Summer is just waking up in his greenhouse. Old ice cream and margarine tubs hold the tiny seedlings appearing from last year’s seeds, each carefully labelled: costas, sunflowers, lobelia, nasturtiums, tomatoes, Tom Thumb lettuce. On another day when the warm weather calls him out again, he’ll prick them out into seed trays, pot up the geranium cuttings, as he listens to Mozart and Beethoven on the radio.
The summer garden will be a riot of colour and fragrance. There will an arch of flowers around the curved lawn as well as pots on the patio and hanging baskets spilling their blossoms.
For now there are the daffodils, violets and the tiny blue and pink flowers of Joseph and Mary, and the narcissus and tulips about to open. We take our tour of the garden, the first thing I always do when I visit. Every plant has a story. This one was given by someone. That one’s had a struggle but looks set to come on all right this year. This one’s getting out of hand and will have to be cut back. When knew you were coming, he says, I had to clear up the garden or I don’t know what you would think of me.
In the carefully tilled vegetable garden he still has a little garlic, parsnips and spinach. When summer comes they will have enough produce to feed the two of them, and plenty over to sell to supplement their tiny pension. There will be apples, blackberries and currants too. And he’ll make chutney’s and jams to preserve what can’t be eaten at once.
He’s 81. I suppose I’m getting on a bit, he says. But he’s happy. Happier than he’s ever been in his life. He spent far too long working at a job he hated, he says. He worked in a shoe factory all his life. Now, besides his garden, he is chairman of the local branch of the Labour Party. He’s involved with the St. John’s Ambulance Brigade, and has joined The University of the Third Age, taking courses in genealogy and archeology.
We go for a walk around the neighborhood, and we’re moving at a fair pace. Panting alongside him ask, Do you usually walk at this speed? He laughs. No. Much faster. And then I have a job to keep up.
I become less afraid of growing old when I visit my uncle.
2 comments:
It's post like this and people like you that remind me the beautiful side of life.
Do take some pictures of the garden and post it up.
Oh, Sharon, that is beautiful! I knew getting old wasn't something to be afraid of -- except that I'm afraid I will never have a green thumb like your uncle's! Still, I can go birding, can't I? Thank you for bringing all that loveliness back with you and sharing it with us.
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