What Is a Garden

Before Making a Garden

Most people think of a garden as something finished: a look, a layout, a set of plants that finally make sense together. But a garden begins earlier than that. It starts before tools come out, before anything is planted or moved. It begins the moment a piece of land is set apart in the mind, noticed, returned to, held as its own place. Long before gardens were designed, they were enclosed. And that first act, more than any later choice, still shapes what a garden can become.

The word garden is an old one. Long before it named flowers or beauty, it named an act: enclosing a piece of land. Its roots reach back to Proto-Indo-European, a shared ancestor of many modern languages, spoken thousands of years ago. This was before Old English, before Latin and Greek even existed as spoken languages. The reconstructed root, gher, means to grasp or enclose, and it sits behind familiar words like yard, orchard, and horticulture, all tied to land held within bounds. The word garden comes from use, not theory, from the need to set land apart for daily life, to shape what happened inside its edges. That same need still lives on in the fenced yards and hedged lots we call gardens today.

Gardens do not exist on their own. They sit inside larger enclosures shaped by land itself. In Niagara, those edges are hard to miss. The face of the Niagara Escarpment lifts and breaks the land, changing wind, sun, and the way water moves. The broad presence of Lake Ontario softens temperatures and pulls moisture inland. These features have shaped roads, property lines, crops, and livelihoods for generations, and they still shape the small enclosures we call gardens. A home garden here is never just a fenced lot. It sits inside slopes, soils, air, and water patterns much older and larger than itself.

Because gardens sit inside larger enclosures, problems often begin when that context is missed. We bring in plans and plants before noticing what the land is already doing. Sun is treated as fixed. Water is expected to behave. Soil is assumed to be static. When a garden struggles, it’s easy to blame the plants, rather than the mismatch between intention and the enclosure it sits within.

A garden takes shape when attention stays with a place long enough to see it clearly. Noticing comes before change. Time reveals where water gathers, where soil shifts, where sun and wind linger or pass through. Within an enclosure, these conditions move together, and they do not show themselves all at once. Gardening begins by staying put, watching, and letting the place speak before answering it.

Seen this way, a garden is already present before anything is done to it. The fence, the hedge, the slope of the ground, the way water moves after rain, all of it marks an enclosure shaped by conditions. When those edges come into view, the garden stops being an idea to impose and becomes a place to work within, not a closed box but an open canvas. Only by knowing that canvas can anything surprising, even beautiful, take root and grow.

About the human body, hand tools, and finding what works for you.

Dear Reader,

Like a parachute, Grimsby’s trees suddenly deployed their canopies and we landed mid-spring. It seems just yesterday the Niagara Escarpment was bare and brown, now it’s a sea of green so dense you can no longer see the ridge from below. Even blooms and buzzing bees have awakened. The air is fragrant with lilacs, crabapples and korean spice viburnums. The long weekend, an early one this year, has come and gone. It rained before, and it’s raining again. Gardeners, roll up your sleeves, spring cleanups are on their way out; it’s weeding time!

To some, weeding conjures memories of kneeling in dirt and sweating under a hot, unforgiving sun. To others, it is a sisyphean nightmare of removing plants that magically return the next day. I’m often met with confusion when I say I enjoy it.

I’m not claiming immunity to the dust, sweat and endlessness. There have been many long days since the start of my professional gardener journey. By enjoyment, I mean there are a few things that have made the daily activity sustainable for many years. I may not convince you to love the task, but may offer ways of acclimating to it. Perhaps you’ll even enjoy it from time to time.

In the interest of time, let’s consider two of the most common complaints about weeding: it hurts, and it’s some version of boring. Since even these sub topics are expansive, I’ll deal with the first issue here, and the second in a follow-up post.

The first issue, pain, extends beyond weeding to all of gardening. Aches and pain can make gardening not only difficult, but also impossible. It is no surprise if weeding causes you pain, whether it’s the pinching cramping your hands, kneeling causing pain in your legs, or bending causing strain on your back and neck, you may tend to avoid it.

