Tag Archives: Toronto

My Mom — the original Guerrilla Gardener

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Mom is at it again. With a group of half a dozen fellow gardeners living at her seniors home, she is beautifying a little park next door.

It was a tough winter for seniors living under covid restrictions. Spring offered a chance to get some fresh air and add some splashes of colour and greenery at the tiny Sunrise Park just a stone’s throw from the front entrance of Revera Bradgate Arms.

The parkette, used by local residents, is dedicated to Toronto resident Ernest Seitz, who composed the popular song The World is Waiting for the Sunrise a hundred years ago. The title is apt as the world turns the corner on the global pandemic.

As the city warmed up this spring, my Mom Sheila and her fellow residents took to the garden to plant geraniums, gerbera, impatiens, begonia, delphinium, marigold, cosmos, pansies, petunias and other annuals. They uncovered perennials like roses in need of some TLC. They weeded, watered, clipped, mulched and tidied, transforming patches of dirt into palettes of living colour. They set up hummingbird feeders. They wore out the program staff and volunteers who helped. They shared stories about the gardens they had loved and nurtured in Toronto, Leamington, Port Hope, Saskatchewan and beyond.

Gardening as a senior is not easy — health, mobility and strength challenges can make simple tasks difficult. But these seniors persevered.

On a sunny weekend in June, the parkette they are beautifying hosted the first live music concert at their retirement home since the beginning of the pandemic — a cello/violin duo.

Mom’s a lifetime gardener, and when she and dad moved from their house to a condo in retirement, she became a guerrilla gardener, maintaining three flower beds to beautify public space in a nearby Don Mills park. When she downsized again, she gardened covertly but happily in a parkette near the Rosedale Subway Station, sometimes walking there three times a day to keep the flowers watered on steamy summer days. Her tiny garden put a smile on the faces of many passersby.

Her best gardening days may be behind her, and memory and health are a challenge, but in summer 2021 Mom is back at it. And as restrictions eased, she visited one of her favourite places — Edwards Gardens in Don Mills, now the Toronto Botanical Garden.

A shout out to Mom and her fellow gardeners. And to Revera recreation staff Mark and PJ for their inspiration, hard work and support throughout the pandemic.

Mom is the fourth gardener to take up the Guerrilla Garden challenge this year. For stories of Jayne’s seed scattering, Debi’s tree-planting, and Donna’s native species stewardship, see the previous posts in this blog. Who will be next?

Two-tiered garden beds planted by Revera Bradgate Arms residents this spring.

Strangler wrangler — a true tale of guerrilla gardening

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European Swallow-wort — better and perhaps more accurately known as Dog-strangling Vine — is considered an invasive species in Ontario. With its innocuous greenery, this perennial herb sneaks up on native plants and twists its stems around them like a python crushing its prey.

Whenever Donna Spreitzer sees it, she weeds it out.

“I will step into gardens in my neighborhood and snip it out,” says Donna. “I don’t think most people know what it is, or that it is invasive. I am quite horrified at how the Don Valley is full of it.” She recommends putting the weeds in garbage, not compost, to ensure seeds do not spread.

The vines can grow up to six feet long and will use other plants as structural support, literally choking out the competition. The plant may have been brought to North America originally as an ornamental plant.

Donna, who is the Executive Director of a busy daycare in Toronto, also wears the cap of the Stranger Wrangler, a guerrilla gardener taking action to protect native species. “I know that pulling the vine won’t make it go away but at least it will stop it from going to seed and spreading.”

The Dog-strangling Vine is indeed prolific, with its multi-embryo seed pods. I found some twisting around my red currant bush recently and quickly pulled out the invading plant’s stems and pods.

Donna and her husband Scott are veteran gardeners in both city and country. East of Toronto, they operate a small farm growing crops and vegetables. Donna has been known to haul a pick-up truck full of home-grown pumpkins to give away to neighbourhood families at Halloween.

Donna is the third winner of the Guerrilla Garden Challenge. She will receive a copy of my sweet story: “The Tiny Gardens that could…. A tale of two guerrilla gardeners in the heart of the big city.” Plus she gets her pick of a plant from my private collection.

Congrats Donna! Keep up the great work and thanks for sharing your story!

Donna in the Don Valley

Beautify a city space – take the guerrilla garden challenge!

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After a long, cold, lonely winter, Mom has joined other residents at her retirement home to beautify a tiny parkette next door. Further east at the gritty intersection of Pape and Cosburn Avenues, her son has delivered a geranium arrangement and is providing TLC to the little perennial garden at Bethany Baptist Church, home to a weekly food bank.

