The dahlias outside my window seat are blissfully unaware of their audacious autumn beauty as they bob their heavy heads in the slanted, mellow light of October. There has been a migration of jars from the empties’ shelves in the cellar, up to the kitchen to be filled, then back down to the cellar to await consumption. Red and orange leaves are letting go of their moorings and twirling downward to dry and decompose back into the soil from whence they came. The corn fields, like so many dancers at a ball, are rustling their silk skirts as they sway in the winds of Autumn.
After the wheat harvest but before the beans were ready to come off, Fred and I took a few days and headed north to where some of our neighbours are buying up farms and moving their families to start up life in a new community. We took the gravel roads, following along on the hand-drawn map that had been given to us, seeing the tell-tale signs of Waterloo County farms with their newly built barns, planted crops and gardens, and long clothes lines stretching out from the houses.
We visited with our one neighbour in her tiny kitchen where a cookstove was waiting to be installed. Her sewing machine was sitting in front of the south window, and she showed us the piecing she was doing for a broken star pattern quilt. Her husband had already headed back to the fields when we arrived, but she told us how much he relishes the challenge of clearing the land and his ingenuity in extracting gravel from a knoll in one of their own fields thereby eliminating the need to buy it (gravel). Her heart was divided – clearly enjoying their little home and carving out this life in the north, but also feeling the tug of children and a host of grandchildren “back home”.
The schoolhouse.
From there we sought out another old neighbour recently moved to the area. Before they moved, they lived up the road from us, and I would often buy black currants from her and any excess tomatoes she might have had. She and her mother were both avid gardeners. I would go by their gardens on my morning runs and see them out in the strawberry or pea patch. The lilies in the garden grew big and vibrant. In the fall, there would often be a little stand at the end of their lane with squash, baskets of apples, pumpkins, and onions. When she and I chatted about their move prior to their leaving, she expressed regret at leaving the “growthy” soil of her gardens. So, I was curious to see her garden and hear how she was managing.
She met us outside and, with a quiet eagerness, took us to see her garden right away. A large, white tube (which they referred to as a caterpillar), high enough to walk in, was stretched across the garden. Walking into it, you could immediately feel the heat that the enclosed area generated. Dozens and dozens of tomato plants were planted inside. She said she hoped to have tomatoes into October as they would be protected from the cold and frost in the “caterpillar”. After the garden tour she took me inside the house to see her kitchen which had another kitchen just off of it for all the canning. She said they will put away 25 or more gallons of ketchup! We listened as she told how they came home one day to bear cubs playing in the pine trees and heard the satisfaction in her voice when she described how one of the barn cats that came up with a truckload of milk cows seemed to remember her.
A lived life encounters change.
This Waterloo County gardener’s life changed in a life-altering way, however, her passion for working the soil and for growing things did not. So she has adapted. Rather than (or maybe along with) bemoaning the shorter growing season and lack of warmth, she has used her expertise to coax and nurture a yield from less than optimal conditions. Chances are her gardening skills will be honed even more with the challenges that a northern climate presents. Change does not always give way to growth, but there often does seem to be a learning curve that can be leaned into by drawing from the strengths of character that have been curated in the “off season”. Passions, habits, and practices that we cultivate with intention and attention can serve us well when we encounter unfamiliar landscapes.
So maybe, when we have lost our own moorings, when landscapes have changed – be it outward or inward – we can draw on the same practices, the same habits that we have cultivated over the years to guide us and help us to navigate unfamiliar ground. And maybe someday that ground too will yield a surprising harvest.