Because every movement in a garden relies on the body working well, physical pain management has over the years become a priority. I’m no expert in fitness or physio, and every body has different needs, but a few basic ideas have worked well for me, and may help you out on your gardening journey as well.

WARMING UP

Let’s first acknowledge here that gardening, like any sport, is a physical activity. In some ways it’s no different than kicking a ball or throwing a frisbee. Cold muscles don’t respond well to sudden strain and repetitive action, and your body will promptly tell you when you overdid it. That’s why, before every day of gardening, I warm up.

My go-to is yoga in the morning. It combines repetitive stretching with active balancing. A half-hour of it translates to very gentle cardio and strength; just enough to give my muscles a heads up I’ll be using them again shortly. I sometimes follow yoga with cardio, usually rowing or running. This daily practice allows for day-long gardening.

We likely have different gardening requirements. Your garden may only need an hour a week. You may prefer free stretching, pilates or a walk. Scale your warm-up accordingly and find what works for you. The key here is not a specific routine, but that even a little bit of warming up goes a long way. Your body will be less sore after your gardening tasks are done, which also means you will dread it less next time.

THE TOOLS RIGHT FOR YOU

While gardening, consider the tools you’re using. Here in the Niagara we often rely on the usual trowels and dandelion pickers, but there are endless hand tools available. Some allow for standing, such as hoes used for scuffling, or dandelion claws. I’ve explored many options, and have settled on two essentials: a Japanese hori-hori knife, and a ho mi Korean hand hoe. The hori-hori takes care of tap roots, the ho mi pulls up spreading roots. They both have many other uses. Digging, slicing, levering, scuffling… every year I find new ones. That, to me, is the sign of a good tool: Simple design, endless uses. They both have a home in my weeding bucket, and while I work, they rarely leave my side.

I do most of my weeding while kneeling, so a comfortable kneeling pad is a must. I recently found one that is waterproof and wedge-shaped. It can be used one way (thick side forward) on flat ground, and in reverse (thin side forward) on a slope. The filler material is some sort of thick foam, which after a year of use shows no sign of flattening. Its only quirk is noise: when I stand up, it regains its shape with a whoooshhh. I don’t mind. My knees have been very happy lately.

It goes without saying I love my tools. They make weeding easier, and their design brings me joy. It compels me to take care of them. I worry when I lose them (often) by dumping them with a pile of weeds from my weeding bucket into a yard waste bag, from which I fish them out again and again. I am delighted and relieved every time I find them. Lately, I’ve been getting better at keeping them out of the yard waste bags altogether. It’s all a work in progress.

As with all things gardening, tools are personal. You will work magic with some, while others will seem useless. I hope here not to tell you what to do, but to encourage you to bring an open mind and find what works for you.

MAKE STILLNESS A HABIT

So your garden bed is weeded, and because of your warm up, your body is tired but not in pain. What now?

Rest has been on my mind this year. What does it mean? Why do it? If I’m already (mostly) pain free, won’t a wash and a scrub take care of the dirt, and I’ll be on my merry way to other tasks? A proper rest is a hard sell when the sun is still up, especially in May, when gardening tasks pile on quicker than weeds grow after a good rain.

Perhaps a better word for what happens after hours of weeding is Recovery. Something that brings you to a neutral state, so you’re ready for the next task. A Reset. For me, it’s taken many forms, but always involves sitting still for a moment. A cup of tea, jotting down a few notes in my journal, a short meditation or body scan, a light snack. Gardening involves many asymmetrical tasks, and sitting still or gently stretching allows me to release uneven tension before it becomes chronic. It’s not a long rest, just long enough for my body to feel settled in the stillness and return to a balanced state. And then, on with the rest.

I hope this short peek at weeding and its before, during and after, will be of use in making your own garden care easier. I’ve found small changes repeated often make the biggest difference. Experiment, and find what works for you. It’s a dream for gardening to be like the gardens themselves; as enjoyable to do as to be in.

Happy Mid-May!

