Delight.

{Holding a copy of Kerstin Svendsen's From Orchards, Fields and Gardens in own hands. You can see Anna Emilia Laitnen's Garden House on the cover, Shari Altman's Black seeded simpson photograph (and words on the page), Gwen Shlichta's autumn apples polaroid photograph and Sarah Ruben's Toast and Pear, October 2008 polaroid photograph.}

Recalled.
It is the layout I remember first, the long passageways created. When I think of my grandparents’ garden in St Arnaud, it is a garden laid out in three long rows, allowing you to walk the length of the bed from either side, picking peas or hoeing turnips. A grapevine that ran the length of the three sides framed the garden whole, a neat belt to its green corridors. It may not have been so. It may not have been quite so long. For that you will have my memory to take. I recall it thus; it was thus. Memory is not for the factual reliance when it comes to any book stored in the mind.

There was sun suspended perpetually high above. There were plants taller than my height of five years lived, stretching the length of their wooden stakes, giving all the appearance of puppets pulled from high. Green beans grew and strawberries could be surreptitiously picked by hand. There were no leaves brown or laced with holes. It was an immaculate functioning garden, and it belonged to Frank and Thelma. By their hand, it flourished. Cauliflower, carrot, potato, and tomato, they were all there; vegetable peel from the kitchen, and tealeaves, too, a composting role to play.

Garden and house divided by expanse of concrete, hot underfoot, before tunnel entrance to green growth. Through the garden I roamed (though in truth I expect this was more of a bewildered child’s shuffle), with a Siamese cat in tow. No, it was I following the cat. Ming or Dixie, perhaps both. There was produce I know not the name of, and flowers, too, jonquils yellow. Beetroot, pumpkin, silverbeet, rhubarb, cabbage, onion, turnip, and swede (rutabaga), my mum later tells me, all grew. Nothing fancy, everything simple. However, most of all I recall the smell of the tomato plants in late summer. It remains a still favourite scent. I pick a leaf, crush it in my palm, and then hold it to my nose, the aroma freshly trapped. I did this then. I do this now, though perhaps with greater finesse and dexterity.

For the rest, and other contributions, you'll have to read the book.

+ Order a copy for yourself.

{Our two collaborative collages, A fantastical garden of the mind and They had constructed their own garden from what they had, and my written piece Recalled, printed and bound in book form. What a thrill!}

+ How it looks in the hands of others.