Roots

If there is a gardening gene, then I inherited it from mum.  However, my father’s side of the family disliked gardening so much, it’s a wonder my gardening gene survived.

My Nanna paved as much of her plot as possible, with pastel coloured concrete slabs which were fashionable in the 60s and 70s.  The front ‘garden’ was dotted with uninspiring evergreen shrubs and she massacred them within an inch of their lives every year.  She only ever had one houseplant - a cactus - and it was very prickly.  It suited her.  


Dad was his mother’s son and hated gardening.  He condescended to cut the grass and hedges so he could tinker with a variety of different lawn mowers and hedge trimmers.  He did not like rain on his head or mud on his shoes but he would venture outside if there were boats or pigs to look at.  He loved photographing pigs, messing with car engines and playing the piano.

This one's for you Dad

Dad was an electrician and he bought a building plot after the war and mum and dad and my older sister lived in a condemned shack on the site.  Ironically, it was called Beautoria and it had damp and infested with mice.  Dad and his tradesmen friends built a new bungalow and my mother had to turn the building site into a garden in return for 3 bedrooms, a kitchen and an inside bathroom.  She loved creating the garden because the war years were tough.  She also liked to get away from Dad and housework.

Not much to do then!

My sister and I grew up never having experienced a traditional Sunday lunch.  Sunday was mum’s Gardening Day and we had to survive on luncheon meat salad and boiled potatoes.  If there wasn’t a tin of Del Monte pears and Libby's evaporated milk, I was sent to Mr Holdsworth’s corner shop to buy a two shilling block of Wall's Neapolitan ice cream which he wrapped in newspaper for me.  Sometimes, if I had been good, mum gave me a few coppers for a lucky bag.  (There's nothing like a black jack to give you an attractive smile.)

Mum made a rose bed, a large rockery and several mixed borders.  Later on, Dad bought her an aluminium greenhouse and she grew tomatoes and bedding plants from seed she bought mail order from women’s magazines. The day the first ‘Garden Centre’ opened in town was a huge event for her and she took me along too.  We had tea and cake in the coffee shop and for a family who never ate out, this was a very special treat.

Gardens are for fun

Some of my earliest memories are playing outside on my tricycle, making mud pies and planting nasturtium and marigold seeds.   Despite my nanna’s huffing and puffing she was a wonderful lady and it was she who converted the old outside toilet 'shed' into a play house for me.  She painted the inside green, granddad made some furniture and I painted a sign for the door.  Apple Blossom Villa was a paradise. 

I also remember being knocked unconscious when a conference pear fell on my head and everyone said it must be a good omen.  But my everlasting recollection is of mum, on her kneeling mat and wearing a cotton headscarf.  She died 15 years ago and sadly she never saw Springfield or knew me as the keen gardener that I am now.  But I like to think she is always with me in spirit in our garden, suggesting some bulbs to plant or admiring the flowers.

Mum with secateurs - which were probably a gift from Nanna....

Dad visited Springfield regularly and had only one comment to make about the garden.  “You must be mad,” he said.   I think he walked to the bottom of the garden a few times though he was rather taken with our ride-on lawn mower.

Doc was given his gardening gene by his father who kept us supplied  with raspberry canes, cultivated blackberry plants, bizzy lizzies and tips on growing leeks and tomatoes.  The last thing he ever gave me was a strawberry pink chrysanthemum in a pot and 4 years on, it is going strong and is one of my most treasured plants.

Doc with his Dad

My mum never pressured me to become a gardener or gave me chores to do outside.  So, I never asked our son or daughter to join in with the gardening.  They played outside with their friends throughout their childhoods and it was lovely for them.  Number One Daughter is now a florist and Number One Son is a real foodie and grows vegetables and herbs in a couple of raised beds.  I am glad the gene slipped through and Doc and I are hoping the gene gets passed to their children too.  We have the most hideous plastic gnome and when our grandchildren come to Springfield, we can play ‘Hunt the Gnome’ and other games in the garden.  Hopefully, a little bit of soil will get left on their fingers and turn green.

The Chrysanthemum

Doc with his first wheelbarrow