Yours,

Mélanie

About where inspiration comes from

Dear Reader,

Beneath Grimsby’s last remaining old growth oaks, near the fairytale Grimsby beach homes, grows a partly shaded garden. Its steel blue and burgundy foliage, highlighted by white margins, display annually on a carpet of black mulch. But as enchanting as are the globe blue spruces, Japanese maples and carpets of variegated hostas, what interested me most last Thursday was a small patch of fine bright green grass.

The grass, planted a few years ago, has established well in its sandy dry shade corner. Last Thursday it was already blooming. Atop thin little green stems sat little plaited dark brown tips crowned by halos of white fluff. It was good to see it was happy in its home.

This little native grass, sometimes called Oak sedge or Pennsylvania sedge, is in its element. When we were exploring design options, there was already a small established patch of the grass under the Japanese Maple, which itself stood under the towering White Oak. Dry shade is a demanding condition for most plants, so why reinvent the wheel? The fine green flow of the grass fit well within the design.

As the season progresses, other plants will poke through the grassy groundcover: tulips, then hostas, and on its sunny edge, echinaceas. The grass, like all groundcovers, is a canvas. The old White Oak, whose roots reach far and wide, may even appreciate the cooling moisture retention of the little patch of Oak sedge.

There’s another dry, shaded garden in Grimsby. This one is downtown, close to the Escarpment. You may have seen it if you’ve visited Station 1 coffeehouse’s back patio; it’s the slope behind it. Over the next few weeks its grassy, mossy surface will be welcoming a fresh batch of leafy residents.

When designing gardens, slopes require special consideration. Erosion is always a factor. Grimsby’s glacially deposited sandy soil makes this particular slope prone to it. This is why groundcovers are the first ones going in.

A large part of the slope is shaded due to the south facing wall of trees at the top of the hill. The situation reminded me of that other dry shaded garden on the other side of Grimsby. When there’s a shade loving native grass whose rhizomatous roots will cling to the sandy soil, which will provide habitat and food for native insects, and whose little spring blooms are adorable, why reinvent the wheel? Besides, it’ll pair well with the other goodies going in.

On another, unrelated note, as I’m writing these last words a few days after “last Thursday” became “the Thursday before last Thursday”, I had a think about why I’m writing blog posts in the middle of a gardener’s busiest season. There’s plenty of time in winter, when the ground is frozen and plants asleep. During a recent visit to north Burlington’s Hutchinson Farm, the same thought came up as they were writing fresh signs for their ever evolving catalogue of herbs, veggies and perennials. As it was said there, and rings true here too, “I could do the signs in winter, when there’s time. But the inspiration comes now.”

Garden inspiration has many forms. Back at the garden beneath the old White Oak, a new household member is making his mark. The retired racing greyhound has etched a dirt loop in the lush lawn around the sauna garden bed. I believe the mulched area may soon be expanding.

Wishing you garden inspiration, whatever form it may take. Take care,

Mélanie

About seasonality, manual sod cutters and tea.

Dear Reader,

There is such a thing as the perfect day for cutting sod.

I finally got a sod cutter the Saturday before last. A manual one – looks like an 1300’s plough with V-shaped handles, but instead of a share there’s a horizontal 12” blade attached to an equally wide roller. It works like a charm, if charms worked with a kick and a grunt. 

It is a significant improvement over the fork and hand hoe method, having tripled my work speed. The sharp blade slices soil easily and evenly. It’s counter-balanced by the weight of the roller, so when you put your body weight into the handles and lever the blade into the soil, it has some power. 

Over a few lengths, soil cakes up on the blade and roller, especially on a muddy day like the previous Thursday. That was a hot day, 15°C by midday, but Wednesday’s storm had left a layer of snow on the ground overnight, which only melted midmorning. This made the soil soggy and sticky. Mud is bulky, heavy and slowed me down. Regular scraping of the blade, roller and my boot soles helped, for which I used the indispensable ho-mi hand hoe. Progress was slow, but nonetheless quicker thanks to the sod cutter.