Will you join us?

Take the guerrilla garden challenge!

You can start small with a single plant or tiny tree. Beautify a public space in city or country, and send me a pic of your tiny garden. Or send a short tale about a guerrilla gardener in your neighbourhood. The first five entrants will receive:

— An herb, flower or shrub from my private collection — so pretty! But there’s more!

— You will also get a signed copy of this sweet tale: “The tiny gardens that could… A tale of two guerrilla gardeners in the heart of the big city”. (Please disregard the garden dirt under the author’s fingernails)

“It was an act of faith. In summer 2018, Toronto writer Ian Kinross and his Mom, Sheila, installed two tiny gardens in public spaces in the heart of the big city. They nurtured their little ‘guerrilla gardens’ through blistering heat. They battled garden thieves and accepted the kindness of strangers. Ultimately, they brought beauty to neglected spaces — it was also an act of hope.”

To enter, send your pic/story to me at ikinross48@gmail.com, connect on FB, or comment on this blog post.

It’s been a tough winter and a tougher pandemic. We could all use a little TLC. Beautify a public space — take the guerrilla garden challenge!

On a mission

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Today’s guerrilla mission is about geraniums. A pot of red ones are about to land this morning, clandestinely, at the southeast corner of Pape and Cosburn Avenues — a little splash of colour amidst the hustle and bustle of this city neighbourhood.

The driver of the northbound 25b Don Mills bus pulls down his mask to take a sip of coffee. As he opens the front doors of the bus, he looks over to see a guerrilla gardener crossing Pape. The middle-aged gardener, wearing a Bruce County Plowing Match ball cap, is trying to look nonchalant while hauling a bucket of soil, a geranium arrangement, a garden trowel, a black plastic garden planter, and some rocks (for drainage) across the intersection.

The front suspension of the 25b bus kneels to help passengers board. Just a few feet away, the guerrilla gardener finds a nice spot for the flower planter, at the west end of the Bethany Baptist Church. Like this neighbourhood, the church has been hustling during the pandemic, providing a weekly food program along with virtual services and youth programs. Later today, hundreds of people will line up on Cosburn to receive food donations.

Across the street, McDonald’s is getting a facelift, the golden arches still rising above the construction site hoarding.

With the geranium arrangement firmly nestled in the black planter, the guerrilla gardener decants extra soil to ground the tiny garden in its new home. In the final phase of this covert action, he walks back to his nondescript 2011 Dodge minivan to get a watering can, and returns to give the geraniums a good dousing. Leftover water provides a drink for some emerging hostas and other perennials on the site.

As he patches up a few bricks at the garden perimiter, his cochlear implant battery beeper goes off. To change the battery, and keep hearing the birds and buses, he sits on a sturdy red bench provided by the church for passersby.

Rough-and-ready Grackles — black birds with hints of metallic green — flutter over to the bench, expecting a treat. There is nothing but a stale crust and two cigarette butts on the ground. The gardener makes a mental note to bring a muffin next time.

The sun is shines on a warm May day after a long winter and even longer pandemic. To the north, the road is busy with multi-modal transportation. A cyclist, a pick-up truck driver, and the Cosburn bus driver and passengers all wait patiently for the light to change to proceed westbound. On a hydro box nearby, an artist named Sarah has painted a pretty floral design to beautify the space.

Of course, a tiny garden is more than a clandestine guerrilla mission. It will need nurturing over the coming months. Weeding, watering, pruning, tidying, waiting, appreciating.

But for today, this gardener’s mission is accomplished.

Guerrilla garden reconnaissance

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I’m on a mission. But this guerrilla is packing garden tools and geraniums, not weapons. It’s a mission of hope and peace, to beautify a city space after a long winter and grinding series of covid lockdowns. The city could use a little spring cleaning.

I’m returning to the scene of the crime — the gritty intersection of Pape and Cosburn Avenues in Toronto’s central-east end. It’s where my first guerrilla garden flourished a couple of years ago, aided by some good Samaritans who stopped by to water and tend the plants. The local crossing guard, Leo, told me then that people had admired the tiny garden and wondered “Who is this mystery guy with the flowers?”

Today, the garden’s former location is out of bounds — a new building is rising from the ashes of the former Crow Dry Cleaners on the northwest corner So I have to scout an alternative site. On the north-east corner, a busy McDonald’s restaurant, where older Greek couples congregated for coffee before the lockdown, is undergoing renos. To the southwest, a bright and cheery Greek Cafe has sprouted on the corner, serving coffees and baked goods to passersby. On the fourth and last corner, I spy a possible garden site. I swoop in to scout it out.

