Ba’s Garden

My dad loved gardening. He had a small garden of flowers in the front yard, and another modest one for vegetables in the backyard. At the first sign of spring, and until the last bit of fall, he would spend his early mornings tending to them. It was not a grand garden with a sustainable yield, and he only ever grew the same plants, but it was something he really enjoyed. Every piece is a memory of my dad’s once familiar harvest. In honour of the garden my dad loved and lost, I dedicate my first collection.

This was not an active plant in the garden, in fact my dad may have only had it for two summers. The first summer. My dad planted it and left me in charge. I remember one particular chipmunk was a grea fan of the plant. Every morning when I went to water it, I would find a trail of half eaten tomatoes and nibbles in the low-hanging ones. It turned into a small feud. But my dad insisted that I let it be. The chipmunk shared our harvest for the rest of the season.
This was not an active plant in the garden, in fact my dad may have only had it for two summers. The first summer. My dad planted it and left me in charge. I remember one particular chipmunk was a grea fan of the plant. Every morning when I went to water it, I would find a trail of half eaten tomatoes and nibbles in the low-hanging ones. It turned into a small feud. But my dad insisted that I let it be. The chipmunk shared our harvest for the rest of the season.
Before my dad planted his garden, he owned a large-potted chili plant that would move outdoors in the warm seasons and indoors for the cold ones. I remember watching it thrive in the summers, producing endless chilis that would fill our freezer, and I would witness its near death in the winters as it hid away in sunless corners. A silent show of resilience. It lasted a while living in that lifestyle, until my dad gave it a permanent place in his garden.
Before my dad planted his garden, he owned a large-potted chili plant that would move outdoors in the warm seasons and indoors for the cold ones. I remember watching it thrive in the summers, producing endless chilis that would fill our freezer, and I would witness its near death in the winters as it hid away in sunless corners. A silent show of resilience. It lasted a while living in that lifestyle, until my dad gave it a permanent place in his garden.
For the longest time, my parents always made sure there was a pot of soup ready for every dinner. This tradition grew to be less frequent as we grew older, but when the garden came around, my dad would use the melons he grew to make soup. It always varied, I never quite knew the names and I’m sure he knew either. But I remember them by the feelings of hot soup in my belly, sitting at the table with my family.
For the longest time, my parents always made sure there was a pot of soup ready for every dinner. This tradition grew to be less frequent as we grew older, but when the garden came around, my dad would use the melons he grew to make soup. It always varied, I never quite knew the names and I’m sure he knew either. But I remember them by the feelings of hot soup in my belly, sitting at the table with my family.
This is the gourd. The most famous and reoccurring harvest of my dad’s garden. He’d always laugh at how these grew, the shapes and sizes varied. I remember catching him staring at them. I myself liked to take a peek at them every now and then. The vines grew in tight rings, beautiful white flowers blossomed. It made for sweet soups.
This is the gourd. The most famous and reoccurring harvest of my dad’s garden. He’d always laugh at how these grew, the shapes and sizes varied. I remember catching him staring at them. I myself liked to take a peek at them every now and then. The vines grew in tight rings, beautiful white flowers blossomed. It made for sweet soups.
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