This brings me to last Monday, the day which made the sod cutter shine. It was sunny. Light clouds dotted a bright blue sky. There was a gentle breeze, cool but not chilly, perfect for the cardio/resistance hybrid workout that is cutting sod. The soil was easy to work; still moist yet drained enough to avoid sticking. It was like slicing into a fresh scone, slathering it with clotted cream and jam and eating it with fresh strawberries.

As early spring goes, the magical weather only lasted a few hours. By late afternoon the cold breeze turned into a chilly wind announcing cold rain, which came at nightfall as the freeze settled in. But by then, the tree circles were sod free and ready for mulch. 

I mulched Thursday, a day more alike Monday evening. It was cold and the intermittent rain eventually turned to snow. It didn’t matter though, the sod was cut, the circles were prepped, and mulching gets your heart rate up, so the cold was negligeable. I sweat through my base layers and paused mid-way to get changed. Stop moving for a minute in sweaty clothes on a cold day and get yourself a cold. I also made a fresh hot tea for good measure. Ginger ginseng, a new combination for me. The ginger gives it heat, and the ginseng, energy. I sweeten it with a little honey. So far, I love it.

The cold, wet weather stayed through the end of the week. I layered up. Base and mid layers, fleece and winter coat, hat and hood. Friday morning, I pruned a red twig dogwood hedge, then went over to the Hollow Gardens to prune the giant Kerrias. They love it there, sending their runners prolifically through the Fonthill Kame’s glacially deposited sandy soil. Happy with a morning shade and strong afternoon sun. Soon, they’ll bloom like cascades of yellow fireworks. 

As I was packing up for the day, a mist settled in like a cool English fog. The silhouettes of bare canopies beyond the Hazelnut fields, the forest’s edge, stood quietly against the pale grey sky. Under the tall lone evergreen pine was a shimmer of yellow. Even muted by the mist the yellow willow shone brightly, long thin branches draped from its trunk. 

Winter in the Niagara is mostly white, brown, dark green, red and tan. Tan like mowed corn fields and dead grasses, and like willows. Once spring comes, willows are one of the first trees to produce a lush flush of silver green foliage. The transition is fleeting. This spring, someone mentioned an in-between. There is a moment, like the subtle gentle pause between an inhale and an exhale, before the foliage sprouts, when the thin tan willow branches turn bright lemon yellow.

Among the fanfare of first signs of spring, the winter aconites, snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils, this brightening of branches may be subtle, but a sure sign of things to come. Joyous cascades of yellow, like the soon-to-bloom Kerrias, like the forsythias that are flourishing in Grimsby as I’m writing these words.

Happy Spring,

Mélanie

About preventing gardening injuries, sod removal and a late March ice storm 

Dear Reader, 

Last week’s weather was, as to be expected for late March, a mix of things. Light flurries, followed by a hot bright sun, then a cold wet wind brought rain which stayed through the week’s end. North of Grimsby, it was ice. Visually spectacular, but no time to relax for gardeners. Ice reveals the weakest branches. 

In a way, for gardeners, spring is like an ice storm. For gardening, I rely heavily on injury prevention, spending time in winter on cardio, strength, and flexibility. But the sudden stress of repetitive actions over long durations is like ice on a tree – immediately revealing. 

For example, one morning last week I woke up with a new stiffness in my forearms: only while rotating; the usual motions of my current asana sequence and rowing were unaffected. The ache disappeared within a couple of hours, after yoga and a row. A hot bath and a cold shower ended the day without any further aches. The cause of the issue may have been lifting large bins of yard waste or pruning an old mock orange hedge in need of rejuvenation, both of which I had done the previous day. Either way, I’m adjusting my morning warmup to include that rotating motion with light dumbbells. With repetition, weakness becomes injury, which would sadly interfere with the joy of gardening. 