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The Bethany Baptist Church has closed its doors during the lockdowns but hustles to provide services, youth programs and hymn sings by zoom, plus delivers a weekly curbside food bank for local residents in need. Each Thursday, people who use the food bank line up on Cosburn Avenue, according to household size, to receive donated food. In these tough times, the line can stretch for hundreds of yards.

The Church’s tiny gardens at the southeast corner of Pape and Cosburn are nicely arranged with perennials including some hyacinths and tulips sprouting in spring. But they could use a little TLC. The brick garden perimeter needs some repair, and annual flowers could brighten a few bare areas. This spot has a friendly feel to it. Red benches on both sides of the church create some public space where citizens can take a load off and chat, these days with masks, both at the garden and next to the TTC bus stop.

The garden reconnaissance is complete. This guerrilla is hungry and could use a mid-afternoon coffee and muffin. Once risk of frost is past in early May, the gardening mission will begin…

Bilateral meniere’s and my cochlear implant — two years on

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In fall 2017, the team at Toronto’s Sunnybrook Hospital gave me a new sound system, replacing the impaired natural hearing in my right ear with a cochlear implant.

After hearing some mysterious beeps when the device was first activated at the clinic, I could suddenly sense my spouse, Nadine, speaking next to me on my right side, without swivelling around to look. “You’re hearing me better already,” she told me.

A couple of nights later, I went out with some friends to have a beer and shoot pool. The conversation felt easier. I could sit back and understand perhaps 75 per cent of a free-flowing conversation. Before the surgery, I would have been straining to catch even 40 per cent, using a combination of bad hearing in my left ear, some lip reading, guess work, and bluffing.

I now had a clunky sound processor perched on my right ear, delivering sound to my inner ear via cables, magnets and electrodes. But vanity be damned. Any sheepishness I felt about the apparatus was eclipsed by a sense of ease and wonder at the new sounds — even simple environmental sounds, like drips from the coffee maker.

Ian processor

Later that week I went into the bank and chatted with the teller — something that would have been intimidating before the implant.

The new sound was different — people’s voices sounded distorted, sometimes Darth Vader-ish. Certain musical sounds, especially percussion, sounded crisp and pure; however I was having trouble absorbing the full mix of most music. Meanwhile, I retained some limited and slightly distorted hearing in my left ear, using a conventional hearing aid. My brain was slowly adapting to this strange fusion.

Two years on, life with the cochlear implant has become the new normal. And sometimes we take good things for granted. So it’s important for me to look at the big picture of my journey — including some wins and continuing challenges. Here are a few:

One-on-one conversations

This had been my biggest challenge in the year or two before the implant. At work, my managers and colleagues helped with some workarounds. For example, my colleague Mike volunteered to join me to interview a patient with schizophrenia who was about to make the big leap to community care.  Mike’s notes from that meeting filled in huge gaps related to my hearing trouble, and allowed me to tell the story. Still, each day I had less confidence speaking one-on-one. I approached some conversations with dread, wondering if I could function.

Following the implant, that simple act became easier, starting with the first time I could hear Nadine in my right ear. Or skyping with our daughters Ali and Colleen.  Life’s simple pleasures were sometimes simpler again.

“Deaf mode”

When I had the implant surgery in 2017, it took away almost all of the natural hearing remaining in my right ear.  The good news: when my new cochlear processor was operating, things were much better. But in situations where my processor was turned off — bedtime, sports or swimming, for example — I had to get used to an almost full-deaf mode.

I am still not used to it. I wake up in the morning in a fog of deafness. I start to feel better once my hearing devices are turned on. The coffee helps too.

At my weekly hockey game, I remove both devices — my implant processor, and the Bernafon hearing aid in my left ear — so they don’t get wet when I play. As a result, I am not much of a conversationalist on the bench. Most of the players know, and it’s okay. But I still miss the ease and fun of chatting during a game.

I could learn from a friend of mine who also has a cochlear implant — he takes out his hearing devices and meditates, fully accepting his deaf self.

New learning

After retiring early from my communications career from stress related to my hearing dysfunction, I am trying to restructure my life and purpose. Learning is lifelong and I am taking new directions in learning and teaching. Lectures in subjects ranging from architecture to politics, offered by University of Toronto’s Continuing Education, made me put on my thinking cap. Using stone-craft techniques learned at Haliburton’s School of the Arts, I built a series of dry-stone terraces at our cottage.

