting to them about to leave and he'd have the rake in his hand.
Undoubtedly, they gave me a love of gardening myself. Me and Mum still send each other reels of inpsiring garden content. I go round there and help her weed now and then, and probably will more when my house is done. And when we bougt the new place, my 76 year old mother came round with a reciprocating saw and helped me tidy up.
Ghost Dad's around too, with the rake.
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