FanStory.com - The Gardenby Liz O'Neill

We now move outside and consider the theme of the garden which has always played a great part in my life and continues to this day. Maybe it's because I have farmers’ blood. My mother was brought up on a farm. I especially love the feel of the cool soil between my fingers and hands.

My favorite setting in any of my kitchens was a fresh simmering pot of soup filled with seasoned ingredients from my garden. There were many gardens and many kitchens in my past. I will begin to elaborate on some of the gardens in my life, their purpose, and how they fulfilled my life.

One of my first exposures to gardens besides my mother’s was my best friend Trudy’s parents’ work. Leaving Trudy's house in the morning after having stayed the night during the hurricane of 1950, we noticed all of the trees around her property had come down.

As I earlier described we had to step over many downed trees, to reach our house across the way. When we glanced up at our house, horror and urgency took over as we stared at the tall Elm tree that had fallen on our house.

The section of the roof struck was exactly the spot where Nike and I had previously been standing getting a glass of water. The fallen trees having been cleared away, Trudy’s parents planted an extensive garden.

I already described Trudy’s mother’s conscienceless method of discipline. At the risk of being switched with a harsh twig and taken down cellar for more, Trudy snuck into her house and snatched a salt shaker for us. I held my breath the whole time she was inside her kitchen carrying out her clandestine activity

Our bare feet sunk into rich dark soil, as we grabbed a handful of carrots, radishes, and top onions. Washing the garden soil from our stash of vegetables and our dirt-covered toes at the outside faucet, we scrunched down out of sight of any window and guiltily gorged ourselves.

Mother’s garden was much smaller but more interesting. To give a little warning it was slightly macabre, serving as the burial plot of the deceased pets in the family. And shamedly, there were many. They were outdoor dogs chasing us around, where we lived playing close to the main highway of our little town.

We went through dogs the way some people go through socks. Despite my efforts as a three-year-old to teach Mother’s feral cats flying lessons, Barney and TV, lived on.

Ironically, all I have had in addition to my one dog are feral Maine Coon cats. I swear there's been a message sent along the path leading from the Rainbow Bridge to make sure I am well trained to allow plenty of outdoor hours, clean their litter box, and provide their dinner and snacks among other gratuities.

Tippy, named for the white tip on his tail, with the help of a speeding car on the main road made his way to the Rainbow Bridge, while I was up at Teddy’s playing football. Goldie left us just a few hundred feet south of that spot when everyone was sliding down our street. Balloffur grabbed the identical location as Goldie when Nike was on his way to a town hall dance.

I don’t know if Blacky was buried there or not. He bit someone and Mother sadly had Johnny, Trudy’s uncle, take care of things while we were away at my grandmother’s from hell. Mother told everyone in their adult life the whole story, after many years of believing Blacky had run away.

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Every time we buried a dog in the garden, half of the kids in the neighborhood would make a map and mark the spot with plans of one day following their maps to dig up the animals to see what they looked like. For some reason, they never got to it.

The most digging we did was to complete our plan to dig to China. At some point in school, we learned that China was on the other side of the earth and if you dug through the earth we could get to China. It’s amusing, as we dug and discussed what we would wear when we got there, we grew bored. After digging down about three feet, we decided we were not going to ever dig to China. An idealistic venture curtailed.

I have my own gardens, the first being when I was in the small group living house. Much later, in my new home, I had two good-sized box gardens. The man who previously lived there decided he wanted a basement in his 1800s house where he could put the furnace and oil tank.

He managed to chip his way through the cement and marble foundation and shored it up to pour a concrete floor. Pail by pail, he lugged the dirt out about halfway down the back lawn until quite a steep hill developed. This left the last half of the land inaccessible.

One of my friends, Daren, offered a very reasonable price to build some box gardens where the incline began. It came out perfectly, with adequate stairs between the two boxes. On one side, the tomatoes annually reseeded themselves by the 10’s and 20’s.

The cucumbers pretty well monopolized the greater part of the opposite side. I planted everything to complete a tasty salad, let it grow, and watered it when needed. There are a couple of reasons I don’t weed very much. One is I am too busy doing other more enjoyable activities. Another reason is I figure the bugs will eat the weeds and leave my veggies alone.

At a dowsing convention I attended, one of the presenters had the name Willie the Whale because he communicated with whales. He gave us the idea of communicating with animals. He said we were able to accomplish this using our high self, our spiritual self, connected to the universe.

I’m unsure how I chose to communicate with the slugs in my garden, however, I was inspired by the possibilities initiated by the invaluable workshop.