French Dirt by Richard Goodman
Gardening French Style
In a few days it will be spring. In these parts of the Inland Northwest, we’re not quite ready to
plant. The snow is gone but the
temperatures are in the 40s. The good news is that tulip and daffodil bulbs are starting to poke their heads out of the ground, and that's enough to get excited about. It's time to order plants from the catalogs that have been teasing us for months. It's time to gear up for gardening! This week I want to look at some gardening
books for inspiration and insight.
French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France by Richard
Goodman is short book about a great undertaking in France. American Richard Goodman and his Dutch
girlfriend decided to move to a small village in France for one year. The town had a population of 211 people. Not only did this scant number of inhabitants
not warrant a movie theater, there was also no post office, no grocery store,
no butcher, no gas station. There
weren’t any stores at all. In the mornings trucks peddling bread, meat, and
even shoes came to the town square. That
was the highlight of the day. So what
did people do for recreation? Well,
gardening ranked up there, but not really for recreational purposes. These people took gardening seriously. When Richard had a difficult time making
friends, he made a garden. And with his
garden friendships ultimately developed.
This book is not just about the thrill of growing your own vegetables,
the miracle of planting seeds, nurturing them, and getting delicious crops at
the end of the season. This book takes
us to a foreign land with different cultures and lifestyles. It’s like a relaxing little vacation while
watching Richard do all the hard work in the garden. I really liked the book.
I found it interesting that in this tiny village with land
all around them, people did not have gardens in their backyards. It doesn’t really sound like they even had
backyards, or at least Richard didn’t talk about them. The villagers had plots
of land surrounded by vineyards. They
had to walk or ride their mobilettes
(motor bikes) to their gardens.
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It very much reminded me of my grandmother in Germany. She lived in an apartment her entire adult
life. There was a courtyard in the back,
but no room for residents to have their own plots of land. So, as was the custom, she and my grandfather
rented a plot of land in a gardening community. It was a thirty-minute bike
ride from her apartment. To me, her
garden was an enchanting world of its own. Each plot had its own little garden
house. My grandmother’s wasn’t all that
fancy. If I remember right it had a stove, table and chairs in it along with a
bench. Behind it was a stinky old
outhouse which I hated to use. Next to
the outhouse was a giant composting area.
It seemed enormous, as big as a minivan.
Maybe it just seemed so big because I was so small back then. Every once
in a while I remember my grandmother scattering white powder all over it. What
was it? I’m not sure, maybe lime to break
it down.
On the other side of the house was a tiny lawn and outdoor
patio. The lawn area was surrounded by
currant bushes which we would have in bowls with sugar for dessert many
times. I also remember that mice or some
other pests would work their way into the lawn.
My grandmother would have me stand on one hole, while she poured boiling
water into the other hole. That should
give them something to think about next time they dare dig in her
lawn.
In front of the house was the main garden. It was divided in two by a path and small
fruit trees. This is where the real work
took place. I can still see my
grandmother kneeling in the dirt weeding the strawberries. She grew all kinds
of fruits and vegetables including potatoes, asparagus, carrots, leeks, cucumbers,
rhubarb, onions, green beans and more, which she always took home and made into
something delicious or canned it for the winter. She also had a great variety of fruit including
the biggest and best tasting Bing cherries, gooseberries, and raspberries.
She had an Italian plum tree and made a plum cake and mouthwatering delicious
plum jam. She would take crates of her apples from her trees to have juice made
from them.
I loved my grandmother, and one of my fondest memories
was seeing her on her bike with big sprays of flowers from her garden. Throughout spring and summer her home was filled with cheery bouquets of sweet peas, freesias, lilacs, peonies, mums, geraniums, and giant gladiolas.
was seeing her on her bike with big sprays of flowers from her garden. Throughout spring and summer her home was filled with cheery bouquets of sweet peas, freesias, lilacs, peonies, mums, geraniums, and giant gladiolas.
She passed down her “gardening gene” to my mother, who then
passed it down to me. I still have grape
hyacinth bulbs from her that bloom in my garden every year. My grandmother brought them to my mom on a
visit to America ages ago. My mom gave
me some and whenever I moved, they moved with me. I dug up the bulbs and replanted them. Even though my grandmother passed away a long
time ago, each spring when the beautiful periwinkle flowers bloom, I think about
her.
Happy reading,
Annette
Comments
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