The Master Gardener

She jokingly referred to herself as the Grand Master Gardener as she lurched around the backyard on her battery-powered scooter, the arrow on the speed control always aligned with the picture of the hare, never the tortoise. Although she only operated her scooter at rabbit speed, in her life’s greatest battle she persevered like the tortoise.

When her life expectancy was four months, she lived another five years. Doctors thought she may not survive her broken femur, or would at least cease to walk when a metal rod was needed to hold together her “good” leg. She did survive, and, unwilling to be slowed down, she purchased a walker to get around her home, and the scooter for her gardens.

Her doctors were at a loss for what kept this cancer-riddled woman alive. “We can do nothing more for you,” they said. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

So she continued to devote much of her time to studying the scriptures in her Women’s Devotional Bible and working in her extensive gardens. During my mom’s 12-year battle with cancer, her faith and her gardens flourished in parallel. She began speaking openly about her gratitude for the life she had lived and her peace with the inevitable next step of her journey. Her gardens were a stop on the horticulture club’s Millennium Tour.

The doctors did share some gentle words of caution. They warned against the Master Gardener’s eager anticipation of both of her daughters’ weddings, as well as the birth of her first grandchild. She was not only present for all of these events, she celebrated each with gusto.

The gardens in her sizable backyard looked beautiful at the time of my wedding, even for the month of June, when the perennials tease their audience with the grandeur of blossoms to come the following month. Unfortunately, that year the Master Gardener would not be home to enjoy her gardens when they were in full bloom. She fell and fractured her left arm in mid-July, and thus began an extended and final stay in the hospital.

Between hospital visits I would go home, don my gardening clothes, and head into the mid-summer humidity, digger in one hand, empty pail in the other, and weeds at my mercy. Virginia creeper would not be wrapping itself around the lilies if Mom were home. Over the course of a few hours my bucket would be filled several times over and the garden would be watered with my tears.

In the seasons following the Master Gardener’s death, my spirit began to resemble her gardens. Opportunistic weeds sprouted in the lonely terrain, choking out the more desirable growth. Some were becoming well established. Eradicating such invaders can be difficult and there was much work to be done to restore order to Mom’s gardens, as well as my own.

It was 10 years ago that I attacked the towering thistles and feathery clover that tried to overgrow the Master Gardener’s perennial beds. Ten years. I can hardly believe it, until I consider the landscape of my current life, which is very different than the one she was part of. There is my husband—my rock—and two colourful new shoots that I tend to every day.

I can talk about the Master Gardener now without crying, usually, if the topic is sufficiently lighthearted. Some weeds are persistent though. The deep-rooted sadness that stems from the loss of the spirited gardener, friend, and confidant that I proudly called Mom is my undying dandelion.

Sometimes I play a game with myself, in an effort to make me feel like the Master Gardener is still part of my days. I try to imagine what she would say about certain things in my life now. For example: my children’s behaviour, my work-life balance, my spirituality, my gardens… my weeds. It is difficult to predict some of the things that she would share, but I know one thing for certain; the Grand Master Gardener would want all of her beautiful creations to be weed-free.