Memories of My Father

This Monday, Quebec is celebrating its Fête nationale. I always have a lot to celebrate on this day, and this year is no exception. First of all, my love for this province where I was born and where I intend to die (I’m in no hurry). I couldn’t bear to be far from its rugged, majestic landscapes, a reflection of its proud, warm-hearted people. A people who so welcomed my father, Larry Hodgson, in the 1970s when he arrived from Toronto to learn French. So warmly welcomed that he started a family here and spent the rest of his life.

June 24 also marks the birthday of my father, who was born on a farm north of Toronto and left us too soon in 2022. So, for me, this is also an opportunity to celebrate the person he was and what he brought to the people here. Through his books, texts and radio and television appearances, he taught us how to garden simply, in harmony with nature, and passed on his passion for plants. I regularly meet people who tell me stories about him. He has travelled the roads of Quebec and other Canadian provinces, on many occasions, giving talks and leading horticultural trips, thus directly touching several generations of gardeners. Some of them have even become communicators, perpetuating the love of the plant world to new generations.

My Very First Memory

My very first memory is of a moment spent with my father in the garden. I must have been two years old, old enough to walk, but not without staggering. We had a small vegetable garden along the garage of our apartment on Chemin Saint-Louis in Sillery. I couldn’t tell you everything that was planted there, but there were carrots, I’m sure. It must have been early summer, maybe even this time of year, because the carrots were still very small and I used to enjoy pulling them out and stuffing them in my mouth. My father, far from preventing me from eating them, would try to wipe them off on his clothes so that I wouldn’t swallow them up with the dirt. He failed, so intense was my pleasure. I must have eaten every carrot in the garden that day, much to Larry’s delight.

Vegetables and Ice Cream

Eventually, this little garden became too small for our needs, and my father joined the local community garden. After all, we had to plant more carrots! This garden was located almost at the bottom of Côte de Sillery (formerly Côte de l’Église), which is quite easy to walk down, but much harder to climb back up. After wearing me out in the vegetable garden, my father had to carry me up the hill on his shoulders. To tell the truth, I don’t remember much about this vegetable garden, which was a little too far from home to be of any use. I think we abandoned it at the end of the first season, but I do remember the ice cream we always bought on Maguire Street after our effort (er… his effort).

The Lawn Mower

When I was twelve, my father announced that I had become an adult and that I would now have several responsibilities at home, especially in the yard (he thought children were very useful in the garden for laidback gardeners). The first of these responsibilities was mowing the lawn. I was very proud of this task, but above all eager to use the mower! However, before I could use it, I had to learn the safety rules and how to maintain the machine. My father showed me how to sharpen the blade with a file, explaining the importance of a sharp blade to cut the grass efficiently and reduce stress on the grass blades. Fortunately for me, there was very little lawn at our place.

From Generation to Generation

Like me, my father learned to garden from his own father. My grandfather had lost the family farm in a hurricane when Larry was still a baby. He ended up as a janitor in a factory on the outskirts of Toronto. You can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the boy. My grandfather continued to work as a gardener in the city’s affluent neighborhoods. And guess who went with him?

My grandfather was a rose enthusiast and regularly took part in competitions, often winning trophies. My father, on the other hand, hated roses for a long time. I don’t know if it was because of the intensive maintenance roses required in those days, their prickly thorns, or simply because it was his father’s passion, but he got the horticultural bug nonetheless.

Every summer, we traveled together to visit his family in Toronto. My memories of these vacations include the hours spent on the swing my grandfather had hung from a tree at the back of his yard. Later, I learned that my grandfather had asked each of his children to choose and plant a tree on the property, and it was on one of these trees that I swung. I felt a twinge of grief when that tree was cut down, as if I’d lost a member of my own family.

Of Land and Country

For me, gardening is much more than a job. It’s family stories, it’s learning and teaching, it’s growing up and dying, it’s the cycle of life, in this land where I was born and which is as beautiful as life itself. And it’s also ice cream!

It’s with a full heart that I celebrate, with my loved ones, my compatriots and all gardeners of good will, Quebec’s National Holiday, my father’s birthday and the joy of getting one’s hands dirty. I hope you’ll spend some precious moments with your family, in the garden or out in nature, and that you’ll continue to share with your children or those of others the love of the land you call home, that unique bond that’s passed down from generation to generation.