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.

Near Toronto’s Rosedale subway station, a non-descript walkway and set of  concrete steps lead to a secret ravine that is a green oasis for local residents. The ravine is a regular walking route for my mom Sheila, who lives nearby in seniors apartments on Yonge Street.

Lately, Mom lamented the loss of her gardens in Don Mills.  She had lovingly tended three guerilla gardens there in a public park near Norman Ingram school — two around trees dedicated to here parents, and one in an old hollow log closer to her condo.

So as my entry into guerilla gardening, I decided to give Mom her own little garden in the ravine.

I had obtained a piece of hollow cedar log from  my inlaws’ cottage — it would recreate Mom’s favourite “log” garden in Don Mills and act as a centrepoint for the new garden.  I hauled the piece of cedar, along with a spade, a hand trowel, a plastic milk jug full of water, and some spring pansies — five for ten bucks at Sobeys — over to the new site.

A gardening SWAT mission

I found a nice spot on the landing of the ravine steps, with good sun exposure. And like a good guerilla gardener on a horticultural SWAT mission, I started digging vigorously, hoping to get the job done before having to explain myself to anyone.

I dug down a circle wider than the log diameter, then placed the cedar log inside, nestled into the soil. Using the hand trowel, I added soil to the log’s hollow area, and planted a yellow pansy there. As I moved on to work the soil in front of the log, I had my first visitor.

“Oh that is nice,” exclaimed an older woman coming down the steps. “We need more flowers here.”

“It’s for my Mom,” I replied, going for the sympathy vote. I realized that I was working up quite a sweat down my back between my vigorous digging and undercurrent of guilt at my illegal gardening activity. “This is one of her favourite walks.”

“Well thanks for brightening up the space,” the woman said, continuing on her way.

I got down to the final step of planting — by alternating purple and white pansies in front of the log. With the hand trowel, I dug spaces for each pansy and worked the soil around and on top of them.

So pretty

I was hustling to complete my entry into guerilla gardening when a second visitor came by. “Oh that is pretty,” said an older woman in a trim purple sports jacket. When I say older, I mean a few years older than me. She had her white hair tied back neatly and was smiling as she caught some afternoon sunshine while descending the steps.

“Thanks, it’s for my Mom,” I replied, figuring this line had already won over my first visitor. “She lost her garden when she moved downtown.”

“I can sympathize with that,” my visitor replied.  “I live in an apartment too. There’s a man who maintains a garden in a vacant spot next to our building. I tried to help him out but he is a bit of a control freak.  So I just leave him some plants from time to time and he fits them in.”

“Maybe you could find another spot,” I suggested.

She told me she wanted to grow some herbs near her building, to have a fresh source close at hand for cooking. She had seen some herbs for sale outside a local variety store, and would have a closer look.

Tiny Garden #2

I wished her well and took the final step of branding this tiny log garden. I inserted a stick with a small sign indicating this was “Tiny Garden #2.”  As Tiny Garden #1 existed only in my imagination, I thought my sign would indicate that this idea was trending.

I pushed the sign into the soft earth to complete the picture. I hoped this tiny garden would survive — and that my Mom would notice it next time she walked by!