I took tentative steps towards teaching.  The best result has been a new tutor role at East York Learning Experience. My student — who is just a year or two younger than me — is learning computer basics such as email and web navigation, and also brushing up on his reading and writing. We learn together. He reads slowly but understands deeply; we have some amazing discussions about books he is reading. The other week I had a big smile on my face when I received my student’s first email to me.

In another small foray into teaching, I was able to share some of my corporate communications experience with professional-writing students at York University.

Meniere’s disease

Meniere’s involves a fluid build-up that causes periods of vertigo, hearing distortion, hearing variability, and a steady overall hearing loss. I have this condition in both ears. Meniere’s is said to take its own course, and treatment is focused mostly on relieving symptoms such as nausea from the vertigo. Meniere’s took away my hearing to the point where conventional hearing aid technology was not cutting it, and I qualified for a cochlear implant.

Since the implant two years ago, I’ve had several bouts of Meniere’s-related vertigo in my left ear, but have had little or no symptoms in my right ear — the one with the cochlear implant.  So that’s been a blessing, and it implies that if I ever have cochlear implant surgery in my left ear, it should reduce Meniere’s symptoms there too.

Music

Playing and listening to music were a big part of my life. When my hearing became distorted and muted before the implant, I gave up both. Some favourite songs sounded like garbage — it was too painful to try to listen.

I’ve taken some tentative steps to play and listen again.  I’m giving myself a homework assignment this winter to get back into it with more vigour.  When it comes to familiar music, I have a magic triad going for me — the three-way links between my brain’s memory, my new cochlear sound system, and my remaining distorted natural hearing. That combination means I can at least make progress on music that is familiar.

The biggest challenge with unfamiliar music is locking on to the musical key, and interpreting the musical mix. I’ll give you an example: I went to see a saxophone quartet recently at an event hosted by the Don Mills Public Library, back in my old suburban stomping grounds. The quartet — Sidecar 78 — channels a range of classical, pop, jazz and seasonal music in a tight style. At this concert, I found that when I knew the tune and could lock on to the melody, the complete musical picture came into focus — like a big inky blob on a Rorschach test suddenly revealing a familiar face.

Favourite songs like Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke — a tribute to Duke Ellington — and Henry Mancini’s theme to the Pink Panther — came into sharp focus for me. At the same time, I struggled to find the key signature and melody in songs I did not know.

At Sunnybrook Hospital, researchers are studying the ability of cochlear implant recipients to listen to music.  Next week, I will have 50 electrodes attached to my head while I listen to classical music duets, and focus on just one instrument. I hope that research like this will continue to improve the precision and effectiveness of hearing devices such as cochlear implants and hearing aids.

The final part of my musical homework this winter will be learning some classic snare drum solos. Wish me luck.

Ian1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tiny garden twilight

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It was Halloween day and the tiny garden was dressed for the occasion.

I had stopped into a dollar store nearby for some festive black spiders and orange paper pumpkins to adorn the two pots of now-droopy geraniums at Pape and Cosburn. From a fruit shop, I acquired some gnarly green-and-orange gourds, and a little pot of cyclamen flowers to give the garden its last blast of colour before the long Canadian winter set in. People hurried to and fro to pick up candy to shell out, or find last-minute costumes for Oct. 31st.

A radio journalist had dropped by to interview me about the tiny garden. Quinton is a family friend studying at Ryerson University. For a radio feature, she wanted to learn more about guerilla gardening and so had booked time to visit.  It was a nice way to bring closure to this year’s garden season, and to think about the meaning of guerilla gardening.

IMG_5303 pumpkin

An act of faith

Quinton started with the specific — “What’s going on today? Describe you garden? — and moved to the universal — “How do you define guerilla gardening? What are the benefits?” I recalled my nervous SWAT mission to install the garden that spring. Gardening in a public space had been an act of faith. It had some trials but the tribulations had been worth it. The garden had put a smile on the faces of many passersby at an urban intersection that felt down on its luck.

As a journalist myself, I found inspiration in the next generation — here was Quinton visiting the scene with her tape recorder, questions and insights, to uncover garden moments and meaning. Quinton also asked if she could speak with my guerilla gardening mentor — my mom Sheila, who had carefully tended a small garden in a park near Rosedale subway station this summer.

Fleeting blooms

A few weeks later, when I was chatting with mom, she mentioned Quinton had visited, and they had walked over together to her “steps” garden. As early November weather set in, some hardy pink Mums provided final blooms as the two talked about the little garden that caught the eye of so many downtown residents and passersby.

