You hate gardening.
You always had.
The feeling of soil through your fingers irritates you. The thought of spending all that effort trying to bring order into a form of nature that resists it leaves you feeling fatigued.
You resolved not to garden for as long as you can!
That’s pretty much why you left suburbia behind and moved to the city. The one bedroom apartment might be small. But at least you know how to keep it neat and tidy… unlike any garden you’ve had to deal with.
You sit back on your couch. The small balcony window is open, letting in the cool air and urban noise of a late autumn afternoon.
The phone beside you starts to ring. You look at the screen to find that it’s your Mum calling.
You put your phone beside you and let it ring. After about ten trills of the artificial bell, it goes silent.
You know why your Mum’s calling. Every time May rolls around she asks you that question. The question you’ve been dreading for the last week. Why couldn’t she ask someone else this year?
You lean back on your couch, feeling a little bad for not answering her. You’re just about to reach for your phone to call her when it start’s ringing again.
You press the green button and bring the phone to your ear. “Hi Mum.”
“Terry,” she says in an agitated tone. “I need you this Sunday.”
“Why?” you ask, although you already know the reason. It’s been the same reason every year.
“I need you for the flower show.”
“Oh Mum,” you say, not trying very hard to hide your irritation. “You know how useless I am around plants. Can’t I just sit this one out? Remember you promised last year.”
“Yes, I know,” she say. “And believe me when I say that I wouldn’t do this if I had any choice. But your father’s been taken ill and your sister’s on her gap year, so there’s no one else I can turn to.”
You immediately regret asking that question as soon as the words left your mouth. Making friends doesn’t come easily for your Mum, and it’s been a bit of a sore spot recently.
“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
She was quiet for a minute, then responded with a sly voice: “well, there’s one sure way to make it up.”
“He’s fine,” she says. “Just a hernia. But he’ll be out of commission until the 15th, so he won’t be able to help me.”
“No, I’m afraid not,” she says. “It’s you or bust. And you know how much the flower show means to me.”
You make a large sigh of resignation. You realise that without your help, Mum will have to pull out. Mum has never missed the flower show for as long as you can remember. And you know how disappointed she’ll be if you make this year her first forfeit.
You sigh again. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”
“Come round for dinner tomorrow. We’ll go through the list of tasks then.” She hangs up before you could respond.
You put the phone beside you and lean back on the couch.
Oh, that damn flower show! Every year it’s always the same thing, with Mum basically rushing the entire family off their feet helping her prepare her entry.
Truth of the matter is, your Mum does an amazing job. Her floral arrangements usually get some sort of ribbon, quite often 1st place. She’s consistently in the top ten.
And despite how crazy the weeks leading up to the show are, Dad and your sister are more than happy to help. They, like Mum, actually like gardening. Love it even. And they’re good at it, almost as good as Mum.
But their help is not forthcoming this year. All she’s got you.
You drive over to Mum’s house the evening of the next day. It was twilight when you arrived, yet after several knocks on her front door go unanswered, you walk around the back to find her in the garden.
“Oh, you arrived,” she says. “I need your help with the roses. Can you hand over the secateurs?”
On the ground are three tools before you. You have no idea which of them are. You reach down to pick one.
“No, that’s the hedge trimmers. Not even sure what I’ve got those out actually.” She turns around to picks up the small tool with the open blades, then turns back to her garden. “Not to worry,” she says with her back to you. “We’ll make a gardener out of you yet.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been wondering about,” you say. “I’m not sure how you’re expecting me to help you here. I mean, heck! I don’t even know what these tools are.”
“Ah, thank you,” she says as she takes the secateurs from your hand. “We’ll make a gardener out of you yet.” She turns to the roses and starts pruning them.
“Well, that’s what I’ve been wondering about,” you say. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to actually do to help. I mean, heck! I barely know what these tools are.”
“No, no. That’s the hoe,” she says as she turns to find you holding the T-shaped poll. She points to the small one with the open blades. “Those things.”
You pick up the indicated tool and hand it to her. She takes it and turns back to the garden. “Not to worry. We’ll make a gardener out of you yet.”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been wondering about,” you say. “I’m not sure how you’re expecting me to help you here. I mean, heck! I don’t even know what these tools are.”
She gets up from the ground, dusting soil from her front. “Well, we’ll have to make do with the week we have. I’m pretty confident I’ll be able to put together a nice floral arrangement with what we’re growing here. What I’ll need from you is to tend the garden.”
You look around the backyard. Even in the dying light you can see a remarkable display of flowers of all breeds, shapes, and colours.
“It looks pretty good to me now,” you say.
“Ah, but looks are deceptive,” Mum said. She brings forward the white rose that she was pruning. “See this?” With her secateurs she points to the petals. “Root rot. See the copper colouring round the edge?”
You lean forward to see. The light was fading fast, so it was difficult to tell. Yet you could just make out a small discolouration around the petals.
She moves over to the tulips. “And there’s something wrong with this plant too, although I’m not certain what it is yet.”
You walk beside her and try to look for anything wrong. The plant looked fine to your eyes, although you wonder if it was just because of the failing light.
“It’s a bit hard to tell in the dark,” she says. She moves to the back door. “Come in. We’ll have a discussion on what I’ve got in mind. Then you can come round after work tomorrow and start helping me out.”
You follow her inside, and over dinner you hear her plan for the entry. She’ll start arranging the bouquet, while you’ll work the garden. The important thing to do for now is bring the roses and tulips back up to health. Mum will have other things for you to do after that. Then, it’s just a matter of putting it all together and going to the show.
You head off from home, relieved that it wasn’t as bad as you expected. Yet the prospect of coming back the next day to start nursing plants back to health seems a little daunting.
“I haven’t had a chance to look at it closely, what with looking after your father and all. But I think it’s aphids.”
You have heard of aphids before, mainly in the context of know that ants heard them for honeydew. You have no idea how to deal with them, or how to tell that the plant is suffering from them.
You arrange to leave work after lunch the next day, and head over to Mum’s, ready to help out with nursing the flowers to health.
Your knocks go unanswered again. You’re guessing that Mum’s the kitchen preparing some of the “non-botanical” aspect of the display. She is expecting you so you decide walk round to the back.
You look around the garden which, thanks to the daylight, looks even more stunning than it did yesterday. You would’ve liked a bit of help from her, but after last night’s discussion, you know she’ll have a lot to do, so you decide to give it a shot yourself.