Three days had passed since my clandestine mission to install a little guerilla garden near my mom Sheila’s apartment building downtown.

I’d been back once to water the five pansies I had planted in and around an old cedar log in a ravine park near Rosedale subway station.

But still no word from Mom, although I knew one of her walking routes took her right by the little garden. I decided to send her an email and get right to the point:

May 2, 9:22 a.m.: “Hi Mom, by chance have you come across a little garden like this on the steps up to Rosedale subway? It looks a bit like your log garden in Don Mills.”

The suspense was killing me. But she got back to me later that day.

May 2, 5:05 p.m.: “Hi Ian.  Yes… I have just walked past this colourful pansy display… halfway down the steps, and can show it to you tomorrow. A nice reminder of my earlier Don Mills log garden.”

I decided to spill the beans.

May 2, 6:50 p.m.: “Glad you like it. I put it there for you! When the pansies fade we can put in a few geraniums.”

We had planned a walk the next day but the weather didn’t cooperate, so we rebooked for Sunday evening.

In the meantime, Mom reported back:

May 4, 4:29 p.m.: “Just a quick note to say that I’ve just enjoyed another steps walk and I’m pleased to see that all your blooms, yellow and purple, are still brightly coloured and healthy.”

The good news? She was intrigued by the little garden. The bad news — her use of the second-person “your” signalled, perhaps, that she was not taking ownership of it quite yet. It was still my guerilla garden.

One day later…

May 5, 4:25 p.m.: “Hi Ian, just another quick note… to let you know that I have just watered our special flowers by the steps! And I’ll continue to do this daily, if there’s no rain.”

Mom was now using the first-person plural — “our” flowers! I sensed she was on her way to adopting the little log garden.

Gentle rain

That Sunday in May we took a walk in the rain to see the pansies. After a long Canadian winter, Mom said it felt like a spring evening in England — a gentle rain was greening up the grass and gardens. Robins sang and pecked for worms.

Mom was surprised by how large the pansy blooms were. Her parents grew pansies in England and these ones were multicoloured and much larger.  I replied that I thought the pansy growers had bred bigger flowers over many generations. This would also make them sell faster at five for ten bucks at Sobey’s, I thought.

I had brought a long a small hand trowel and a mixture of home-made compost, peat moss and garden soil. Mom pointed out a few weeds that had sprouted around the pansies and I plucked them out while edging the little garden bed with the trowel.

An older man down on his luck shuffled past down the steps, then made a 90-degree turn into the woods to find some solitude. Meanwhile, two young women walking a black Labrador dog came past us going in the other direction. The dog wanted to sniff the pansies but my Mom kept him at bay. The dog’s owner smiled at us as she reined in her dog, checked her cell phone, and passed by.

Garden friends

Mom told me that an older couple had stopped to chat while she was watering the flowers the previous day and had complimented her on the garden. “My son planted it,” she told them, going for the sympathy vote. They told her they enjoyed seeing it every day and it seemed to be flourishing.

I emptied the compost mix beside the garden bed and mom gave instructions about where to spread it. “The pansy inside the log needs some too.”

On the way back to her seniors apartment building that evening we passed bold blue Hyacinth blooms and yellow daffodils planted the previous fall by the Parks Department in a park next to Yonge Street. The city was greening up and people had emerged to stroll with a spring in their step. The next week, we would return on a sunnier day — two guerilla gardeners in the heart of the city:

As we said goodbye I presented mom with the garden trowel, wrapped in a plastic bag, and she accepted it.

From failing hands I had passed the trowel — be hers to hold it high this gardening season.

My mom had officially adopted the little log garden.