Which brings me to the exercise paradox. Working out is hard work. When I do, I aim to break a sweat, enough so my body is thankful for recovery time. However, last week, the days I rowed before gardening facilitated gardening motions. At the end of those days, I even felt I had more energy left. It seems hard work makes work easier. 

I’m no expert on fitness and physical issues. I’ve only seen what trial and error has done for me and my full-time gardening business. This desire to gain strength and endurance has been here from the start; my gardening practice depends on it. It is a constant (yet exciting) process of why’s and how’s. Somehow, putting a body through stress, carefully and deliberately, makes the body adapt and increase its available output. Gardening motions need gardening strength and flexibility. I want to be ready for the ice storm. I’m working hard to make hard work easy, and so far, it seems to be working. 

This past week, in a Grimsby garden below the escarpment, I’ve been addressing a large Norway Maple issue: its deep shade makes the lawn underneath sparse, but removing it is finicky with all the roots. Near the tree trunk, I’ve been doing it by hand, loosening grass with a fork then separating it from the lovely Grimsby loam with a hand hoe.  Thankfully, forward folds, lunges (new this winter), rowing, and sitting meditation have made kneeling sustainable. 

That said, the adage holds – work smarter, not harder. I’m considering other tools and techniques for the tree periphery. A gas-powered sod remover would be excellent (it walks itself), if it weren’t for the surface tree roots. It’s also 300 pounds. A manual sod cutter requires some elbow grease, but I can carry it in one hand. We’ll see how it goes. That’s this week’s project, when the rain stops. 

Have a great week! 

Thanks, 

Mélanie 

About designing a garden for an interior designer and an architect.

A few years ago, I was invited to design a small front garden for the home of an interior designer and an architect. They brought to the table an aesthetic opinion on the garden space and language to communicate it (their drawings were immensely helpful). I brought plants and some knowledge of their change over time. 

Designing gardens, like music, movies, magic and endless others, is a time art. Time arts are designed in a time frame; Things can be arranged in order of happening, which allows for endless effects.

Some of the effects were planned. As garden design turned into garden care for the new front garden as well as the established back garden, I got to see them happen. The front garden’s short bergenia and sweet woodruff, tucked in the inner, home side of the garden, bloomed in spring, followed in mid-summer by the tall roadside periphery of Echinacea, Black Eyed Susans and Daylilies. The four Daylily varieties were timed to bloom on the outskirts first, then symmetrically converge on the center. It was fun to plan and fun to see. 

But other effects were unpredicted. They’re what keeps me coming back to gardens season after season, year after year. Last week I did a spring cleanup at this garden. It had been hot for a few days, high teens, even twenties. NOTL is always a few degrees ahead of Grimsby, so the yellow crocuses were already deep in bloom. We had planted them last fall to extend the back garden’s bloom time.

This back garden lines the private back road, and continues as a narrow strip on the other side of their driveway. Miscanthus and Karl Foerster are the background, Black Eyed Susans and Japanese Bloodgrass are the foreground, and the crocuses are sprinkled along the front edge.

The garden wears its dry grasses over the winter, for mass, texture, structure and that lovely tan colour. This early spring, for the first time, the grasses cast their long slim shadows on little yellow crocus petals. When the occasional strong gust of wind blew through, they moved like brushstrokes on a canvas, like tiny elusive eclipses. The awakening garden, wispy and bright. A first touch of spring on the thawing ground.

Every year, cutting down the dead grass stems left behind a carpet of large round tan polkadots on aged brown mulch. Not that it wasn’t a nice early spring garden. I’m a fan of tan with brown, and its rough texture is grounding. But bringing in crocuses has changed it. Rough to soft, dull to bright, dead to alive, winter to spring. This year, that little pop of yellow is something different.

So what’s the takeaway here… A little bit goes a long way? Plan ahead and notice what happens? Take away what you like. Mine is that I enjoy designing with designers. We may specialize in different fields, but we share, if not a common language, common dialects. We, on some level, understand each other. And that allows us to make yellow crocuses bloom on a winter carpet.

Happy Spring, gardeners! 

Thanks for reading.

Mélanie