Later in November, I dropped by Pape and Cosburn Avenue to take away my two large pots and their fading flowers.  They were heavy, so I parked my minivan illegally and hustled to drag them over and put them inside.

“You had a good run”

Leo the crossing guard came by. “Putting the garden to bed, eh?” he said. “You had a good run.” I asked Leo about his winter schedule — he is there several times each day to ensure the safety of hundreds of residents who cross the busy intersection. “My only vacation is in the summer when school’s out,” he added.

With the garden season in twilight, I wished Leo well. I told him I hoped to bring back the tiny garden next spring.

 

IMG_4458 me and mom

Guerilla gardeners

 

 

Trouble in the tiny garden

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IMG_5190 October white zinnia

My mom and I had beat the heat, helping our tiny gardens survive a steamy summer. But if guerilla gardening is an act of faith, our faith was to be tested a few more times in 2018.

At the urban intersection of Pape and Cosburn Avenues, my little collection of geraniums got some kudos for brightening up a dismal corner. Still, they needed regular stewardship against occasional unkindness — with every visit, I continued to remove a motley collection of objects deposited in the flower pots:

— a McDonald’s coffee cup

— a TTC transfer

— cigarette butts

— a cigarette lighter (broken)

— and perhaps most intriguing: an empty can of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, alcohol content 8%.

Luckily a nearby city bin accepted waste and recyclables, so I regularly deposited these and other items that had been so casually tossed into the tiny garden.

One day, I noticed my Tiny Garden #3 sign had gone missing. The flowers were fine, but their signage and branding had walked away. Somewhere out there, I thought, someone has carefully conserved my rustic attempt at a garden sign. It had been fashioned on a small piece of plywood, with capital letters written in black marker, fixed to a 1×1″ stick. I am sure it is now someone’s private shrine. At least, that is my hope.

Dire news — garden thievery

Over at my mom’s little guerilla garden near Toronto’s Rosedale Subway station, the news was more dire.  My mom had headed out one day with her watering can and trowel, when a resident in her building gave her the warning: “Sheila, it looks like somebody has damaged your garden unfortunately.”

As my mom got closer to her beloved tiny garden, she spotted gaping holes left by a thief who had made off with geraniums and zinnias — roots, leaves, flowers and all.

As a long time community gardener, I am accustomed to having things walk away from my plot — the worst theft ever was of my entire red currant bush. On a recent visit to my plot at Thorncliffe community garden, my neighbor Boris showed me how thieves had jumped his fence to make off with bags full of cherry tomatoes.

To catch a thief

I sympathized with my mom.  At the same time I tried to give her some context: “Mom, remember that hundreds of people have enjoyed your garden. It’s just one person that has damaged it.” That may be true but the idea can feel a bit trite to a gardener who has carefully nourished plants over months, only to see them disappear in an instant. She considered the thievery to be a beastly act, and I agreed.

I was reminded of a newspaper clipping my uncle Ray had once sent me in the mail from the UK. He knew my interest in community gardening, and he had heard about my stolen red currant bush.  “ALLOTMENT GARDENER GIVES BOTH BARRELS TO VEGETABLE THIEF,” the headline screamed. The story went on to describe how the gardener had laid in wait overnight with his shotgun. He was now facing a manslaughter charge. I empathized with the man’s stolen veggies, but thought his method was a bit extreme.

Abandoning the tiny garden

What can you do? We tried replacing a few of mom’s plants with some new ones, only to see them disappear from her plot. She was heart-broken. Twice bitten, thrice shy. She decided to give up her tiny garden.  She started taking another route on her daily walks. Friends in her building commiserated with her plight.

I held out hope, though. On a recent visit with mom I asked her if she had been by to visit her tiny garden at all. She admitted she had recently taken some scissors to trim back the weeds next to the path, and a trowel to dig over the soil a bit.  Some geraniums had made a comeback in the fall, pushing out red blooms, she added. And the original mums we had planted behind a hollow log in the spring had started to bud up.

Holding out hope

“They are late bloomers mom, they will put on a pink show for you in about a month.”

Mom said she would keep an eye on things and hope for the best.

IMG_5189 October mums

Late bloomers and theft survivors: Mom’s mums in October 2018. At top, a remaining pretty white Zinnia in mom’s tiny garden, October 2018.

 

 

Tiny garden double-double

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IMG tiny garden double double

A network of good Samaritans had helped my tiny garden survive the summer heat wave in T.O.

