A garden is not forever...

Because every garden reflects those who have loved it and when they are gone, likely so is the garden

Several years ago I took on a client who was a very lovely woman and her equally lovely husband. They were both senior citizens and lived in a sprawling mid-century bungalow in a forested part of the city. He had been an artist and she a teacher. They were both lovers of nature and went to great lengths to be stewards of their mature trees, gardens and surrounding green space.

It was always a pleasure coming to work in her garden. She would always come out and join me, walking me around the property, making suggestions about what we should add or expressing concern about a plant that might not be performing at its best. But more often than not, we shared the pleasure that comes with seeing plants bloom and thrive, and sometimes she’d make tea and we’d sit in her gazebo, talking about her visits to Bequia or her fights to slow traffic flow along her street. She knew almost everyone in the neighbourhood, when they had moved in, their family dramas and the history of their house.

I designed her front garden to make the most of the cherished trees and she, despite her age, religiously dragged the hoses around, making sure the gardens, trees and grass were kept moist and happy.

This garden was lovingly designed, planted and tended and it gave both her and her husband great pleasure. I remember prepping and planting it with a few of my woman friends who were also skilled in horticulture, while cars slowed as they passed by, expressing that it was unusual to see an all-female landscaping crew. Or maybe they were just oogling us, I don’t know.

There were areas that were challenging to keep lush like the foundation bed along the front pathway that largely sat under the roof overhang, so it was moisture challenged. Every spring she put out terracotta pots with tuberous begonias, and also brought some of her houseplants out to enjoy the fresh air. I only realize now that her front door was painted pink; a friendly colour that reflected her generous and welcoming personality.

The front garden was largely shaded by towering trees - for the life of me I can’t recall what they were, but she had an arborist visit regularly to monitor their health, cable their trunks and prune them judiciously. None of us mentioned whether or not they would outlive their stewards.

The gardens encircling the trees were planted with perennials that would be vigorous and happy in the shade: Geranium maccrorhizum in the foreground and Epimedium behind. They all grew in as I had hoped and what I had envisioned became true in just a few short years.

The garden on the left perimeter was a sunny one, showcasing her large collection of roses, as well as other sun-lovers, some that I introduced which included ornamental grasses and Joe Pye weed for height and native interest. This bed was also a riot of colour in the spring with dozens of tulips and other bulbs making an appearance. There were always areas that needed tweaking, but this was part of the fun of it.

As years passed, her husband started to fail and I feared for them both. She began to get nervous about money and started to lose her memory, and insisted that she pay by cheque before I left, so that I had to do calculations in my car while she patiently waited. Then, quite unexpectedly, I heard that she’d gone into hospital and my days of tending this garden were suddenly over.

When I finally got the nerve a year or so later, I drove by and my heart dropped.

The home that they loved had been torn down and a soul-less replacement had been built. All the trees are gone, our garden is gone, and the magic is gone.

To this day I don’t know if they outlived the trees.