Every summer a riot of colour danced at the edge of my grandma's garden. Dahlias. An emerald hedgerow of dahlias that boldly announced the transition from lawn to garden, an exotic masquerade for the sprawling rows of vegetables beyond. Carrots, beets, potatoes, onions; all hardy and mundane, would fill most of the garden all summer as they would fill the cellar bins in autumn. But the border was always reserved for dahlias, for my grandma's garden not only fed the family it also nourished the spirit. The dahlias and my grandma were compatriots, countrywomen-in-residence, both uprooted from their natural habitat and adopted by the vast prairie landscape. No one would have guessed to see either of them in that garden, under the endless prairie sky that they were not native to that soil. What memories could either of them recall of their more temperate homelands? My Grandma lived just ten years in Scotland, the land of her birth, and when the century was young, journeyed with her mother and sister by boat, train and horse drawn wagon to the middle of the undeveloped Canadian prairies. She lived a long, rich life full of joy and sorrow, experiencing more than eighty summers of prairie farm life. She never returned to Scotland. Dahlias are originally native to Mexico, and can withstand heat and dryness with grace but are delicate creatures when it comes to the cold. They had to be protected from the harsh prairie winter.
Before the scent of snow shortened the days and turned the tree leaves to amber, the tuberous roots were dug up from the earth and huddled together in a burlap sack in the cellar. As in the garden, their companions were vegetables, but unlike the glory of their summer splendour, they were humbled; reduced to dusty, knotted root bulbs, hidden from view, at the back of the wooden bin. With the return of long, warm spring days, the vegetables long since eaten, the dahlias were rescued from their winter retreat. They were the last to be planted, after the soil was warmed, and the produce garden had already been established.
As a child, gardening to me was a feat of pure magic. I would watch Grandma toss the putty-coloured bulbs to the ground as they fell, covering them with a scuff of dirt, nudged with the toe of her rubber boot. How could anything so exotic ever flourish with such common treatment?
But they were planted by a kindred spirit, and the wash of spring rains and the heat of the prairie sun soon coaxed their leafy fingers out of the earth, to stretch up and spread out to form a thick mass of green. Beyond the leaves the plump, pale buds soon hovered, waiting to explode into pinwheels of scarlet, magenta, and orange.In their verdant summer glory, anyone could forgive dahlias their need for special winter treatment. Their cold weather frailty forgotten, they bloomed in profusion throughout the summer. They graciously lit up the windowsills and tabletops throughout the house. Porcelain vases, cut-glass bowls, even teacups with missing handles overflowed with a blaze of colour.
The harvesting of their blossoms was all the attention the dahlias received, and in fact seemed to need, throughout the summer. The focus of Grandma's energy was directed to the thinning and weeding and eventual harvest of the vegetable crop.
In later years, neither failing eyesight, nor the frailties of old age could keep Grandma from her garden. She would pace out the walk by counting her steps from the door. Someone else took care of the planting and tending, but even her weak eyes could drink in the brilliant colours and she could still feel the rich earth under her feet. My grandma was a strong matriarch to a brood of five children and two generations beyond. The nearer my own face comes to resemble hers, the more I am reminded of her tenacity, and that of her dahlias. They both thrived in defiance of their harsh foreign environment and the memory of them both continues to feed my soul.
© L. Broadfoot, 1997