My love of gardening came from my father. As well as regularly visiting garden centres, we often popped into specialist plant shows to admire the prize-winning plants. It didn’t matter whether it was an African violet, bromeliad or orchid show; we always came home with a couple of new plants. I knew that Dad would always propagate new ones from these and that cuttings would eventually head my way. My garden is full of plants from my father and his full of plants from me.
Every time I saw a spectacular plant, my first thought was that I must take a photo to show my father. Stunning plants are often discovered in ordinary places. We spotted a huge patch of oyster plants in full bloom at Concord Hospital. Dad was delighted to see them and I took photos that we pored over together during the following days, while he was still a patient there.
Every year we spent a lot of time pruning the enormous camellias in his back yard. We had a system that worked well for us. I would wield the long-reach pruner among the high branches, while he would patiently chop the branches into smaller pieces for disposal in his garden waste bin. These were quiet times, after which we admired the neatness of our work together.
My father died four weeks ago. Some of his potted plants now live with me. I feel his presence around me as I water and talk to them all and this gives me comfort as I try to deal with my sense of loss. I am bereft.