Meanderings

My grandmother's garden is bathed in perpetual sunlight. In my mind it is always summer, hot piercing sun, shade a rare commodity, but cool and refreshing when found.

Vignettes, flashes, no whole story here, no narrative of A to B and what I found there. Just the memories of my grandmother's garden, as they come to me.

Sitting on the back steps, squeezed between the back and toilet doors, slippery macadamia nuts spilled out of their bag, and a hammer. Chasing the nuts with the hammer as they roll across, down the stairs, between the stairs, finally cracking one and picking the creamy flesh from between the shards of the shattered shell.

Back steps again, cold watermelon against my teeth, juice spattered down my tshirt, seed spitting contests across the tiles.

Cutting down the corn stalks, and learning the hard way that sucking corn sugar out of the stalks whilst sitting in the sun makes you really really nauseous.

Picking sunwarmed strawberries, tiny and juicy and when you bite into them it's like you're biting into summer, sweet and warm. Picking one for the table, one for me, one for the table, one for me, into the icecream bucket they go.

Climbing the mulberry tree in search of ripe mulberries, the smell of cut grass and compost coming from beneath your feet, rich and earthy. Being asked "Have you been eating mulberries?", shaking your head emphatically NO! while your purple teeth, lips, tongue and fingers betray your lie.

Being sent out to collect the salad - spiky leaves of borage, bitter leaves of roquette, a child's palate not suited to these strong tastes, wondering why anyone would want to eat them.

Standing under the cool of the lemon trees, inhaling the tang of the fruit, rubbing the leaves, hands now all citrussy and sharp.

Learning how to tell when passionfruit are ripe, deep purple and crinkled like an old woman's laughing face. Watching, fascinated, as the pulp is transformed into flummery, sweeter than anything on earth.

Making choko pickles, chokos plucked from the vine on the fence. Slice off the cap, and rub vigourously against the opposite cut flesh to rid the fruit of it's sap. The sap is sticky and stings, the job is arduous and boring, the end result better be worth it! And it is, pickles mustardy and bright yellow, choko flesh soft and tasteless.

Gooseberries, such as I have never seen again. The fruit is surrounded by fragile white leaves, rough against the skin. Yellow and sharp and tart, tiny seeds sticking in my teeth, eyes watering slightly when you eat a green one, too impatient to wait for it to ripen.

Hiding underneath the bushes out the front, just past the gooseberry bush, hidden and secret and shady. Buzzing of bees an accompaniment to the lazy afternoon, drowsy making.

Nursing a beesting, bare feet running through the yard caught unawares. Antiseptic vinegar, scent tickling my nose, rubbed gently against the wound.

Gathering the nectar from nasturtium flowers - pick them, bite off the funnel end, suck the liquid down. Be careful, ants like it as much as we do! Spitting out drowned ants, sickened but willing to try another one. Nasturtium flowers picked for salads, bright, surprising, petals soft and bruised. Making capers from nasturtium seeds, bitter and vinegary.

This is the garden of my childhood. A place of discovery and pleasure, a practical garden, joyful and blessed. A place to challenge and delight all of the senses.

My grandmother's garden is bathed in perpetual sunlight.

For Oma.