I hated gardening, growing up in Gretna. I hated getting my hands dirty, getting sweaty during the three hours every summer morning I pulled my weight gathering provisions for our family for winter. I was convinced this wasn’t just my father making me work, but The Father, making me pay for Adam and Eve’s indiscretion. Thankfully, I could spend afternoons of absolution in the Neche swimming pool, or with the pages of Little Lord Fauntleroy under one of our many cottonwood trees.
My mother always had a garden when earth was available to her. In North Kildonan, on the edge of Winnipeg, we had a lot of earth. There was dirt from the back lane to the road in front and from the neighbour’s fence to the house. The garden was mostly vegetables, with cucumbers near the back door and potatoes in half of the front yard.
My pedestal is hitched in history. What I remember is a personal, historical memory. Words change, images contort and visceral etchings contain them, conform them to a specific, actual, descriptive point. Clouded, here I am alone, wandering at the point.