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This article is from Today's
Native Father, issue #133, May/June, 2004. Related articles from this issue: |
Memories of Gardening With My Parents A letter to mothers by Ilva Hertzler |
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Dear Moms, I have often heard my friends talk about their experi-ences on the trap line. These stories are filled with joy, warmth, peace, hard work, nature and love of the land. Life skills are learned out in the bush that are not learned elsewhere. Survival depends on the family members working together, trusting each other, each doing their own work diligently with a sense of responsibility, knowing that they are very much needed and valued. Self-esteem, quietness of heart and refreshment of soul and body are experienced living off the land. I have never lived on a trap line. But I do have a history of living off the land. I have learned and experienced some of the same things that can be learned on a trap line. As long as I can remember there has been a garden in my life. My dad was a professional, working in the medical field. Gardening was not only a way to provide for his family; it was also a way to be creative, to let the stress of the day drop off into the ground. When I was a child, our house was in the city. We had a back yard, not all that large. But there was room for a garden. I have a picture of my parents standing by a tomato plant that was as tall as they were. We would come home from church and the first thing they would do was take a stroll through the garden, touching each plant, fretting over the beans not growing as they did last year, or eyes lighting up at a cantaloupe¾you get the picture. I loved being in the garden with them. They would have these discussions about where to plant the corn this year, how many potatoes they should plant, and “should we do onions this year, last year they didn’t do too well.” But always it ended up that there was way more than enough of everything. That was OK. They liked sharing the surplus with the neighbours. Dad would put some string up along the row he wanted to dig. Then he would use a hoe to make a straight row. Then it was the weeding. It was fun to pull weeds, especially after a rain. I loved weeding so much that I wouldn’t mind doing it for recreation, now that I am older. Walking around barefooted, getting dirt between your toes, oh it is wonderful! Finally came the harvest: picking the beans, peas, tomatoes, corn, cucumbers; running out to the garden when you needed an onion or carrot; cutting some let-tuce for a fresh garden salad; digging potatoes. It could be hard, hot work, canning and freezing the vegetables, but everybody pitched in to make the work lighter. My parents worked together. They both planted, weeded and did the food preservation. We children were expected to help. This was the time we could talk and laugh. Dad and Mom would tell “when I was little” stories. Maybe the neighbours would stop by and they would help too. We would sit under the maple tree to snip beans, or in the carport so the mess would stay out of the kitchen as much as possible. Now that I’m married, we also have a garden. My husband is the one who makes the straight rows and I help with planting. We are the ones who stroll through the garden after church or over lunch hour to see what has grown. We swat mosquitos as we pick the beans. We see a little toad taking a nap under the tomato plant. Don’t forget the earthworms. That’s a healthy garden for you! I pull a carrot and peer down into the space. Mystery! What’s down there? It is satisfying to eat the veggies WE (and Creator God) have grown. The garden is where we talk about this or that or sometimes nothing at all. There is peace, hard work, joy, family, good old dirt and refreshment of body and soul. Getting back to the land, Ilva |
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