One of them, my friend Reshmi, donated an unused planter to the tiny garden cause.

Fall days were shorter and cooler and kids headed back to school, sporting their colourful backpacks. As the population of citizens at the gritty north-west corner of Pape and Cosburn swelled, I delivered the tiny garden double-double.

On a mission

It was another gardening SWAT team mission of sorts.  With my minivan illegally parked on the north side of Cosburn to avoid a 2-buck parking fee, I executed my sortie with maximum efficiency.

First, I hauled a bucket of soil and the new pot over to the corner of Pape and Cosburn. I had placed some bricks in the bottom of the white pot for drainage — and to deter tiny-garden thieves who might find the new garden a wee bit heavy to make off with.

Next I ran back for some orange geraniums and my trusty blue plastic watering can. I decanted half the soil into the white pot, then put in the geraniums, followed by a top dressing of soil. The new pot, and its older companion tiny garden in a green pot, got a good soaking of water.

The next day I wobbled over on my red beater bike to check progress. The gardens were looking healthy with cooler weather and some sunshine.

Two thumbs up from Leo

Leo stopped to say hello. He comes by his name honestly. He is the lion-hearted crossing guard at Pape and Cosburn, helping hundreds of citizens cross safely each day at the start and end of school, and the lunch hour.

Leo had dubbed me “the mystery guy with the flowers” earlier this spring. He had been off during the summer so I introduced myself again:

“I decided to dress up the corner with some flowers,” I told him. “I live nearby.”

“Well it definitely needs it,” Leo replied. A bustling dry-cleaning business had closed down four years ago. “The guy who bought the business is doing some work on it, but it’s been awhile,” Leo added. Citizens still took shelter from bad weather under the former shop’s rough entranceway and steps at the corner.

Leo had a burning question for me: “Did you need any permits or anything to put the flowers here?”

“No, I guess it’s a guerilla garden,” I said.

Starting a trend

Leo had to go — he was brandishing his stop sign for the next wave of pedestrians: “Well it’s nice,” he said — “I hope you are starting a trend.”

I came by a few days later to water the garden but it looked like someone had done that favour for me — perhaps another good samaritan.  I picked off a few geranium bloom deadheads and removed a black and yellow Mike’s Hard Lemonade Can that had been placed next to the flowers.

The lemonade can boasted an alcohol content of 8%. It was empty. I hoped its owner, like Leo, had gotten a kick out of my tiny garden double-double.

 

 

Tiny gardens: beating the heat

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tiny garden August Sheila

How hot was it?

It was so hot in Toronto in summer 2018 that this blogger once had to seek urgent cooling shelter in Fairview Mall, a place full of fashion shops in which I was too scared to set foot. But I did find a little variety store that sold me a diet coke.

Over at my mom’s tiny guerilla garden near Rosedale Subway, the multi-coloured zinnias, sturdy geraniums, red-blooming creepers and other plants added by a good Samaritan were coming into rich colour and profusion. My mom’s original batch of pansies in and around the hollow cedar log were still going strong, as she continued to pick off old blooms each day and keep them well watered.

Her garden blooms were peaking but the sun was beating down in “the Six,” with daily highs hitting 35 degrees. Extreme climactic events were in the news around the world. Shade was a precious commodity.

Praying for rain

To keep the tiny garden watered, my mom sometimes made three trips daily with her little apple juice containers filled with water. She prayed daily for rain.

Over at Pape and Cosburn, I was making furtive early morning trips on my red beater bike, wobbling along with a full watering can in the old basket, to keep my tiny garden hydrated — and to get home before I broke into a full-body sweat.

While I was out of town, many good-Samaritan friends volunteered to come by to water the little mixed planter of red and white geraniums.

Delivering hydration and TLC

My friend Reshmi texted to advise that the tiny garden got a bit droopy in the intense heat but was hanging in there. Her son came by to water it. My sister Louise dispatched her husband D’Arcy to deliver additional hydration. My garden friend Ann parked nearby to check on the garden and give it some water and TLC.

My tiny garden survived. Slowly the evenings grew longer, with a heavier dew overnight. I trimmed off dry deadheads, and removed a McDonald’s coffee cup and broken cigarette lighter from the planter. The geranium buds began to re-appear.

Fall sometimes feels like the end of this year’s garden; in fact, it’s the start of a second gardening season following dormancy triggered by the superheated summer.

As September Labour Day approached, our buds were swelling. The plants were greening up.

It was a tiny garden renaissance.