Gardeners have grit
Kristin Peturson-Laprise – Jun 11, 2025 / 4:00 am | Story: 555432
Photo: Kristin Peturson-Laprise
The author’s garden.
As I was crouched down in the dirt for the umpteenth time this week, pulling weeds and watching for pests, it occurred to me that gardening is not for the faint of heart.
Mother Nature is a tough taskmaster. The rewards we get from beautiful blossoms and a delicious bounty are wonderful, but they only come at her mercy.
I love the peace I find in amongst the plants, and the sense of accomplishment I get from my time is manyfold. I go from planting seeds and nurturing them to enjoying the sight of blooms and fruit, the smells of fresh food and flowers and the tastes and textures unique to our little piece of the world.
But there are days when I am battle weary. Ever since we moved here, and every spring since, I’ve had to launch an offensive against my nemesis, the burdock. It brought a friend the following year—wild mallow. After 16 years of gardening here at Rabbit Hollow, I also have crab grass, chickweed, bedstraw, leafy spurge and most recently, Western salsify (like dandelions on steroids) and the nefarious bindweed.
When I was a kid, dandelions and a bit of chickweed were the worst things that could happen in my mom’s garden. On a recent day weeding, I thought of this comparison and felt rather defeated. All of this is just getting harder, I thought. What’s the point of pulling weeds when they just come back?
But I’m a naturally pragmatic person. Giving up on the garden once I’d started would just waste my efforts thus far. So, I continued, thinking that perhaps my diligence and resilience to facing obstacles comes from the summers my mom had me helping her in the garden when I was little. It’s not easy work but then many things with great return are like that. I choose to believe it’s worth the work.
Gardening has certainly made me more appreciative of farmers. As a gourmand, I take interest in food from the farm all the way to the table and living in the Okanagan has shown me such a journey is not to be taken for granted. It sounds romantic but like any good romance, the part that makes it work is the blood, sweat and tears.
I learned from a neighbouring farmer that a bit of ruthlessness on our part is needed, too. I used to be sympathetic for the “volunteers” in the garden – those heirloom plants that reseed themselves and pop up in following years, willy nilly wherever they like. Things got a bit out of hand, with the volunteers overtaking the intended garden residents.
“A weed for us is any plant that is growing where it is not supposed to be,” the farmer told me.
That made it easier to pull those volunteers, thanking them for their service and telling them they were no longer needed there (Full disclosure: I am not completely cold-hearted, many were transplanted or gifted to fellow gardeners).
Animals are part of the scene too and I do my best to keep things balanced in that part of our ecosystem. I have four different water features, two more suited for the birds and two for the bees. I don’t mind the odd leaf munched but if any creature gets greedy, then soapy water or powdered chilis or cinnamon might get sprinkled around.
Touch wood, so far, the deer have left us alone and I only had one year when the moles ate my beets from underneath, leaving me nothing but a bit of beet skin and leaves. I hear the marmots whistling from up the hill, but they seem too lazy to come all the way here.
I used to dread the start of summer, when my mom would conscript me to help tidy up the flower beds and hoe the back car stall to plant the veggies. One year we drove out to the country to find rocks so she could landscape the backyard garden. But now I’m ever so grateful for those experiences.
Gardening taught me resilience, perseverance, and yes, gratitude. It is a topic used for many proverbs and sayings and I can see why. As someone said, “Gardening is cheaper than therapy, and you get tomatoes.”
I’ll close with this sentiment from author Lucy Maud Montgomery, to potter with green growing things, watching each day to see the dear, new sprouts come up, is like taking a hand in creation, I think. Just now my garden is like faith—the substance of things hoped for.
This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.
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